Chef

This is a story that I am unsure about. I can't tell if it's good or bad, so I'd appreciate an opinion. Slightly more descriptive style than I'm used to. Not sure if I did it any justice. Hopefully it's a good read.

---

The sun burned the world. Blazing overhead, it burned it all. The sand was hot. The road was barren. The road stretched on for miles, no cars incoming or oncoming. There was nothing. No clouds filled the sky. The sun sat alone. The sun was always alone.

Route Thirty-Six was the name of the empty road. Since the highways rose up it had been mostly abandoned. This road looped all over the hills and the over the creeks like a snake. It wasn’t scenic at all, but it provided more variety than the highway did. Straight lines make people crazy. That’s what routes are for. Not-crazy people tend to take them. Crazy people always feel like they don’t have enough time. Only the sane know they have all the time in the world. Unfortunately for Route Thirty-Six, there weren’t many sane people left in the world. The road was deemed as inefficient. Dull. Boring. As if the highway was much better.

Highways avoided the small settlements and homes that were placed around the route. There was even a small town on Route Thirty-Six that was well forgotten due to the construction of that great road. In that town they used to sell a certain pastry that was absolutely delicious. That pastry isn’t made anymore, and no one can remember what it even looked like, so no one even misses it. There were a select few who wished that the secrets of that delicious desert could have been passed on, but it was useless to keep dreaming. It was a ghost town down there anymore. Even the name had passed on. The old welcome sign on the outskirts was faded and destroyed by time, weather, and bored children. Those children didn’t even know where they were living.

Today there was a change in pace on Route Thirty-Six. A breath of fresh air, even. Fresh carbon dioxide. A man with a red baseball cap walked down the road. There was a slight bounce in his step, giving most people the impression that he was some sort of moron. Society saw energetic actions like that as ridiculous anymore. It made people feel like there was something that mattered in the world, and everyone, of course, knew that was a lie. Those people that bounced down the road were nothing but liars and optimists. Everyone hates optimists.

This man with the red cap and a bounce in his step also carried a backpack. It was a traveling pack, one stuffed to full capacity. In all honesty, it looked really ridiculous. The man wasn’t that large in the first place, so the enormous backpack was almost as big as he was. He wore cargo shorts and a ringer tee-shirt that looked a little more childish than he probably intended. His face was absolutely normal. No facial hair. A couple pimples. Brown eyes. Crooked teeth. Nothing special. His name was Billy.

In an attempt to break monotony, Billy searched for spectacles in the scenery about him. There was plenty of grass and weeds, that’s for sure. A lot of discolored brown patches covered a few areas and freshly harvested corn fields could be seen about both sides. The smell of manure was apparent, as the man wrinkled his nose in slight disgust. His walk did not falter, however, and he kept bouncing along.

Billy talked to himself. He talked about the weather, about the blazing heat that was probably burning his face, about how the cool breeze comforted him. He talked about how much he missed his girl at home, how much he missed his family, how much he missed his friends. He talked about life, he talked about death, and he talked about everything in-between.

Before he could further talk to himself, his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of machinery. The sound of a vehicle. The sound of a semi. A large truck was heading his way on Route Thirty-Six. It was going in the same direction he was walking, so he instinctively held out his hand and waved it furiously, attempting to gain the attention of whoever was driving the enormous vehicle. He shouted with some sort of stupid grin on his face, an expression that would likely drive most people away. Whoever drove this semi, however, decided to pull over and give this man a chance. The truck stopped and the man stopped waving and stepped up to the passenger window.

“Need a lift or something?” the truck driver asked in a gravelly tone. He seemed pretty old to the man. He wore plaid and stained jeans. His beard was long and hardly tended to. His hair was matted and greasy. Billy didn’t like to stereotype, but the person before him appeared to be a typical truck driver.

“Uh, yeah, I’d like something like that,” Billy replied. “If it isn’t a problem, could I just get a lift to the next town? I’ve been walking all day.”

“Woodside Lake, right?” the truck driver said. “That’s the next town coming up. Great lake there. Dirty as hell but it’s a lake alright.”

“Oh, it’s by a lake? I had no idea. I don’t even think it’s marked on my map anywhere.”

“Not many people come by anymore,” the truck driver said. “We’re wasting daylight sitting here, though. Get in and we’ll start driving there.”

Billy opened the door the truck and jumped into his seat, making sure not to slam to door too loudly once he was inside. The truck itself was very roomy. The interior had seats that were more comfortable than they appeared and a fan on the dash blowing cool air around. Regardless, the truck driver was sweating like a dog, drips of perspiration falling from his brow. Multiple wrappers from fast food restaurants were thrown around. The carpeted flooring was stained from soda and beer. Billy didn’t like to stereotype, but this appeared to be the average semi.

“Hot as hell out there,” the truck driver said, wiping his forehead.

“Oh, yes, I definitely agree,” Billy said, forcing a laugh. “I was thinking the exact same thing.”

“Then why didn’t you say it?”

“I don’t really know. I’m not good at speaking my mind.”

“That’s okay, I guess,” the truck driver said, taking a sip from a warm Coke bottle.

They both sat there, scenery flying past them. There was nothing remarkable to talk about. The weather was hot. It was so hot that they were sweating. Sweat was the only thing in common between these two. That's what they both thought, at least. Billy looked out the window absent-mindedly. He tapped the arm of his seat and bit his nails like a nervous child. The truck driver sipped his Coke and chose to ignore Billy's bad habits.

“So what brings someone like you out to Route Thirty-Six?” the truck driver asked, not taking his eyes from the road.

“Someone like me?” Billy chuckled. “What do you mean by that?”

“Kid, you look like you just got out of high-school. Am I right? Is this some sort of coming of age journey?”

“Actually I just got my Bachelor's Degree,” Billy said, taking off his cap and wiping the sweat from the back of his neck. “It's a degree in philosophy, if you're interested.”

“Philosophy! Plato, Nietzsche, and those guys, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, where'd that degree get you?”

“Out here. Nowhere.”

“What happened?”

“I'm not really sure. I thought I knew what I was doing, but apparently it wasn't the right thing. That's kind of why I'm out here. I want to find something but I'm not really sure where I should look.”

“There's something everywhere, kid.”

Billy put his cap back on and sighed. The truck driver took another sip of that Coke. Seeing the dark liquid, Billy couldn't help but admit to himself that he was pretty thirsty.

“Do you have any extra Coke?” Billy asked.

“Oh, yeah, I have plenty,” the truck driver said, laughing heartily. “Just search around in the back for one that's not opened.”

Billy reached a hand behind him and felt many empty bottles. There were countless amounts back there, and the Coke residue stuck to his hand. Slightly disgusted, Billy gave up on trying to find one.

“I'll just wait until we hit town,” he said, wiping his hands on his pants.

“Suit yourself.”

The burning sun kept beating down on them through the windshields. The fan on the dashboard could only do so much. It was a tiny thing, definitely made for a smaller job than this. Then again, no fan was strong enough to cool off a sweaty truck driver in this kind of heat.

“So what brings someone like you out to Route Thirty-Six?” Billy asked the driver with a grin.

“A truck driver, you mean?” he said, laughing.

“Yeah! What's a semi doing on a crappy road like this? Shouldn't you be on the highway?”

“Well, I was,” the driver said a bit distantly. “Used to ship Coke, actually. Went from city to city. That's why I have so much of it stashed in here. Sometimes I just don't like throwing it away. It's like a part of my past, you know?”

“Yeah, I think I understand.”

“Anyway, I'm done with that now. I just get lumber to Woodside Lake now. I take it from the lumber mill a ways back. It's nice out here. No people. No cars. I really can't stand driving this huge death machine on a highway.”

“Right, right,” Billy said, laughing hesitantly. “I guess it is kind of nice out here. Peaceful, even.”

“Right? It's definitely what I need. I can't think with cars driving all around me.”

“So why don't you--”

“Shit!”

The truck driver gripped the wheel tightly and stared ahead, wide eyed. He tried taking a sip of his Coke, but dropped it on the ground, soda spilling everywhere. The man cursed to himself but did not take his eyes off the road.

“I don't understand,” Billy said, raising his eyebrows. “Is something wrong?”

“Shut your mouth right now,” the driver said, breaking his stare and locking eyes with Billy. “Just shut up. I don't want to hear you right now. Do not speak until I tell you to. Am I clear?”
    Billy nodded, afraid to answer with words. The truck driver grumbled to himself and turned his eyes back onto the road. Billy noted the bulging veins in the man's arms. He was gripping the steering wheel so tight that his knuckles were white. Not knowing what else to do, Billy followed the truck driver's stare and found nothing but the open road before them. There was something different, however.

A car was approaching them. It was finally close enough to tell what the specific features were. Billy identified it as a small, blue car. There were a few people in it, possibly a family of three. There was nothing extraordinary about it. Billy wasn't sure what the truck driver was seeing here. He was not supposed to speak currently, so Billy decided to wait and see what would happen.

Passing the car took an incredibly long amount of time. Billy's perception of time was slowed due to his extreme confusion. The truck driver seemed to be a normally relaxed man, but the instance another vehicle appeared on the road he became extremely tense. Billy wasn't exactly sure what he was seeing here, but insanity was a good guess.

Once the car was good and gone, the truck driver slowly calmed down. He opened a new can of Coke and sipped it carefully, making sure not to spill more. Billy sat there, stupefied.

“You can speak now,” the truck driver said. “Sorry about that.”

“Um,” Billy said. That's all he could say.

“I don't like cars,” the truck driver said, shrugging. “I already went over this with you. This road isn't supposed to have cars on it. Not during my work hours. Someone's not following the rules. Someone could've gotten hurt.”

“It was just one car, though,” Billy said, shaking his head. “One car.”

“One car is enough, alright? It's more than enough. One car is all you need.”

The remainder of the ride was filled with silence. They approached Woodside Lake. It was a cozy looking town. A single road ran through it with a few businesses, houses, and a graveyard lined up along it. The truck driver stopped at his destination, and shut the truck down. A few people started to swarm around and unlatch the lumber off the semi. Billy sat in the truck for a moment, and then made a motion to leave.

“There's a motel you can stay in if you have a little spare change,” the truck driver said. “It's pretty nice, I usually stay there.”

“Thanks,” Billy said. “Thanks for the ride, too.”

“Yeah.”

Billy nodded as casually as possible and stepped out of the truck. Not looking back, he headed to the motel the truck driver spoke of. It didn't have a specific name, it seemed. Billy assumed it was called “Motel” due to the rickety sign that was standing outside. He ordered a room quickly and easily. The desk lady was pretty nice about, as he was in a foreign area at the time. He didn't know his way around at all. She even gave him a few new maps that would likely help him in the future. Not in the mood for any of the possible attractions this place could offer, Billy headed straight to his room and prepared to sleep.

Sleep did not come easily, however. Thought kept Billy awake. He rolled around under the covers, attempting to find the ultimate position of comfort, but it was a waste of time. Billy was wide awake. Not even sleeping pills would help him now. Seeing no other alternatives, Billy left the room and prepared for a midnight stroll. He didn't bother to put on proper clothes. It was colder outside than he expected, but he didn't feel like turning back for warmer attire. Now that he was out under the moon, he couldn't escape it.

He walked by the few businesses that were set up on the road through town. One was a barbershop. It was closed, of course, but looked like a pretty good place to get a shave. Having nothing better to do, Billy made a personal note in his head to go there the next day. The next business was a diner. Roast beef was the specialty. He wondered if it was any good. In the end it didn't really matter. He would be hungry enough that taste wouldn't even be a factor in what he'd consume the next day.

The last organized settlement on the road was a graveyard. Billy wasn't too keen on passing one during midnight due to ridiculous superstitions, but he supposed it wouldn't hurt. The graveyard was well tended to. Fresh flowers were planted on graves here and there and the grass was closely trimmed. The graves themselves weren't too elaborate, but they did their job. Something was odd, though. Billy stopped walking. There was someone standing in the graveyard. It was a man standing over a grave. It was the truck driver.

“My God,” Billy said to himself. He was tempted to just walk away, but he was curious to see what the truck driver was doing here. Billy walked up the man cautiously and made sure that his presence was obvious. He didn't want to startle the truck driver, as he valued his personal safety. Billy, not finding the words, stood a ways away, staring at the man.

“What are you doing here?” the truck driver said in a tired tone.

“I'm wondering the same thing,” Billy said, approaching with his hands shoved in his pockets. “Is this the grave of someone you know?”

“You could say that.”

“Family?”

“No. I only saw them once.”

“Once?”

“Yeah. It's the grave of the person I killed two years ago.”

Billy didn't say anything. He didn't even move. Even he knew that this wasn't some sort of cruel joke. The truck driver stood there, shaking his head slowly.

“He pulled out right in front of me. I was driving on the highway like usual. I was eating a cheeseburger. I was sipping Coke. Next moment this kid drives out in front of me on purpose. He killed himself. He used me to kill himself. Can you believe that? Who would do that to someone? Who would deliberately make someone feel like a murderer like that? This kid did. I don't know who he was. I never even met his family. Was too afraid to. I know that something was very wrong. Something had to be wrong for him to do that, right?”

“I'm really sorry,” Billy said, not sure how to respond at the moment. “I really didn't understand.”

“There's nothing to be sorry for, kid. I'm just an old man with a conscience. This is what I have to do. I drive here every day and stand here every night. Hell, I left my wife to be with this stupid kid. He ruined my life. How can I have a wife when I'm some sort of killer?”

“You're not a killer.”

“I know I'm not a killer. That doesn't change anything, though. This kid made me feel like one. I don't like to blame other people for my problems, but what else can I do? There's nothing I can do. Nothing.”

The graveyard became extremely silent afterward. Billy was a person who had never dealt with death at all. His family was young. His friends were healthy. Death was a cycle of life that he had not experienced yet. They both stood there for what seemed to be ten minutes.

“I should really go now,” Billy said quietly, starting to walk away. “I'm sorry for you loss.”

“Wait,” the truck driver said.

“What?”

“What's your name?”

“Billy.”

“What the hell are you doing out here, Billy? You're young. You're smart. You should be out there getting married, having kids, getting that job you always dreamed of. You should be out there doing what you want to do. You don't want to be out here. No one wants to be out here. I don't want to be out here. This is my purgatory. You don't belong into it. You've still got an entire life to get through. Mine's over already. It's been over for a long time. Please, just promise me you'll never return here again. This is a dead end. You do not want to be in a dead end.”

“I'll... give it my best.”

The truck driver nodded. Billy wasn't sure what to say next. Speechlessness was a common phenomenon for him. He knew it was time to part ways, however. Billy truly wasn't meant for this kind of world. Route Thirty-Six was forgotten for a reason. It was a dead end that lost souls never got out of.

“You're right,” Billy said, finally. “I don't want to be here. I know exactly what I want to do. I want to go home and tell my mother I love her. I've never said that before. I might as well tell my dad that too. I don't even know what I'm doing here. I ran away from my life. God, I'm an idiot.”

“Get out of here,” the truck driver said, waving his hand. “I don't ever want to see you again.”

“I don't want to see you again either,” Billy said with a smile. “May we never cross paths again, my friend.”

And so they parted ways. Billy slept well that night. He woke up the next morning and walked away from Route Thirty-Six. The semi was gone now, making it's way back down the road to get more lumber. He'd never see that truck driver again in his wife. That made him smile a great deal. He had not smiled in a long time. Billy looked up at the cloudless sky as he walked. It was blazing hot. The sun burned everything. Even the world.

The bathroom wasn't very clean. In fact, it was very dirty. Grime, piss, and shit were in all four corners of the room, and it was clear that the janitor was either very lazy or too afraid of infectious diseases to clean the place up.

Jack sat in one of the stalls. The lid was down, hiding whatever hideous excrement was clogged underneath. He wasn't here to go to the bathroom, however. He was here to prepare. Prepare for something big. Something awesome.

Smiling to himself, Jack looked over his to-do list for today, scanning each item carefully. It was all perfect and dandy, and half of it was crossed out already, but it was clear that he'd need help to finish the rest of them. He'd need a partner. Perhaps that very partner was sitting in the stall right next to him.

Jack knocked on the side of his stall to draw the attention of whoever was next to him.

"Hey, buddy," Jack began. "I'm going to tell you something very important. I know it's kind of weird to tell you something like this on the shitter, but you're just going to have to deal with it."

Before there could be any sort of response, Jack spoke up again:

"My name's Jack. The last name isn't important. What is important, however, is that I have a bomb strapped to my chest and it's going to explode in two hours. You're my hostage. You're going to do whatever I tell you if you want to live. Do you understand?"

General Data -

• Name: Naomi Parker
  
• Species: Human
  
• Gender: Female
  
• Age: 29

Profile Data -
Background:
Naomi grew up on Earth like any other child. She was a bit of a tomboy, hanging out with the guys all the time, so sports and fighting were always activities she participated in for fun. She slightly grew out of it as she got older, once puberty smacked her in the face. Her interest in photography started here, and she managed to do a lot of amateur work in high school, eventually studying photojournalism in college. She graduated and did some normal work for a while, taking pictures of lovely sunsets and beaches; but the tomboy inside of her wouldn't shut up. She wanted something more adventurous. Life was too dull like this. Packing her bags and leaving home immediately, Naomi went freelance. She would often find herself helping investigate crimes with the local authorities, trespassing on settlements due for insurance payments, and numerous other activities. In short, freelance was dangerous work, but she loved it. The thrills and the money were all there, and she really enjoyed what she did. Nothing was wrong. Nothing could go wrong at all. Unfortunately, that was not the truth.

A while back, Naomi was sent on an assignment to investigate an apartment that was said to be the home of a killer. The police didn't know about this yet, so it would be easy money if Naomi could get the evidence before they did. It was the stupidest assignment she ever took. Naomi entered the apartment without much difficulty. She took a few pictures, looked around a bit, and found nothing. However, she was not alone in that home. The killer was there. Watching. Before Naomi left, the killer approached her with a knife. Naomi screamed and snapped a picture, the flash blinding the man for a few moments, and ran out the door. The killer couldn't let her go, however. He chased her down the stairs, both of them screaming and yelling bloody murder. This was the first time Naomi felt true fear.

Luckily for her, the neighbors called the police once the racket was heard, and the authorities where there to take the killer away once they were out in the streets. The killer promised Naomi that he'd find her and murder her one day as the police dragged him away. She spent the next days looking for news about this man's trial. She found out his name was Walter Bright. He was wanted for murder, obviously, though eventually he was judged not guilty, and simply sent to prison for the assault charges he had for chasing Naomi with a knife. To be frank, this meant Walter Bright was going to be stalking the streets once more. Ever since then, Naomi has developed a sort of paranoia. She knows she will encounter him someday, and she will not be ready for it. Regardless, Naomi continues her work in freelance and attempts to keep calm and happy. She does not know how long that will last.

Appearance: Naomi has brown hair with a short bob cut. She stands at about 5'7 and is quite lean. She dresses simply, usually wearing a tank top, jeans, worn running sneakers, and a plaid overshirt. To top it off she often wears a panama hat and aviators. She also has a small backpack, usually, as it carries a lot of camera gear consisting of tripods, stands, batteries, and other essentials.
Personality: Fond of humor and excitement, Naomi is always looking for something new to do. She tends to be lighthearted in her pursuits, though many of her adventures end up becoming very dangerous or risky. She is not carefree, however. Naomi hates seeing others suffering because of her stupidity. Nothing bugs her more than that. She can become very defensive when her beliefs or actions are challenged, and is usually one of the first to pipe up when she sees something morally wrong happening before her. Evil is something she has no tolerance for. She knows her limits, but sometimes her fury can enhance her mediocre combat skills.
Portfolio: As a career photojournalist, Naomi is a great photographer and writer. As she tends to take on dangerous assignments, acrobatics and gun-play have been highly developed over the years. She could almost qualify as a mercenary, though killing is never on her agenda. Along with that, she is quite good at hand to hand combat, as martial arts is something that she enjoys practicing in her free time.

Possessions -
Equipment: Naomi always has a six-shot revolver with her, the holster on her hip. It's a powerful weapon, though it's not more than she can handle. As a melee weapon, she usually carries a billy club with her. It's effective for bar fights and smacking people on the back of the head when they're not looking.
Armor: Armor is something Naomi simply can't afford to have. It would hamper her agility. If she is specifically sent on a difficult and dangerous assignment, however, she tends to put on a bullet proof vest.
Miscellaneous: Naomi always has her camera with her. Surprisingly, she hasn't had to replace it yet, though there have been a few close calls. It is a high quality camera with a very effective zoom that can help scope out areas. Other than that, she has a small, but effective camcorder, an audio recorder, some cigarettes and a lighter, and some money.
Additional Data: She likes ice cream.

Approved ~ Durandal

Here's a story that I was working on for quite a long time. It's a bit more descriptive than previous stories, so the writing style is different than I'm used to. I'd like to see your reactions on it. It's kind of a war story. A fictional war in a fictional setting, just to be clear. But that hardly matters. It could be set in an actual war and carry the same message. Regardless, here's the story:

---

Mark tapped his finger on the wooden table he was seated at. It was a table set for two, a dim candle in the middle of it. The candle only acted as a nice centerpiece. Nice things were hard to come by, so the candle was always lit. He stared blankly at the empty plate in front of him. Emptiness was a familiar feeling, but it wasn't a feeling that anyone enjoyed.

In that same room Laura was preparing some stew. It was the cheap stuff, consisting of mostly beans and roast beef, but it was enough to fill someone's stomach. She had on her favorite apron. It was checkered and had a bright, blue flower sewed on it. Mark thought it looked quite ridiculous on her, but it made her smile. That was enough for him to like the apron. Smiles were hard to come by. Mark watched her as she cooked.

“When will dinner be ready?” Mark asked.
“Oh, probably in half an hour or so,” Laura said. “I know you're hungry, but you're going to have to wait a bit.”
“It's fine,” Mark said. “Really, it's fine.”
“Maybe you can take a quick smoke while you wait?”
“No, I decided to stop smoking.”

Cigarettes were far too expensive to even think about anymore. Mark was honestly dying to light one right now, but he knew there were far more important things at stake currently. He wasn't sure how Laura felt about him smoking, but he was guessing that she did not enjoy it at all. If she really liked it she would be smoking herself. It really was a bad habit. Everyone said that, though, so Mark never really cared.

Mark took a look out the dirty window. It was a cracked window, letting a bit of cold air flow in, though it was easy to ignore. The town outside was ruined. It was crumbling to pieces, actually. The times were indeed terrible. Mark was just happy that their house remained standing. In fact, it was an entire apartment complex. Many other people were on floors above and below them. The company was slightly comforting. What happened next, however, was not.

The rumble of a plane flying overhead caused everything to stop.
Time slowed.
Mark felt sweat drip down his nose.
Laura burned her hand on the stove.
But no noises were made.

The rumble slowly passed and everything returned to normal. Mark caught his breath again and Laura stirred the pot once more. They were still alive so there was no time to waste. Mark wanted his dinner, after all. Wiping the cold sweat off his brow with his shirt sleeve, Mark stood up and looked over Laura's shoulder at the content's swimming in the pot. It looked brown.

“Did you hear the good news on the radio this morning?” Laura asked.
“Apparently not,” Mark said.
“Well, it was really good news. I'm not even exaggerating this time.”
“What was it about?”
“Help is coming.”
“Help?”
“Yes, help. The armies are coming in. The good armies. They're going to drive the bad guys out.”
“Bad guys, hmm?”
“Yeah, that's what I like to call them nowadays. It makes them less frightening.”

Mark couldn't help but crack a smile at that. Laura had interesting ways of dealing with things. Regardless, he was still skeptical about what she had to say. What armies was she talking about, anyway? It could be anyone. And there was no telling if these “armies” would be interested in saving them. There was no glory in saving ailing citizens from a crumbling building, anyway. That'd just be embarrassing.

A sharp knock came at the door before Mark could even comment on Laura's speculations. It was more of a pounding than a knock, though it sounded urgent all the same. Mark paused for a moment before running to the door and slowly opening the door. The chain-lock was still attached, just in case.

“Hello?” Mark asked. There were two young men standing there. Mark recognized them instantly. They lived on the upper floors. One was named Ed, the other was Anthony. Mark believed that they were brothers, though he never had asked. They had guns with them. Rifles, actually. Mark stared at the weapons for a bit before saying anything else.

“Can I help you?” Mark said.
“You have to hear us out, Mark,” Ed said, the gun bouncing on his shoulder.
“Yeah, you do,” Anthony said. “There's no doubt about it, you'll have to hear this.”
“Is something wrong?” Mark asked.

He had a habit of asking that whenever anyone came to his door. It was probably rude sounding, but it was an honest question. Mark was concerned for anyone who happened to be traveling out there in the ruins. The ruins were quite dangerous. That was probably why those two men had guns. Either way, it still bothered Mark. It bothered him quite a bit.

“Dan's dead,” Ed said.
“Yeah, he is,” Anthony said.
“Wait, you're talking about your uncle, right?” Mark asked. “Uncle Dan?”
“Yes, that Dan,” Anthony said.
“What happened to him? Tell me now.”

Ed frowned a bit in a moment of deep contemplation. Mark wasn't sure if they were sad or not about this. The cold was probably bad enough to freeze their tears, anyway. Laura turned away from her cooking for a bit to see what was taking Mark, but once she saw Ed and Anthony at the door she turned back. She did not want to associate with them. Mark didn't blame her. He remembered the food suddenly. The aroma was slowly filling the room. The scent was hard to describe. It was good. That was an excellent word for it: good.

“Well, we found him shot by the river,” Ed said. “Like, someone did it on purpose or something. He didn't kill himself, we know that. He didn't even have any guns on him. There was a hole right in his head.”
“We think one of those patrols got to him,” Anthony said, nodding. “They found him there and shot him dead.”

This was surprising news. Mark didn't know Dan well, but Dan was still a human being. For some reason Mark found it impossible to be indifferent when it came to death. Death really affected him. It was there every day of his life. It haunted his shadow, watched his every stepped. It followed the people he loved. It stole them away into the night. He hated death.

“I'm very sorry for your loss,” Mark said, making sure to look into both their eyes for a solemn moment. “But I have things to attend to. Was there something specifically you wanted from me? I cannot chat right now. I'm sorry.”
“Well, Mark, we were wondering if you could help us out,” Anthony said, shrugging. “I mean, we have an extra gun and all.”
“Yeah, you could help us, Mark,” Ed said.

Mark stared down at the extra gun they offered to him. It was another rifle. The wood was not polished very well, but he knew it could shoot bullets. It could shoot them straight into the heads of human beings. One pull of the trigger and even that low-grade model could kill anyone. Mark stared for a while, and turned to look back at Laura in the kitchen. She was still stirring. He could smell the stew. It was getting stronger. Mark turned back.

“No,” he said to the two men. “No, I can't take that. I'm not going to kill anyone. I'm not a killer. I don't care how bad these people are, I'm not going to help. I'm very sorry, but I can't. Now please, go on. Don't get killed out there.”

Ed and Anthony hardly had time to say anything before Mark closed the door. He couldn't deal with them any longer. There were certain limitations that bound him to this apartment room. Mark did not want to go outside. He knew what was waiting for him out there. It was something he didn't want to see ever again.

Mark walked back over to Laura. She was still cooking. He knew that all that talk probably had distracted her, however. He hated to worry her with all that talk, but there was no way he could avoid it. If he stopped communicating with the people outside they'd likely bash the door down to see if everything was okay. They were good people, they really were. They were just hot headed.

“Sorry about all that,” Mark said, placing his hand on Laura's shoulder.
“About what?” she asked, not looking up at him.
“About those two out there.”
“They weren't doing anything wrong, Mark. It's fine.”
“Yeah, I guess so. I'm still sorry about it, though. You didn't have to hear that.”
“I said it was fine.”

Mark backed off after she said that. He didn't want to provoke Laura in any way at all. The amount of tension in the household was high enough already. It didn't need to get worse. Sighing, Mark took a seat again and stared out the window. The war-torn landscape below had not changed since he last viewed it. He could see the two boys out there, running around with the guns like savages, though. It was not likely they'd be running around for long. Mark wanted to stop them, but he knew there was no way they would listen.

“Hey, Laura, do you mind if I turn on the radio?” Mark asked.

“Go ahead,” she said, not looking away from the pot. “I could use some news.”

Mark walked up to the radio box and flipped it on. All he could hear was static. Taking a few moments to turn the nob for transmission, Mark could eventually hear voices. It was some sort of news report. The static cleared and Mark listened:
“--the City is hopeless. I'm sorry to say it, but it's the truth. The City is crumbling and people are dying along with it. With the armies marching in, it's safe to say that there won't be much left. God rest the souls of anyone else out there. Bombers were seen heading straight toward the City and I have a feeling that when they leave there will be nothing left. I'd call for an evacuation, but I believe it's already too late. There may still be time, but I don't really know--”

Mark turned the radio off.

Laura stopped stirring for a bit.

“Laura,” Mark said.
“Mark?” Laura said.
“We need to leave.”
“I know.”
“How long until the meal is finished? We'll head out after that.”
“It shouldn't be long.”
“Alright, I'm grabbing everything we need. You should do the same. Just leave the pot on the stove, it'll be fine.”
“Okay.”

Mark and Laura started to pack. Clothing, memoirs, and rations were packed away in rugged traveling bags. There was much to leave behind. The family lived in this apartment complex for quite some time. Before the War, at least. Mark, finished with his own luggage, noticed Laura's frustration in the corner. She appeared to be looking for something frantically. Mark rushed to her side, putting his hand on her shoulder.

“What's missing?” he asked.
“The ring!” she said, not looking up at him, eyes searching the room. “The ring is gone. Oh my God, it's gone.”
“What ring?”
“My mother's ring. She always left it up here on the dresser. It was always up here. She never wore it. Oh my God, she never wore it at all. Could she have put it on? Do you think she could have?”
“I don't know.”
“That's the last thing of my mother's that I... It's the last thing we had. It has to still be with her. It must be... It's in...”
“The Pile. It's in the Pile, Laura.”

Laura stared at mark, her lips quivering. She didn't know what to say. She didn't even want to think of the Pile. Mark had only seen it once or twice, but the very thought of it made him shift his weight nervously. They both stared at each other. Mark knew what Laura was thinking.

“It's okay, Laura, I'll go down and get it,” Mark said.
“No,” she grabbed onto his collar, looking into his eyes. “You cannot go down there. You know what's in the Pile. You know that you don't want to face it. No one should have to face it.”
“If I don't get the ring you'll never forgive yourself. I know you.”
“I'll get over it, Mark. I really will.”
“No you won't.”

Mark kissed her on the lips before she could say anything in reply and went to the door, putting on his tattered coat and cap. They used to belong to his father, but that man was long gone. Even before the War started his father was deep in the grave. Laura started towards Mark, but stopped mid step.

“Are you afraid?” she asked him.
“Very,” he said.
“Then don't do it.”
“Laura. Stop.”
“You don't have to do this.”
“Stop. Just keep the stew warm and I'll be back before you know it. Okay? Please, Laura.”
“Okay.”

Laura did not want to submit to her husband, but it appeared there was no way to stop him. Mark knew her better than anyone else. That ring was more important than anything in Laura's family. Her mother wore it, her grandmother wore it, her great-grandmother wore it; it had been passed down for years. All that work wasn't going to go to waste just because of a little bit of a fear.

Mark left the apartment. The air outside was thin and cold. Breathing was quite difficult, as the ashes of human beings and destroyed beings were swept around in the chilling wind. Mark made his way down the stairs into the street. He knew where the Pile was. It was farther into the City. The main square. The intersection at the center of the city.

He walked by the ruined buildings, not a soul in sight. Occasionally he could hear the sounds of a scavenger walking by, but for the most part he was alone. Very alone. There were no bodies that could be seen. It was a ghost town now.
Before he made it to the main square, Mark noticed a man sitting by himself at the edge of the road. He was dressed in poor clothing and had a beard that went down to his stomach. This man was old. Old and tired of this conflict. A pipe was in his mouth, lit and everything.

“Are you okay?” Mark asked.
“I'm fine,” the old man said, laughing. “Couldn't be better. Nothing greater than sitting around and having a nice smoke, right?”
“I guess I can agree with you there.”
“A little lonely out here, but I can't ask for too much, can I?”

Mark was a bit confused because of this man, but he couldn't help but be amused as well. Despite what was happening, this old man was enjoying himself. Even with the War destroying reason and humanity, he could still find a small amount of happiness. Not sure what else to say, Mark started to walk away from the man.

“Where are you off to, son?” the old man asked, blowing a cloud of smoke out.
“The main square,” Mark said.
“You don't want to go there. You really don't. Please don't.”
“I have to.”
“No one has to go there. No one in their right mind has a good enough reason to go there. Don't you know about the Pile? It's something that was created to--”
“Yes, I know what the Pile is. I'm not going in blindly. I have my own reasons, and no one can stop me.”

Silence followed. The old man puffed smoke to fill the void. Mark was sorry for slightly lashing out at the man, but he was tired of people trying to tell him what was better for him. He knew how to decide things for himself. Even if it meant going to the Pile.

“Be careful, son,” the old man said.
“Thank you. I will be,” Mark said.
“Well, I guess I probably won't be seeing you again. I hear the planes are coming soon.”
“Yeah.”
“Goodbye, son. I really wish the best for you.”
“Best of luck to you as well. Goodbye.”

Mark promptly left in a hurried state. He could hear planes flying overhead and a few explosions in the distance. The main bombing field was a distance away still, but getting closer. Occasionally stray planes would just bomb stragglers for the hell of it. That's what Mark was truly afraid of.

But fears of the planes overhead soon vanished Mark came across the legendary Pile. His quick pace slowed to a halt as he viewed the awful monument. It was a creation devised by the enemy military. A scare tactic. A horror tactic. It was a method useful for showing people that they weren't messing around. Nothing was worse. What was the Pile? Here's a description:

The Pile can best be described as an enormous dump of bodies. Old and new, corpses were strewn about, piled onto one another like broken toys. It was bloody. It reeked. It was so diseased that not even flies could touch it. Some of the bodies were mutilated: skin burned off, legs ripped off, faces twisted and destroyed.

Marks instant reaction was to puke his guts out all over a few bodies below him. The smell was enough. The thought that his relatives were somewhere in there only added to it. Seeing no other thing to do, Mark started his search.

He pushed over piles of bodies, searching for a familiar face or article of clothing. Bones rattled and skin ripped as he pulled limp bodies around the ground. Several people were rotting and their guts were all over the place. Mark dug through all of this, pieces of internal organs and dead skin getting under his fingernails.

After what seemed to be hours, Mark noticed a familiar face. It was a mangled and destroyed face, but he recognized it as one of his cousins. Laura's mother had to be near. He dug through that area, finding various relatives and familiar faces. Seeing their stinking and rotting remains made him sick to his stomach, but there was nothing left inside of him to throw up. He only dry heaved, grey spit sputtering out of his cracked lips.

Mark tugged and tugged at a pile until bodies fell all over the place. Finally, after minutes of searching, he spotted his wife's mother underneath a few bodies. She was pinned down heavily, and the ring-less hand was all he could grip on. Taking hold of the limp hand, he pulled as hard as he could, slowly freeing her from the heavy corpses on top of her. Before she was completely freed, however, her limp arm ripped off of her body, sending Mark toppling. The body was so rotted that it was simply falling apart. Mark couldn't take much more of this. He flipped his mother-in-law over, ripped the ring he was searching for off of his finger, and started to walked back home. He would have run if he could have, but running hurt his insides terribly.

As he walked away, he suddenly heard the sound a plane droning ahead. His mind went blank. He knew what was going to happen next. He knew that they spotted him and were probably going to single him out just for fun. They'd waste an entire bomb on him just for amusement.

But he was wrong. Bombs fell, but they were aimed at the main square. The Pile. Mark turned to see the whole block explode. An explosion of blood wet the area, limbs flying everywhere. A terrible stink rose in the air. It smelled like burned meat. Mark was a safe distance away from the explosion, but the very sight of the event was enough to scar his mind. The men in the plane didn't see him after all. They just saw the enormous pile of bodies.

They bombed it for fun.

The Pile was just target practice.

Sickened, Mark hurried his way towards home. The old man was no longer sitting around, and this upset Mark, but there was nothing more he could do. They had to leave this place quickly or they'd end up as destroyed as the Pile.

Mark flew up the stairs to his apartment and knocked on the door hard. There was no answer at first, and he knocked again, harder than before.

“Laura, it's me,” he said, his voice shaking. “Let me in now. Please. Let me in.”

He heard the lock unlatching after that and the door opened. Laura was standing there, shocked at Mark's bloody appearance.

“Are you hurt?” she asked him, pulling him inside. “Please tell me. Are you injured?”

“I'm fine,” he said, sniffing from the cold. “This isn't my blood. It isn't my blood...”

Laura didn't reply. She helped him out of his bloody clothes and threw them in a corner of the room. Mark dressed himself with some extra clothes and let out a deep sigh. Laura got close to him, grasping his arms.

“Are you okay?” she asked him.
“Yes,” he said. “I'm fine.”
“I'm... I'm sorry.”
“For what?”
“For letting you go out there.”
“Don't be sorry. Here, I got your ring. Your mother's ring.”

Mark held it out to her. It was a plain ring, made of cheap gold. Nothing was special about it, really. But it had a history. A long history that meant something to Laura's family. It would likely be passed down to Laura's own children if they survived this conflict. Laura didn't have any words to say. She slipped the ring onto her own finger, looking at the dull metal. She embraced Mark, pulling him tight against her chest.

“I love you,” she said.
“I love you too,” Mark said. “Please tell me you kept the stew warm.”
“Yes. Yes I did. You want some?”
“I do. I really want some. I'm starving.”

Laura nodded with a smile and motioned for Mark to take a seat at the table. She brought the pot over and dumped a bit of it into a bowl, handing it over to her husband. Not hesitating, Mark ate a spoonful of it. His wife's stew was something that was admired by almost everyone. Before the War started, Mark remembered that even as a little girl she would make food for him. Every day as they grew up she'd give him something new to try. Now, even in the middle of a conflict worse than anything they could have ever imagined, she fed him. The stew was his favorite.

And it tasted good.

It tasted really good.

This is a short story I wrote quite recently. It's a bit serious, a bit depressing, and a bit profane, as a warning. I'm not quite sure how good it is, so I posted it here to see what you guys think of it. Any sort of comment will be very helpful. Also, the title is a work in progress. xD

---

“My mom just died.”

It was evening. The woods were quiet. The sun was setting. It was quite beautiful, actually. Samantha sat on a tree stump, a knife in her hands. The blade was likely dull, but that did not matter. It was still a knife. Steven stood and looked at her, hands in the pockets of his jeans. He looked remarkably calm. Deep inside he was shaking in fear. He was a distance away from her, inwardly fearing that she'd kill herself if he got any closer.

“Yeah,” was all he could think of saying.

“I mean, I was standing there, and she looked at me,” Samantha said, staring at the ground, “and I looked at her. She just laid there and told me everything was going to be okay. Then she just died. She just sat there and died.”

“Samantha,” Steven said. “Things happen. It sucks, but things really do happen. And they aren't always good.”

“Of course things happen,” Samantha said, standing up and edging over to Steven, knife raised. “Do you think I'm some sort of dumbass? You probably think I'm some sort of psycho bitch with a knife out here. Is that right?”

Steven felt threatened. Samantha had the knife up in his face, so he tried his best not to flinch. He didn't want to show fear or doubt. Steven attempted to look at her tear stained face, but could not do it for long. Her gaze was destructive.

“No, that's not it, Sam,” Steven said. “I... understand how you're feeling.”

“How do you understand?” Samantha asked, turning away and raising her arms up in disbelief. “What's happened to you? Nothing. That's what. You don't know shit. You haven't seen your fucking mother die right in front of you.”

“I guess that's true, but other people in my family have died, you know.”

“Have they died right before your eyes? Were the last words they said complete lies?”

“I guess not.”

“Then there is no way you can understand how I feel.”

A couple birds flew off. Samantha's eyes followed them as they disappeared into the woods. The environment was remarkably still afterward. Dead air and dead leaves blew around the two of them. Everything was dead now. Woods were dead. Leaves were dead. Mothers were dead. Life was dead.

“I'm sorry, but you cannot lie to me like that,” Samantha said, using her sleeve to wipe a few tears off her face. “No one can lie to me anymore. My mother told me everything was going to be alright. Look how things turned out. Now she's dead. Now I'm alone. Now you're standing there and lying to me some more just so you can get me out of doing this.”

“This?” Steven said, raising his arms in question. “What's this?”

“Don't be an idiot, Steven. Please. It's painfully obvious what this is.”

“Please don't do it.”

“I have to.”

“No you don't.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Steven put his hands back in his pockets and stood there. Samantha had the knife in her hand, twisting it around as she examined the blade. There were a couple cuts on her fingers already from this practice. Steven stared at her. Samantha stared back.

“Why do you want this, Samantha?” Steven asked. “Is there some sort of sick joy you get out of causing pain to yourself and others? You may think you're only harming yourself, but people care about you. They do. I'm not lying here. If you do that everyone is going to find out. And everyone will be hurt. That's not a lie either.”

“It doesn't matter anymore,” Samantha said, shaking her head. “Nothing matters anymore. Nothing ever mattered, I just couldn't see it. I was too blinded by the false hope that there are things to look forward to in life. What the hell am I supposed to look forward to now? Should I get a job? Should I get married? Should I have kids and raise a family? What the fuck should I keep doing? When does it stop? That question is easy to answer. It stops with death. That's what we have to look forward to. Death. Pretty awesome, right? Yeah, thought so. Everything sucks. I'm just realizing this. I should've realized it years ago and I then I wouldn't have put up with all this shit that is happening around me.”

“You're being ridiculous, Sam. Please. Stop this.”

“No, you stop this. I don't care anymore, and I want you to see that. Just get the fuck out of here and let me do this. I can't do it with you watching, because I know you'll start crying or some shit. Like a child.”

“Have you lost your fucking mind? God dammit!”

Steven lunged towards Samantha. He was done with this shit. Samantha let out a cry as he smacked into her. They both fell to the ground, Steven grasping onto Samantha's knife-hand. His grip felt like hot iron on her wrist. Steven's calm demeanor left his face and was replaced with pure rage. Samantha struggled beneath his weight.

“Steven, get off of me!” she screamed at him. “Now!”

As she screamed at him, she tried to pull the blade up towards her face. Steven grabbed it by the blade before it came in contact with her flesh. It sunk into his hand, causing him to let out a grunt of pain. He twisted the knife out of her grips and tucked the bloody weapon into his back pocket, returning his grip on her wrist with his now-bloodied hand.

“Give me that knife back, Steven,” Samantha said to him, her voice shaking. “Give me the knife back. Please. Just give it to me and leave me alone.”

“Fuck you!” Steven said. “God dammit, what the fuck is wrong with you? Your father is worried sick about you. Your mother is probably rolling in her grave right now wondering what kind of fuck-up her daughter has become! There is still hope in the world, Sam! You have to see that. People die. It's hard. It's sad. It fucking sucks. All the time people lose their brothers, their sisters, their loved ones. Sometimes they even lose their parents. But you know what those people do? Do you know what the fuck these people do? DO YOU?”

“No, I don't. I really don't.”

“They move on. That's right, Sam. They move the fuck on. You know why? Because life is worth it. I don't care what kind of miserable fucking excuse you come up with. I've put up with your shit for so long. So fucking long. All I want is to help you. The minute I heard you were walking out here I ran from my house to find you. I ran. I knew what you were up to. I'm really sorry about what happened, but you can't do this to yourself. You're better than that. How many fucking cliches do I have to run through before you admit that I'm right?”

There was a silence between them. It lasted for a long time. Steven breathed heavily over her and Samantha hardly made a noise. She avoided eye contact, staring off at the edges of the woods. After a while, without looking, Samantha had something to say:

“Steven. Please. Give me the knife.”

Steven sat there for a minute, trying to restrain himself from punching her teeth out. Slowly, he stood up and backed away from her. He took the knife out of his back pocket, looking at it for a bit. His blood was all over it. Disgusted with the situation, Steven threw the knife at Samantha's feet.

“Fine,” Steven said. “What the fuck was the point? I should've known. It's your choice. Obviously I can't persuade you. Go ahead and kill yourself. I really don't care anymore.”

“Steven,” Samantha said, standing up with the knife in her hands.

“What?”

“I'm sorry.”

“It's... It's fine. No, it really isn't fine, but I'll pretend it is. There's nothing I can do anymore that will change your mind, is there?”

Samantha shook her head.

“Alright.”

“Steven,” she said again.

“What?”

“You have to go now.”

“Yeah. I do. If I'm out here for too long my parents will probably think I'm doing something stupid out here.”

“Yeah.”

“I guess... I guess I should go now.”

“You should.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

Steven walked away. The farther he progressed through the woods, the more it seemed to come to life. Squirrels ran about, leaves blew in the wind. Once he reached the outskirts of town, he could see the cars driving by and the people walking about. Steven headed home and entered the door, blood still dripping from his hand. His mother, father, and sister were there at the dinner table. They stared at him.

"Steven," his father said, standing up. "What's going on? Your hand... what happened?"

They were still staring at him, but Steven just stood there. He looked down at his bloody hand for a moment, and then looked back up at them, trying to take a peek at what was on their plates.

"What's for dinner?" he asked.