Take a bite out of time - 3 OF 3

TAKE A BITE OUT OF TIME – PART THREE OF THREE


CONSTANTINE’S LOG - February 7th 2013


It would appear that despite my best efforts a number of my brothers still insist on delving into this mad endeavor. The idea that we could ever succeed in this divine insult to God is at best ludicrous. To whom will we turn when the push has taken us past the point of turning round and making amends with our creator?

Why we ever made way to come to this place, what our original purpose was upon arrival, these things are lost to me now as I am sure they are lost to all of us. I can still remember when we were first made aware of this cosmic mishap and of the potential it held for us. Power hungry demons we have become.

Just days ago I was forced to cast out one of my own for his folly, one I would call brother even now, and how can I blame him when in truth we are all guilty. It was not Set that insisted on arriving at this spot, he was sought out for his genius same as I. And now his genius is what has done him in, turned against him like so many exquisite addictions. This place has made addicts of us all.

I will continue my push toward a full evacuation but I doubt my pleas will fall on more than deaf ears. Even now several of the others have been heard praising Set’s efforts whilst tucked in dark corners. I fear they have not seen the error of his exploits, I fear they will take what he has done and try again, and again and again.

This may be the beginning of the end for all of us. I only pray that Moloch has come to his senses and completed his task on the other side. Of course they think me a madman too for entrusting him again after the problems he has… It makes no never mind.

End Log.



FEBRUARY 25TH 2013


The jungle runs silent to earshot of the two beasts as they navigate through the brush. Usually full of life, the sound of predator and prey alike, all things sense their presence, all things heed their warn.

Set was yet to find a practical use for the monster that followed him now like a lost child. Of course was she any more than just that? A child born to pain and confusion, born into violence with no more purpose than the instinct it afforded her.

“This is as good a spot as any other.” Set stops and turns to the girl paced several feet behind him.

Between the trees the outline of a small cottage can been seen camouflaged by the thick fern.

“If we’re lucky it may still be inhabited.”

Together they push through the leaf and vine into the front yard of the surprisingly decomposed and overgrown summer home, tucked in seclusion amidst the alien landscape.



MARCH 15TH 2013


Chuck maneuvers through the brush, the scorching midday sun beats down on him from above beading sweat into his eyes.

He wipes his brow clean with the tattered shirt he keeps shoved in his back pocket. It had been a few days now with no luck to the hunt. He had been venturing out to the highway these past few weeks, scavenging through the wrecks for anything that might hold the threat of starvation at bay. He and Janice had made something of a home from the cave they misshapened upon some weeks prior but the need for eat and drink would soon move them if their luck did not change soon.

He stumbles over a thick root cropped out of earth at knee height and falls forward with a thud. He scrambles to his feet quickened by the fear that some unseen predator may be watching in the distance for the opportune moment. A quick scan in defense.

“Oh thank fuck.” To his front a cottage, more branch than plank, already half pulled back to the earth from whence its bits had come to forge.

He rushes to the front door. Half on hinge he slams through to the inside. The interior in no better shape than the out, vines run length from floor to ceiling, the wood weak and half turned to mulch with rapid decay.

A sound like voice in music draws him toward the living room.

“Hello?”

The thought that anyone might still be living here was more discouraging than anything else. If the residents were still alive it would certainly complicate his intentions.

“How the fuck…” The source of the chorus, a television, plugged into a gas powered generator humming in the center of the living room, The Wizard Of Oz plays from the VCR by its side.

“Hello?” Chuck steps round the mess of wires and through to the kitchen, empty.

He opens the cupboards one at a time, some chocolate bars, crackers, nothing special but enough to keep the blood flowing a few days longer. He stuffs his backpack with all that hasn’t spoiled to rot.

“Follow the yellow brick road, follow the yellow brick road, follow the follow the…” The music picks up from the other room before a sudden click and whir cuts it short, the sound of the generator winding down to nothing as the last of its fumes chug through its system.

“Guess I won’t be taking that.” Chuck finishes stuffing his bag, takes one last look about then exits as quickly as he had come.

From a closet to the rear of the kitchen a pair of eyes light out through the crack between the door and the way, watching him.



FEBRUARY 7TH 2014


Kite and Christian walk side by side down the center of the crumbled roadway. They stop at each car as they pass to investigate for potential items of use, so far they had come up with little.

Kite sticks his head and arm through the shattered window of one of the vehicles and pops open the glove box. A pack of cigarettes falls out onto the front passenger seat.

“I found smokes!”

Christian turns back.

“Aw, but they’re menthol.”

Christian shrugs and continues down toward an overturned big rig filling the center lane.

Kite lights one of his menthols and jogs to catch up with Christian as he unlatches and swings open the back door of the large rig.

The door drops to the concrete with a slam to expose the empty interior.

“For fuck sake.” Christian turns away in disgust.

“I think someone already picked her clean. Maybe we should just head back.”
Christian surveys the terrain, takes his time as he looks up and down the highway.

“You go back. I’m going to keep pushing though it, you never know right?”
“Are you sure?” Kite tries to hide his enthusiasm at the idea of heading back to camp for a meal and some drink with their companions before the sun sets and guard duty begins, he tries.

“I’m sure. But you’ve got to leave me a few of those menthols.”

“Whatever you say man.” Kite stuffs five smokes into Christian’s breast pocket and turns to haste back toward camp.

“See you soon!” He hollers back.

Christian lights one of his smokes, takes a long haul, then steps off of the road and makes way down the grassy hill into the wood.



THREE DAYS LATER


This was Kite’s third night in a row on post. He didn’t mind staying up all night alone, he had his whisky and tobacco to keep him company, and he had spent enough time in this strange new world not to let the bizarre beasts that stalked the night stir him to fear any longer, but what he did hate was wondering if he would ever be relieved of his post again.

He had expected Christian back two days ago, yesterday at most. If he was dead…

Kite pulls back from his thoughts to the front of his mind by the sound of a rustling in the bush behind him. He spins quick and draws his gun, one clip left and he would hate to waste it.

“If you shoot me then you’ll never know where I buried the treasure.”

“What?”

Christian steps out into the light. “You still got those menthols?”

“You fucker, get over here.” Kite rushes to greet him, stops.

“What the fuck is that?”

To Christian’s side stands a young girl of about seven years, wearing a blood stained sundress, her hair matted, skin filthy.

“I’ll explain later.”

Kite stares down at the child; she meets his gaze with the chill and vacancy of a trained assassin, her eyes unblinking.


END PART THREE OF THREE.