A little while
ago I wrote a short story for the L. Ron Hubbard "Writers
of the Future Contest".
I did not win, and I know why, my story is really more horror than
Science Fiction or Fantasy. But I decided that I will post each chapter
here on my blog. There are 37 very short chapters, for a total of 15,000
words, about a fifth of a modern novel. Here is the start.
Chapter 2:
The decent
would be later described as perilous, ominous, creepy, foreboding, and any
number of other adjectives Wilton saw as necessary to say that the venture
downward was not pleasant. However, they
could not be described as ill prepared for the journey. Light sources, rope,
food, communications equipment, tools, camping equipment, and the Whit Hat
Preparedness Kit carried into the field by the investigators at all times. Sometimes the equipment taken into the field
was not completely understood until the circumstances that call for them
present themselves, but it should be known that a weapon is always on the
inventory list for the Kit.
“Do we
really need this much stuff?" asked Maxwell. "Sure the Kit and the gear, but camping
equipment? This doesn't strike you as just
a bit too much?” Maxwell was young, and
while he did not whine or complain, the tone in his voice made his inquiries a
little abrasive to a group whose frustrations were only seeming to fester as
they rappelled ever deeper into a hole that seemed to be reaching that often
unwitnessed depth at which a bright sky could not be seen with a direct glance
upward.
“Max, we
are Investigators," said Clair. "If the opportunity presents itself for
investigation and exploration, we need to be prepared.” Clair’s succinct answer seemed to answer the
question well enough.
“But--?”
“Max, can
you ask yourself this: which is the greater inconvenience? Schlepping this stuff or having to turn back
and go get it?” Wilton was a little more
poignant in his response, which led to the much desired state of silence
emanating from Maxwell.
“Okay, let
me ask this then: what was the name of the guy who fell in?” Maxwell paused waiting for the answer while
Clair and Wilton looked at each other with puzzled looks on there faces which
slowly transitioned to guilty looks on their faces. “Did you forget?” Maxwell followed up his question.
“Well, Max…
I… it’s not that I don’t-” Wilton was cut short.
“Wil, Max,
do you hear something?” Clair was
getting a bad feeling, and heard a faint sound. She couldn't identify it yet,
but it seemed to be approaching.
“Clair, I
haven't heard anything aside from talking and the repelling rig.” Wilton was suspecting that there was in fact,
no sound.
“What do
you hear Clair?” Maxwell’s inability to
detect the sound confirmed Wilton’s previous inclination toward anxiety.
“I don’t
know," said Clair. "But if you
two aren't hearing it, then the sound might not be a sound.”
“Are you
getting a psychic thing?” Maxwell asked,
summing up Clair’s most often ignored resume qualification.
“I think
so," said Clair. "This isn't
good."
“Clair,
what is coming to you? What is about to
happen?” Nervousness slinked its way
through Wilton’s tone; his past experiences with Clair’s ability never preceded
something good.
“I think we
are in for a rather harrowing descent.”
It was at that moment that the strange sound Clair had heard was heard
by all three. It was a chorus of
screams; the group’s descension cables had all given out.
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