“Your dad have any guns kid?”
“Tim.”
“What?”
“My name is Tim.”
The man shrugged and said through peanut butter covered teeth, “Yeah. I know. Tim it is.”
Tim paced around the room with nervous energy, taking long strides, stretching himself out. He inspected the wood he’d put over the windows and fingered the white caulking. Satisfied no bugs could penetrate, he turned away from the window.
“My dad has a Bushmaster .223.” Continue reading “Out of the Basement Part 4”
Tim awoke to ravenous hunger. His insides punched him with brass knuckles and saliva flooded his mouth when the aroma of bread drifted to his nose. He blinked, focusing on the particle board, pipes and wires of the unfinished basement roof.
“Good. You’re awake.”
Turning his head to the voice, Tim’s neck creaked. The memory of his family, dead in the car, drew a hitching sob. The stranger sat on a chair. The recliner from upstairs. He must have lugged it down himself. He chewed on a sandwich. From the smell of it, Tim thought it must be peanut butter and jelly. It was a delightful aroma and his stomach churned as if to say, You like that huh? Well eat it! I’m starving here! Continue reading “Out of the Basement Part 3”
Tim stood within a storm of wings and teeth, unaware of the tears and snot leaving dirty trails down his face. The settling dust in the garage stuck to the wet mess, like mascara tracks on a sad heroine in a romantic comedy. His mind shut down. Outside his house rose screams, sirens, crashing cars and a buzzing that vibrated his fillings, but it just couldn’t affect him. It was distant to him, a crazy soundtrack to an action movie, humming white noise. In the garage, the bugs completed their feast and laying of eggs, then left in groups to search out other prey.
A quick glimpse inside the car didn’t break him out of his stasis. Surreal, his mind refused to pull in the images his eyes fell upon. Continue reading “Out of the Basement Part 2”
John Hunt Fiction 