excerpt from nanowrimo book

Here’s some of my story (rough draft) wherein a madman leaves the small company of survivors who are trying to escape the wilderness of a foreign planet. Hope you find it enjoyable (feel free to encourage me, but I don’t need any corrections or editors or naysayers … not yet anyway).

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Days went by. The four of them walking. Resting during the hottest hours of the day and always walking at night because they were too restless and too watchful to sleep at night—-for that was the time when the natives struck and they could not defend against another attack. Thurber’s head wound was healing and the bandages were removed and the ragged red scar on his forehead shone proud and added character to his face to say the least. And they were all of them worn out and desperate but Gill Forstal—-who used to be a wealthy family man and adventurer and jovial pioneer in his manner—-was now dangerously gaunt and brittle of bone. He refused to eat anything that couldn’t be poured down his throat as liquid and this meant he wasn’t eating enough to survive, not for long. And this meant he would die soon.

In the deep depths of night as they marched haggardly along through knee-high weeds once the desert had given way to marshland, Gill Forstal cried out in anguish. The cry was loud and long and long-coming—-and the cry had no meaning except for the spirit of the cry which was desperation—-and by the end of it Anton Gaul had fallen over in sheer panic and unsure footing to begin with and was getting back up from the ground and cursing at his pant legs, at the feeling of cold moisture soaking there into the fabric of his pant legs. Then he looked up and saw that Gill had taken off in a blind sprint across the bog—-and Thurber was too tired and too shocked himself to give chase and Matty could care less one way or the other and Anton himself could never hope to catch up to him as fast as he was going. And he called after him: “Mister Forstal! Come back, come back, Sir!” And Forstal’s splashes could be heard diminishing in the dark distance and no one was in any shape to pursue him.

“Shouldn’t we go after him?” asked Anton who was slapping at his pant legs and looking over at Matty with bug eyes, “For pity’s sake shouldn’t we?”

“We should let him go,” said Matty in the dark and his voice was cold and without pity.

Anton repeated the question for Thurber who raked a hand down the firm neck of the pack horse and the neck of the pack horse where it was raked shivered with the attention of the man and Thurber, the man, said nothing only looking back with sad eyes and breathing out of his nose just as the pack horse did.

Anton bowed his head. “I don’t think he’ll survive the night,” he said in one breath as if confessing his deepest fear. And the splashes could no longer be heard. And they stood listening, unsure whether the madman had fallen to his doom or was simply too far away now to hear. Then they heard another cry from the man which seemed a mile off or more and for all they knew he would keep running through the night and did not intend to return, assuming Gill Forstal had any more intention left in him.

“I’m going to find some high ground, build a fire,” said Matty, walking on ahead. Thurber followed him leading the pack horse without a word. Anton remained where he was, looking off into the void. Again the madman cried out and the sound was shrill and a long way off and it sounded like another wild tortured creature set loose in the night.