Round 2 - The Picture Round (Silver v Inkdrinker)

[James]

[JMDavis ((Silver))]

The alarm blared, signaling morning. My eyes opened and I rubbed at the grit that kept them half-shut. I yawned and stretched, pulling aside the ratty blanket, which I had fixed numerous times from cannibalizing other blankets. I stood up to glance out the grimy windows of the bus I’d commandeered for my home. It still looked like night outside, the only glow that of flickering garbage fires and the glow of electric lights farther off in the city.

Sniffing, I turned to begin gathering my things for a supply run. A machete and axe, both kept sharp, went into small loops added to my belt. A sawn off shotgun went into a sling and a slightly dirty and scraped rifle was held loosely in my hands. A satchel of thick fabric slung across my shoulders – opposite of where I’d sling my rifle. I passed the cracked and dirty mirror where the driver would have sat, glancing at what I had become. My skin had yellowed and was dry and cracked, a trail of dried blood stretching from my lip to the sparse, brittle grey bead that did much to hide my sunken. I turned, spitting – a new tooth falling to the floor on tendrils of blood.

I snuffled noisily, before clearing my throat and hawking a loogey thick with dirt, grit, blood and what little spit I could muster before descending down the steps of my home and out onto the street. A garbage fire burned dark crimson beside me, thick with the stench of rubber and – both oddly and enticingly enough – the smell of roasting fat. I looked at the fire, the smell swiftly became charred meat – whatever had curled up and died within it already gone bad.

The snarling barks of a dog drew my eyes away from the fire, a feral standing over a pile of rubble – a tiny hand that had been partially gnawed emerging from the rocks. Blood smeared the dog’s snout, the hackles along its back raised as if daring me to come and take its scavenged meal. A grimace of disgust and I was walking away, I wasn’t desperate enough to delve to cannibalism – I was going to leave that to the downtown gangs.

Others passed along on the streets, heads down and collars raised like blinders against the devastation. My own head was just lowered, the collar of my insulated vest not large enough to be raised any higher. My boots crunched against the slightly wet ground, and I ran what I needed for another night over and over again in my head. My cracked lips uttered the same words in a dry voice, “Batteries, water, food… batteries, water, food…”

Some looked at me oddly as I walked by, they all kept their distance. Trust was a commodity none could afford. I paused, glancing at the tenement I had picked out the other day for scavenging. It was boarded windows and crumbling walls, grit flaked from the sides of it. Heaving a rattling sigh, I climbed the small steps and nudged the rotting front door open with the barrel of my rifle. It was dark inside, and quiet. I licked my lips, walking in and stepping as quietly as I could.

Entering, and find the first floor barren of any sort of barricades, I breathed a bit easier. The tenement, for all I knew, was unoccupied. I still had to be cautious, though, there were worse things than gangs and families searching for safety in the city. Ascending the steps to the second floor I slung my rifle across my back. I retrieved both my shotgun and machete, I searched each room on this floor thoroughly. Loose floorboards, hollows in the walls – anywhere that someone might have hidden something I checked.

I froze. Heavy, labored breathing was rattling from just behind a door I had yet to check. Tensing, feeling my nerves both steel and desert me, I stepped lightly to the door to listen. The sound of my own breath rasping in my lungs seemed too loud, and I prayed and willed myself to some semblance of silence. I closed my eyes, listening intently to the sound. It was thick, a liquid sound, and the length between breaths had me hoping what I knew it to be to be asleep.

I nudged the door slightly, easing it open with the barrel of my gun. The gurgling breaths were the first thing that grew more potent. The second was the charnel reek. I barely suppressed a gag at the stench of rotting meat that mingled with the smells of a long-used lavatory. I had an answer now why this building seemed to be empty, and opening the door further had my heart sinking. It was a warren of the creatures – these ghouls.

They lay huddled like animals, emaciated, pale bodies pressed against each other for warmth. Old blood covered the room, flies and other insects swarmed over dismembered limbs and organs. I glanced over the creatures, they looked like a family of the things – seven of them in all and each 'healthy' for their kind. I ducked out of the doorway, drawing in a deep breath. I closed my eyes for one last breath. I repeated the mantra for dealing with these things in my head: ‘They are no longer people.’

I stepped into the doorway, leveled the shotgun and fired. The first shot killed three instantly, maimed a fourth and fifth, and woke up the sixth and seventh. They opened their mouth to scream. The clarity of the moment showing me their filthy gums and the blackened, sparse daggers of their teeth. I fired again, dropping the two healthy ones while the wounded lay on the ground, mewling. I walked toward the pile of death, raising my machete to finish the last two off.

Part of me wanted to just leave the room behind. But there could be something hidden beneath the viscera. Stepping out to draw in cleaner breaths, I fished out a thick square of cloth to fold in half and cover my nose and mouth. I tugged off my fingerless gloves, replacing them with old latex ones I had salvaged from a garbage heap and let soak in whiskey. The alcohol reek was still prominent, but it was a mercy considering what could have festered on the gloves.

I stepped back into the warren once more and began to meticulously search every gore-caked, blood-sticky inch of the room. My efforts paid off, somewhat, under a loose floorboard, with only a bit of dried blood caking it, were bottles of water. I stuffed each one into the small bag slung across my shoulders, tears streaming from my eyes. There were nearly a dozen of them – and each was big. They were the size that would have gone for four dollars back before the Misery.

Adjusting the new weight, I left the warren and stripped off my gloves, tucking them through my belt. I wiped at my eyes and took a deep, calming breath to keep my giddiness from taking over me. Reloading my shotgun, I once more took it up in my hand alongside the bloody machete and trekked through the building far more cautiously. I heard scrabbling sounds – but they were sounds fleeing from the second floor. More ghouls – but if they weren’t coming for me they were just scavengers. Still, the sounds had me on my guard.

Frightened, animal whimpering followed me as I wandered through the third floor. There were no more warrens as grisly as the one below – the others had dried out remains instead. I glanced at the desiccated remains, steeling myself to move through each room – no food I wanted to consider but there were some electronics. Taking those and shoving them into my bag – those with battery slots at least – I continued on to the fourth and final floor. The whimpers were louder up here, but if the ghouls weren’t going to bother me I wasn’t going to go near them. They might be primitive cannibals, but they knew when they had numbers over another.

The rooms were empty, there were bits of furniture – torn and rotting – but nothing else. Not even the ghouls seemed to venture this far up. Glancing to the final room – the door open and the frightened sounds of the ghouls emanating from within – I decided the building was tapped. Keeping my back to the way I came in, I watched the doorway until I was at the first step. Swiftly, I ventured down the flights of stairs and out into the bleak day.

It’d be another hungry night – unless that feral dog was still near the bus – but I had water and potentially batteries. With a spring in my step I began the trek back to my adopted home. The dog was still there, regarding me warily – but it had extracted more of the body it was feasting on. I gave it a once over and decided I had time to store my bag, at the least, before I decided to put dog on the menu. I kept walking, turning to walk up into the open door of the bus.

I set my bag down, smiling and did a quick once over. I was about to turn and leave when something struck me as wrong. I looked over everything more intently and then paused, staring at a space that shouldn’t be empty. My alarm clock was gone. I stumbled through the narrow aisle of the bus, I was panicking. It had to have fallen. It had to still be here. But it was under none of the torn up seats, it was nowhere on the ground. I fell onto my ass, my breathing was coming fast and ragged.

This shouldn’t be affecting me in this way. I shouldn’t be acting like this. It was an alarm clock. It was something I could find – had most likely found – anywhere.

I screamed.

I sobbed.

I curled up into a ball and whimpered.

It shouldn’t affect me. I shouldn’t be acting like this.

Trembling fingers sought out my shotgun. I raised it to my trembling lips as tears cut through grime. The bang echoed from the bus. Scavengers – human, animal and otherwise – abandoned the street.

On the other side of town, in a small hovel tucked away down a dark alley a mother smiled. She had found a quaint little alarm clock while scavenging in a broken down blue bus. She polished the face a bit as she set it up in the single room of her family’s home. She didn’t necessarily need an alarm clock – but it was a nice novelty to have. If only she could find some batteries for it.

[Inkdrinker]

Charlie's eyes peeled open almost exactly four minutes before his alarm, as he always did when he was excited. Today was the big day, after all. It would be worrying if he were not excited. He pushed his comforter off of him, a white and blue abstract mess. Charlie slid out of bed and on to his feet, hastily making his way to the bathroom. Warm, but nonetheless artificial light flooded his little apartment in response to his movement. Out of the corner of his eye, Charlie could see his bedroom wall shaking off its tint, and becoming translucent. Unfortunately, the view had not changed overnight. A filthy alley, lit by trash-fire and stocked with vagrants. Charlie brushed his teeth, and tried not to think about it. Things were going to get better. Today was the day.

Today's news crawled along the sides of the mirror as toothpaste dripped from Charlie's mouth into the equally reflective sink. Murders, suicides, the weather, celebrity news. It was all the same, it seemed to Charlie. If he was lucky there would be a celebrity suicide, or a celebrity murder. Now that was news, thought Charlie, as he swished mint infused water around his mouth, and spit.

The shower and shave came and went fast, and Charlie felt cleansed, and for the first time that morning, awake. Charlie dressed swiftly, a freshly ironed purple dress shirt, nice trousers, and a blazer. One of those new kind, with all the harsh angles. Charlie had saved up for quite a while to buy it. A rare treat, and, he thought, an investment. He always knew this day would come, after all. The big day. The one to change them all. He had to look good for the big day, dress smart. Charlie dragged a come across his head as he sauntered to the kitchen. Charlie set the comb down on the kitchen counter, which was clean, albeit cluttered. Everybody has a hobby, and Charlie's was collecting outdated kitchen appliances. He had a toaster and a toaster oven, a blender and a food processor, half a dozen coffee makers... an old easy-bake-oven was his prized possession. He patted it gently, and checked the time on his faded wrist watch: half past six AM. Good, ahead of schedule.

Breakfast was a halved blueberry muffin, buttered, and a slightly under-ripe banana. A special treat for a special day. Charlie sat in the living room, on perhaps not the most comfortable chairs, but the one with the best view of the window. He was careful not to let any crumbs fall on his new suit. Charlie enjoyed his breakfast, but he did not savor it. His fail safe watch alarm went off, alerting him to the fact that he had to be out the door in fifteen minutes. Charlie took his last bite of breakfast, and put his plate in the dishwasher. Charlie scooped up his travel mug, full of the coffee one of the machines had been programed to brew before Charlie even woke up. Charlie tucked the little drive containing his manuscript into the inner pocket of his jacket. He was ready, everything in its right place. Charlie walked out the door, into the early morning sunlight. It was going to be a good day.

David hadn't slept in days. Where the insomnia stopped and the high began he did not know. But he did know he had to get another fix soon. His nose was red, and he sniffled in the cold morning air. David could hear the hum of vehicles, locked in traffic on the overpass above him. He scratched at the stubble on his face as he walked. David took a right at the next street. He thumbed threw the wallet in the pocket of his worn yellow sweatshirt. It was quality leather, full of assorted bills, and various cards. David already knew its contents like the back of his hand, but it was comforting just to stroke the leather. He could feel the coughs coming before they began. He tried not to be particularly dramatic about it, even if he was alone on the streets of this particular lower city neighborhood. David could see the bright neon of his goal in the distance. Just a little convenience store. David approached and sniffled again, wiping his nose.

David was the only customer in the little store. The woman working the register looked like her night shift was almost over. Exhausted, in other words. David snatched a pre-packaged blueberry muffin, and an energy drink called 'Spazzz'. He clinked them down on the counter a little forcefully, to get the woman's attention. “Hello,” David said, in a voice not unlike syrupy gravel.

“Will that be all?” The dead-eyed woman said simply.

“Yeah, thanks.” David paid what he owed with bills from the quality leather wallet in his pocket. Then he left.

Charlie was on his way to his appointment. He walked in a vague hurry. It was one of those clear days, the sun shining bright, and no clouds in the sky. And fucking freezing. But Charlie wasn't cold, he had his coffee, and he had his spirit. He was determined, nothing was going to break his good mood. He knew the executive would love his pitch, he just knew it, in a funny sort of way, in his gut. Soon every household in America would be watching the intriguing urban adventures of Special Detective Angus McGritt. It was going to sell big, lots of merchandise, and a handful of spin-offs. And Charlie was going to be rich, respected, and loved. Charlie could hardly wait. The thought that he might be rejected never even entered his mind, as he strolled cheerfully whistling down that lower city avenue.

David had finished his muffin, a greasy mess of a thing, that in a perfect world, would not have been labeled as food. But it did its best to patch the hole in his stomach. He washed it down with the disgusting medley of flavors present in a can of Spazzz. First was an aggressive over sweet taste, rather like a cleaning product. It was marketed as Wildberry, but David preferred to call it Pissberry. It was more honest, and it amused him. The next flavor tasted like pocket lint and wilted spinach. It was the best of the bunch, and David savored it. Then came the iconic aftertaste of a can of Spazzz: ass. A dog's ass, to be more specific. David almost puked, but it would keep him awake a while longer. He slumped down in a damp alley to finish his beverage in peace. He did end up vomiting, but only once, and he doubted it was from the drink.

Just a few more blocks, thought Charlie, humming softly to himself now. A few more blocks and a pleasant meeting and Charlie would be out of Lowtown forever. He'd finally have the respect he deserved. He finished his coffee, medium roast and watery, flavored with a shot of cinnamon syrup. Charlie licked his lips.

David crumpled the can in his hand, and discarded it vaguely near where a dumpster used to be. He sniffled again, catching a whiff of artificial cinnamon on the breeze. He stood up quickly when he heard footsteps. Someone was coming, and David would be ready. He unfolded his knife in his pocket, and crept to the edge of the alleyway, pressing flat against the wall.

Charlie could just see it now: children everywhere ecstatic as they opened ripped open their Christmas presents and found the Angus McGritt fully posable action figure they had asked for. He was going to make everyone so happy. He was going to make the world smile. Something cold pressed against Charlie's throat.

“C'mon buddy, hand over what'cha got.” Charlie was terrified, but a part of him was still determined not to lose the mood. David tried to look intimidating, or at least professional and cold. “Let's start with that coat!” he barked. Charlie did as he was told, unbuttoning his blazer and sliding it off of his shoulders. It fell to the cold sidewalk without grace. He could have Charlie's money, for all he cared, and the coat too. It was the manuscript that Charlie would not dare part with. He tried to negotiate.

“Please, you can have whatever you want, but leave the drive.” Try as he might to sound confident, Charlie's voice quivered with fear and uncertainty.

“What's on it?” David picked up the jacket and looked it over, splitting his attention between it and Charlie.

Something that will change the world, Charlie wanted to say. “Just... personal junk. It's worthless.”

“Yeah, right. I'm takin' it all,” said David, tucking the jacket under his arm, and kicking Charlie away from him. David faded back into the alleyway, Charlie stumbled against a wall to keep on his feet.

“Hey, wait! Come back!” Charlie called. He was breathing raggedly, trying to catch his breath before it flew away forever. When his second wind arrived he bolted towards the alley. It was dark, damp, and empty. Charlie felt cold. “Fuck,” he muttered, “fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

David wasn't exactly proud to be mugging people, but a man's gotta eat, he always said. He sat on his torn sleeping bag that used to be purple, in a corner of the abandoned building he jokingly called his hideout. After adding another wallet to his collection, and trading his coat for the new one, all he was left with was a modest little drive. It piqued his curiosity, so David rummaged around his hideout until he found an old holo-reader. He snapped the drive in and booted it up. Just a text document. David skimmed it.

***

Interior warehouse, night. ANGUS is crouched behind some barrels, weapon at the ready. Criminal #1, Criminal #2, and Criminal #3 stand nearby.

CRIMINAL #1: How's business, gentlemen?

CRIMINAL #2: The orphan smuggling ring is doing well, that's for sure.

CRIMINAL #3: Yeah, and drug trafficking is up nearly forty-five percent!

They all laugh evilly. Suddenly and dramatically ANGUS stands up, and aims his gun at the trio.

ANGUS: I've heard enough! You're coming with me, crimey scumbags! In cuffs or a body bag... Prepare to face the iron fist of justice!

The criminals prepare for a gunfight, but suddenly, ANGUS's sub-dermal radio is activated. It's the CHIEF!

CHIEF: Angus, what're you doing? Don't you know one of those men is an undercover agent?!

ANGUS hesitates, and we go slow-mo, watching a bead of sweat drip down his face. ANGUS is having an internal monologue.

ANGUS: I can't risk letting a single one of these slimy rotten murder-mongers get away! But I also can't risk shooting a fellow agent of justice! There's no time for an ID, I have to trust my gut. Which one is it? C'mon McGritt! This is the moment you've been training for! I have no choice. I close my eyes and take the shot.

ANGUS fires three times in slow motion before the criminals can even react. He hits them all in their guns, causing them to explode, knocking the criminals out.

CRIMINAL #1: Damn you Angus!

ANGUS: That's what you get for messing with the law You fight justice, you fight me.

Freeze-frame, the theme song starts to play. Cut to opening credits.

***

David could not force himself to read anymore of it. He removed the drive from the reader, and threw it to the ground. Crushing it under his heel gave him a substantial amount of satisfaction.

[James]

Silver

The fundamental issue with this story is pacing. The idea was good and the ending could have been really powerful. There were some great lines (trust/commodity) and some excellent word choices. There were flashes of excellence.

But it was too damn on the nose.

It was like machine gun fire. Boom. He did this. I describe this. He did this. Describe this. There wasn't room for the story to breathe. Sometimes you delivered a nice description. Sometimes it was so brief and quick, there wasn't time for the imagination to take hold. If you gave room for the descriptions and the main character's emotions, then the pacing would have been so much better. You needed to use more words.

The pacing and bluntness also affected what should have been a strong ending. A suicide over an alarm clock – well, it has the potential to be ridiculous or brilliant. There were two things holding it back from brilliance:

A: I didn't care.

B: It didn't make sense.

You didn't give the character any backstory, which made it hard to care about him. You don't need a sob story, but you needed something. I almost feel the dog was poorly used. They didn't have to be a cliched man and his dog, but you could have had some grudging respect. Just to make me care a little about the main character.

And because there was no backstory or character, the ending didn't make a whole lot of sense. You briefly mention the alarm clock at the start and then its disappearance kills him. Why? Foreshadow. Give the alarm clock some history. How did he find it? Did he know who use to own it? Why is it important? You didn't even describe it until the end. If the alarm clock meant a little more, and I cared about the character a little more, that ending would have been so good.

Overall, showed promise but you need to take your time.

Inkdrinker

Okay, let's get the not so good out of the way. It was messy. You had mistakes throughout. There were tense mix-ups (spit where it should have been spat) and grammar slips (were where it should have been was). You also have a strange habit of putting a comma before and's. Don't do that. You only have a comma before an and if it's an Oxford comma (basically, if you're listing a whole bunch of stuff).

Furthermore, I feel like the genre element wasn't actually that necessary. It was a distraction. I think you could have played this with a non-genre bat. I think it would have been better and had more of a hit to it.

But, despite that, despite the errors and the sense of being rushed... I really enjoyed it. I rolled my eyes at the initial perspective shift, but making them so abrupt and not being signposted actually worked really well. The juxtaposition was great between the two characters. I felt the narrative voice could have been more polished; it felt a little too simple. I'd like to maybe see you move away from a tongue-in-cheek, not completely serious tone that infected the last two stories.

But that ending. I loved it.

Just don't leave things in a position where you need to rush. Give yourself time to edit and to polish your work.





This was a close one. Silver's story was better written. Inkdrinker's story was more entertaining. Also, while Silver just recreated the picture (quite well), Ink seemed to inhabit the setting more. Ugh. Really tough call, but I'm going to have to give it to Inkdrinker.

WINNER: INKDRINKER