[Follow these links to catch up with the #10 stupid thing, #9 stupid thing, #8 stupid thing, and #7 stupid thing I survived growing up in Texas.] What is it about the word “Anarchy” that appeals so thoroughly to thirteen and fourteen year old boys? My oldest son has recently dubbed his group of online gaming friends “the hands of anarchy.” When I asked him why they came up with that moniker he replied, “We run around and stab orphans and cause general chaos. We bring down governments.”
Okay, a bit of explanation might be useful here. I didn’t raise a psychotic ravager of all things decent. I write about such characters, but that’s altogether different. Mostly my son plays Minecraft on a server with very well established rules for managing player interactions. And for some Freudian reason he has started referring to hostile mobs or other players as “orphans” (possibly because he was one before we adopted him). So when he says he’s gonna beat me with his orphan stick, it’s not really as maladjusted as it sounds…I swear.
Knowing good and well that my son is about as far from an anarchist as one can be, I asked a poignant follow up question: “So, are you saying you would be okay with other players raiding your base and taking all your loot?”
My son stares at me.
“You’re saying you don’t think there should be any rules on the server?”
My son stares at me and then says, “We take advantage of suckers by selling stuff and then stabbing them later.”
I nod and stroke the stubble on my face like the sage redneck granola that I am before replying, “So you’re an unethical and opportunistic capitalist in the North American vein?”
My son stares at me.
“You convince others that you’re an anarchist while you rely on rules to keep others in check so that you can break the rules to your advantage. You’re not against the law like a true anarchist. You’re above the law like an American capitalist swine.”
“Yeah, I guess.” My son walks away with shoulders slumped as if I’ve just deflated his lifelong dream. In reality I’ve just saved him from getting expelled from school for espousing anti-establishment ideology…or perhaps from landing in jail by the time he’s twenty-four. (Yes, my parenting is that powerful.)
During my eighth grade year, me and my buddies fancied ourselves as anarchists. This culminated in us procuring a print copy of The Anarchist Cookbook which of course we kept at school so we could easily pass it around. To this day, I still have no idea if someone we knew decided to call in a bomb threat for the purpose of getting us busted, or if it was random coincidence. But a bomb threat was indeed called in. As fate would have it, on the morning of the supposed bomb threat the cookbook rested in my locker.
With puckered cheeks and nearly soiled armor, and despite being under classroom lockdown, I managed to convince my eighth grade English teacher that I needed an urgent trip to the bathroom. (I was a teacher’s pet.) Once in the hall, I ran directly to my locker and pantsed the cookbook moments before the bomb sniffing dogs reached my section of lockers. Expulsion diverted.
After that brush with disaster, me and my buddies all sorta decided we didn’t have as many anarchistic tendencies as we had thought. Sure we still snuck Taco Bell tacos into movie theaters and listened to Nine Inch Nails. But mostly, we settled for selling things to suckers like loyal, junior capitalists.
At the Desk This Week
Airplane down! This week I got to put my protags through the wringer a bit. I also revealed a bit of a twist that I hadn’t planned. It works perfectly though, and actually helps to tidy up some plot points I had been a bit concerned about. When things like this happen, I like to imagine that my subconscious had them planned all along. Once I figured out the reality of the plot line, it made obvious sense. So my subconscious had to have been in on it, right? Sometimes I think I get caught up in the details of executing each scene and caught up in the technical bits of writing a bit too much to see the obvious evolution of the plot. With a little distance, it becomes obvious. But writers miss this type of thing all the time. I know you’ve read a book where you just knew something in particular was about to happen…but then the author missed the opportunity altogether. I almost missed an opportunity like this.
Twitch and Die! Down Deep, Scene 6 - Blood Cry, Scene 2
[Click here for an introduction by Jim Buckner]
[Start with the introduction to the series.]
Chancho barred all distraction and focused on the bigger picture. The stone floor had been blasted smooth mechanically. The walls had been etched by nature. No living formations—the cave had been dead for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. The air was drier than that of the mine, and cleaner. It highlighted the difference between something made hastily by man and something formed with natural grace.
Yet, the artifices of the cave were worse than slanderous—metal lockers carved into the walls; examination tables, complete with leather straps, built into the rock; and an assortment of pipes, tubes and wires. Research. Chancho could think of another name for it. Blasphemy.
This was nothing like the work his Kickapoo friends were carrying on in caves of their own, based on the mimicry of nature rather than the abuse of it. Yellow eyes. Chancho couldn’t shake the obscure reference. Extended exposure to ammonium hydroxide in the Kickapoo caves turned the irises of their eyes yellow. But how could a Kickapoo have ended up here, in such a place? The comparisons where overwhelming. Finally he spoke out loud. “This does not look good, mis amigos.”
“Not to get ahead of ourselves,” Chloe broke in, “but any ideas on how we’re gonna get out of here once we’ve found the black book?”
The black book, of course. Chancho had momentarily forgotten the original purpose behind embarking on this most recent escapade of madness.
“Same way they rescued de miners,” Angelo said. “If we have as much company on de other side of that fall as Motorcycle seems to believe, then I better get to work on that sooner than later.” He hefted the coil of rope over his shoulder.
Chloe stopped him. “You think it’s smart to venture out alone?”
Angelo sniffed the air. “Smell that?” He nodded toward one end of the cave. “That is fresh air. As fresh as you can find in Thurber. The exit is that a way.” He winked—an exaggerated gesture in the dim yellow light. “You will need ole Angel’s expertise to come to de rescue when those things scramble past de failing lamp.”
“When you put it that way, maybe I should come with.” She slapped him on the butt. “Go on then.”
“Will do, signora.” Angelo faded to a shadow and then to a rustling and then nothing—gone.
Chancho navigated the restored section of the laboratory. While scorched and mangled debris lined the edges of the cave, several stout wooden tables with stone tops had been righted in the middle. They supported piles of salvaged gismos and equipment. He was sure they’d been sorted, but he couldn’t figure the means. Besides, the black book would be somewhere personal, not among the myriad of instruments.
The cave continued in each direction, stretching beyond the lamp’s failing reach. Angelo had headed for the exit. That left one direction unexplored—deeper in.
Chloe fetched the lamp and followed close by Chancho’s side. “So what? We look for a personal desk or workstation?”
Chancho nodded. The shadows and lack of context made for slow going. Without understanding what he was looking at, it was difficult to translate even known objects. Familiar equipment seemed strange without context. “What is this place? Or what was it before the explosion?”
“Company lab.” Chloe swung the lamp slowly from side to side.
“Secret Company lab.” Chancho rolled the words around in his head. “What sort of things does an oil and gas company keep secret?”
“Technology. Discoveries they don’t want competitors getting ahold of.”
Chancho nodded as he knelt to inspect a row of jars on a low shelf. “Proprietary, illegal, or dangerous.”
“So the only question is which of those were going on here.” Chloe sat the lamp down to flip through a stack of papers.
“Or all three.” From his kneeling vantage, Chancho noticed a low entrance to a passage way beside him. Metallic equipment gleamed inside. “Hola, what have we here?” He shuffled toward the opening. “If I were doing something illegal…” Chancho ducked into the smaller cavern.
“Wait,” Chloe flicked her knife from her boot and followed.
“Madre de dios.” Chancho stumbled backward. He clipped his head on the low entrance and knocked Chloe over in the process. Scrambling to his feet, he picked her up and slung her behind him.
“What in God’s—”
“I saw something,” Chancho panted. “I—I think it was dead.” He swallowed and looked into her hazel eyes, where he saw his own fears reflected. He took a deep breath. “Dissected.”
She raised a brow. “Dissected? By whom?”
Chancho took her hand in his and crept back toward the small room. “Someone is studying the infected.”
“Serge?”
Chancho ducked through the opening and placed a hand on the top of Chloe’s head until she cleared the low-hanging rock. The confines of the smaller cave magnified human contact. The brush of her soft skin calmed him. By the light of the lamp, the desiccated corpse on the stone table before them became a dozen times more mysterious.
Chancho shook his head. “Serge was,” he hesitated, “is a miner.”
Chloe lifted the lamp higher. Gruesome shadows shifted over the surface of the corpse. “This is too precise.” She nodded toward a row of knives and saws on spindly handles. “Surgical equipment.”
“The woman with yellow eyes.” Chancho couldn’t assimilate everything he was seeing. The top of the head had been removed cleanly. Organs were gone. Even in this state, leather straps still bound the body at the wrists and ankles. And something else didn’t feel right. With the skin gone, Chancho couldn’t be sure. But the ligature seemed wrong, exaggerated.
“It doesn’t look human.” Chloe squeezed his arm.
He agreed. “The book.” Blinking, he broke the trance the body held over him. Together, the two of them scoured the nooks and shelves of the small room.
“I don’t see—”
A falling rock echoed off the larger cave floor. They froze. Chancho had allowed his curiosity to corner them. A swelling hiss of breathing filled the cavern like surf during a rising tide as twitchers poured through the tiny gap in the rock fall, cutting them off from Angelo and the exit.
Chancho extinguished the lamp and cast them into pitch black without mooring or anchor. The rippling whisper intensified as the twitcher numbers grew. They were limited in Chancho’s imagination only by the size of the cave. Identifying distinct movement became impossible, but Chancho swore they were gathering—entering only, not exiting. But why?
He shook off the unknown and focused instead on his assets. In a few heartbeats he’d ticked off his mental checklist. The .38 caliber was still unloaded, but it’d prove worse than worthless anyway. This situation required Chancho-style flare. Without budging a muscle he crossed himself mentally. And a whole lot of prayer.
After cleaning the wound the best he could, McCutchen wrapped his shoulder tight and dropped his left arm in a sling. Without time to enjoy it, he emptied a can of beans, swallowed some dried fruit and nuts, and tore off a piece of jerky to chew as he gathered the scattered pages of Doc Quick’s letters.
He’d only just unbundled them when Lipscomb had taken the shot. Now they were completely out of order. The same people who had wanted him to eradicate the infected had tried to have him killed before he could read these letters. So they must be worth a look, and sooner than later.
Sitting with his back against the same tree under which he and Doc had, in turn, proposed to their wives, he took a deep breath and stared across the familiar scenery. A cluster of buzzards spiraled around a thermal. Maybe they’d find Lipscomb yet, bled out at the bottom. But he doubted it.
He tugged a blanket over his shoulders and started with a letter dated December 15th—the day his father had died.
Dearest Dot,
John McCutchen showed up this morning. J.T. brought the old man in over his shoulder, asking for me by name. He flashed his irons, and the Company chose to send for me rather than shoot it out in the lobby. But they warned me that they would reconsider if I tried anything funny. Funny? What the hell could I find funny about any of this?
It broke my heart, Dot. John was almost gone already. J.T. had done what he could to comfort the old man. Crossed a couple of check points to get him to the hospital, which must have been no small deed. Damn if every time I see the boy I don’t experience the grief of our Elizabeth’s murder all over. I can see it in his eyes too. After sixteen years as a Ranger I know he’s got other ghosts to haunt him, but Liz was the first. Like you were for me.
Doc had been journaling to his dead wife via letter for years. McCutchen had once done the same with Elizabeth. It had helped, for a stint. He skipped ahead. He already knew what happened next and needed to read about it less than he needed another bullet hole. The last paragraph read,
It’s a shit world, Dot, and everything’s come out sideways. There ain’t nothing but to take what’s left and get clear. But when a man ain’t got nothing left, what then? You and I both know I’ve been there, and that the devil knows me by name. Well, J.T.’s there now, and poke me in the eye if I’m lying, but I fear for the devil.
Quincy
Doc was wrong. McCutchen had his ideals, his convictions. If the devil got in the way, it was his own damn fault. He flipped to the next page. It was dated December 24th, less than 48 hours before McCutchen had snuck into the hospital to find Doc cleared out. The handwriting was slanted and rushed.
Dot,
I feel like I’m forgetting something. But what? I’ve gotten too damn old for this. The T is ready. I pray word got to Isabella, and I’ll see her and Abby soon.
I’m prepared to euthanize the remainder of my patients, all save Gayle. She’s calmed in the last few days. Dammit, I might be wrong, but I think she’s trying to communicate with me. She flashes her yellow eyes and sniffs the air every time I come near, like an old hound. I swear she smells my emotions.
Anyway, the last thing I see might be her teeth chewing my eyes like cow fries, but I’m gonna let her go. She knows something, and whatever the hell it is, it’s given her a shred of humanity to hold onto. I don’t want to make too much out of it, but I found a piece of paper beneath her table. Damned if I know how she got it. But she’d scrawled something on it with her own blood. Maybe I’m not in my right mind, so I’m keeping it with these letters. Let someone else decide if it says what I think it says.
All my love, Dot. If this don’t work and the Lord ain’t looking when I sneak past them pearly gates, I’ll see you sooner than later.
Quincy
McCutchen’s brain split in two. Half hoped Doc was okay. The other half obsessed over the mysterious twitcher Doc had called Gayle—a twitcher he had planned on letting go…a twitcher who had shown signs of cognizance. After a brief hesitation, McCutchen shoved the moral implications to the back of his thoughts. He chose to focus entirely on the facts relevant to solving the mystery at hand—the nature of the twitch and who was responsible.
He fanned through the rest of the pages until he found the blood drawing. He held it out at arm’s length and swore. Doc hadn’t lost his mind. The patterns were most definitely alphameric letters: L-O-G-B-O-O-K.
It had to be the same black book Lipscomb and the politician had jawed about. This explained why Lipscomb’s employers wanted it, but not who they were. He slapped the stack of papers against his leg.
A small note, scrawled on a scrap of odd-sized paper, slipped from between the other pages. He hadn’t noticed it until now. The handwriting was Doc’s, but nearly impossible to read. Frighteningly, it was addressed to him.
J.T.,
I’m dead. I think Isabella and Abby are dead. Vezzoni’s responsible, but devil willing, I’ve taken him with me. I would tell you to find a new life, live it apart from all this God-forsaken mess. But I know you wouldn’t listen. So instead, I’m telling you the Company did this to us. And it goes further than just Texas Pride Energy. It’s more than oil and gas.
The twitch is a neurotoxin. It poisons the brain and somehow begins to alter human physiology. It’s not contagious at all, it’s in the damn water. The Company knows it. They know the spring at your dad’s place is proof. You and John. That was how I figured it out.
It’s worse. I don’t know who, but they want to fabricate it. Use the damn thing as a weapon. If there is a logbook, I think it would tell them how.
Kill ‘em. Kill’ em all. And do God a favor. Don’t leave enough remains for him to identify.
Doc
As if the tide had reversed, the mood of the cavern shifted. The whisper faded and died completely. Chancho’s senses screamed that the coast was clear while his mind envisioned a hundred crouching bodies—leathery, taut, and hungry. Then a new sound, a singular footfall. Serge.
A booming slap reverberated off the walls of the cave like palms striking a smooth surface. Then came a sound that shattered Chancho on a cellular level, forcing every muscle in his body to spasm. A guttural shriek, intensified by the confined space, exploded from the lungs, heart, and soul of a monster so racked with lust that it dissolved everything in its presence. Only two words came to Chancho’s dissolving mind. Blood cry.
Chancho trembled while the sound rebounded off the cave walls. Smaller chirrups, like the timid barking of countless whelps, chorused as submissive twitchers joined in. They were yielding to him. Chancho couldn’t believe his ears. How could a social structure have emerged in such a short time?
A crunching sound accompanied a vibration in the floor of the cave. Splinters from a nearby wooden table pelted them through the low opening. Another blood cry wracked Chancho’s body. It was less surprising than the first, yet equally terrifying. He shielded Chloe with his back as a second reverberating blow showered them with dust from the cave’s ceiling. Mangled fragments of table crumpled to the floor in front of the opening.
The secondary chatter stopped. Only Serge’s movements were audible, and they were getting closer. Chancho closed his eyes. He strained his ears and nose for every scrap of sensory data to be found.
Less than five feet away, Serge paused to sniff the air. The rattling of his breath echoed in Chancho’s head louder than his own. An unavoidable thought crested. They were no longer hidden—if they’d ever been. Squatting, Chancho turned to face the opening.
There was no reason to open his eyes. In pitch black he knew there’d be nothing to see. But instinct overrode reason. Whisking them open, Chancho froze in shock. Three feet in front of him, two glowing yellow eyes ripped back the darkness and pierced directly into his soul. The scientist, she can see me. Disembodied, the eyes floated to the side. They scanned the entire room before settling again on Chancho. She sniffed the air.
Chancho’s fear surrendered to his amazement. The yellow eyes were identical to the cave-dwelling Kickapoo. How could the two not be connected? What was she learning about him through smell? The world he’d stumbled into, the surprises, the complexities all pointed to the birth of a culture. But of whom, or what?
The eyes narrowed, accompanied by a growl. A hard corner struck him in the stomach. He jolted and used one hand to stabilize himself while using the other to corral the object in his lap. It was a book. A hissing filled the tiny space. Fowl breath washed over him. The same vibrations from earlier in the mine formed in his ears, “Go.”
Chancho connected the dots. He was playing the part he’d been given, like a pawn on a chessboard. But the game was far from over. “Chloe, the lamp.” His words resounded like cannons within a dungeon, and the yellow eyes disappeared as the larger chamber of the cave burst into screeching. Chloe spun open the gas, blocked the damaged cup of the lamp with her hand, and ripped it downward across the spark wheel.
Flame ruptured the darkness as Chancho kicked the table out of the way and tugged Chloe through the opening with him. He shoved the book into his belt while removing the flare pistol he’d packed from his Model T for just this occasion.
They bolted toward the exit. His cramped muscles screamed in rebellion as he stretched them to full length and ordered them to function. A terrible writhing of anger and lust foamed in the blackness. Chloe in one hand and flare gun in the other, Chancho bounced off of an angry limb. He crashed into a locker and lost his grasp on Chloe. Aiming the gun into the dark, he squeezed the trigger. A frizzling light erupted from the barrel and shattered instantly into fragments of molten radiance and twitcher flesh.
“Chloe!”
“Here!”
They stumbled over each other, blinded by the sudden flash of the flare. Blinking, Chancho realized the entire expanse of the cave floor had come alive with battle. He located the direction Angelo had gone. “Cover your eyes!”
He aimed up at an angle and pulled the trigger again. This time the flare twisted through the air, carving an ethereal path before striking solid rock and exploding into a shower of sparks and red chemical light.
“Come on!” They breached the writhing masses. Twitchers had risen up against their leader, baser instincts overriding the fragile social order. And Chancho had no idea who would win.
Another table splintered against the cave wall in front of them as a crest of twitcher bodies surged through an opening and lunged for them. Chancho raised the gun, but Yellow Eyes, her two glowing orbs blurring into one, cut the attackers off. She leapt from the mangled table, sprang from the wall, and flew into the fray on demon wings and blood cry.
A warm spray filled the air, sparkling like mist. Chancho braced for an impact that never came. Instead, a half dozen twitcher heads tumbled from their shoulders.
“Go!” Chloe shoved him. While scrambling over the blood drenched fragments of table, a thundering rumble knocked them to the ground. Chancho rolled onto his back and fired the pistol directly overhead, using the chemical light to drive back the tide. But a few dozen twitchers remained between them and the exit. They’d never make it, and he had just used the final flare.
“Chancho!” Chloe yanked him on top of her as a limp twitcher crashed down where he’d been. “Look!”
A rising wave of bodies rolled past them toward the exit as if a mole were burrowing below the surface—spraying twitcher shrapnel in its wake.
“What the hell?”
In a shattering explosion, the wave slammed against the wall of the cave and burst into a tornado. Raring from the eye of the storm, Serge roared, arms outstretched. Shaking his head too fast for Chancho’s eyes to focus, he tore a fellow twitcher in two. With half of the body in each hand, Serge spun. He churned the living mass surrounding him like a blender. Chancho stumbled to his knees and puked. The air became too sticky to breathe. The temperature rose quickly.
“It’s clear!” Chloe pulled him to his feet.
Clamoring over dead and living twitcher alike, they fumbled forward using any and every foothold they could manage. Knife in hand, Chloe struck off a grasping arm. Using it as a club, she carved their way toward the mouth of the cave—now visible in the eerie red glow.
“Go, go, go!” Chancho kept Chloe in front of him, trying to shield her from the deafening storm behind. Out of flares, he dropped the gun and ensured the book was still snug in his belt. He had one final trick up his sleeve. He prayed for both their sakes it would be enough.
The storm closed the gap with force. While leaping over the grasp of a twitcher sprawled on the cave floor, a blow to the back spun Chancho like a top. A flashing claw slashed near his throat. Two bleary eyes closed in on his own—a split second from impact. Levitating in mid-air and with both hands buried under his serape, Chancho yanked all dozen strings he had wrapped around his fingers moments earlier.
Supernova. His body compressed inward from every side before expanding impossibly. He ignited and consumed the red glow of the cave with a brilliant, blue-white light. A torrent of sparks bathed his body, flashing a photo imprint of the moment. Everything became frozen in time. And then the flying twitcher struck him.
Amidst the ear-splitting sound of gunpowder and a bruising, all-encompassing pain, Chancho tumbled back to earth and hit hard. Tattered scraps of his serape fluttered in the air above him. The birth and death of a star had taken place within a few beats of his heart. Gasping for breath, he crawled onto sticky hands and knees.
Chloe pulled him up. Together they sprinted the last twenty yards to the mouth of the cavern, their vision still awash with white light.
By the time Chancho and Chloe reached the neck of the cave, the longer-burning phosphorus patches sewn into his serape were burning down. Never the less, their flicker proved sufficient to keep them upright and moving forward as fast as they dared.
Three hundred yards later, Chancho realized the light in the cave was coming from the sun rather than his tattered garment. “There.” The cave split, but one passage was pitch black. Following the light, they eventually stepped into the base of a vertical shaft—a man-made access for the natural cave.
Chancho put his ear to the ground while Chloe gazed upward into a tiny speck of cloudy sky. “I’ve never seen such a glorious shade of gray.” She breathed deeply. “But where’s Angelo?”
“Nothing. I don’t think they’re following.”
“You think Serge came out on top?”
“No sé, but it makes sense.” Chancho stood. “Lo siento, señorita.” He embraced her, feeling their hearts beat in sync.
“For what?”
“I’ve been distracted.”
“Nonsense. You did your job and I did mine.” Chloe squeezed him tight. “We ain’t dead, are we?”
He let go and shook his head. “Not that.”
Chloe stepped back. “Oh, the children.”
“Earlier, I did not mean to offend you. It’s just,” he glanced over his shoulder. “I was trying to focus on the good we can do.”
“And what do you call saving dozens of innocent children?”
“I can’t—”
“How can you, of all people, not care about orphans?” Chloe’s voice echoed in the shaft.
“Is that what you think?” Chancho tried to place a hand on her shoulder, but she jerked away. “You think I don’t care?” He grimaced and shut his eyes. He swallowed a wave of both hurt and anger. “And what would you do for them? Take them from a world they have built with their own cunning, and thrust them into one even more hostile? One where the rinche will hunt them down and slaughter them? One where everyone will fear them?” He jabbed his finger toward the floor. “At least here they know the rules. They can continue to survive until,” he coughed and fell silent.
Chloe stepped toward him. “Until they die from the illness.”
Chancho looked up, dirty tears etching his face. “I cannot save them all. I’m only one man.”
“Is that what you think? That it’s your job to save everyone?”
Chancho sank to his knees. “Isn’t it?” His voice faded into the blackness. Encased in total silence, the couple froze until Chloe joined him on the cave floor.
She said, “I’m the one who should be sorry.”
“Why?”
“You were trying to do what was best for the children, for everyone. I,” she lifted his chin with a finger. “I can’t believe I accused you of not caring. If I would have stopped to think… I should have known.”
Chancho breathed deeply and stood. “We shouldn’t stay here.”
“Look,” Chloe rose with him. She forced him to look her in the eyes. “I don’t know, maybe it is your job to save us all, maybe not. But if it was, the Chancho I know would find a way.”
He embraced her—kissed her lightly on the cheek and ear before clutching her to himself. Again, as in the stone house, Chloe’s internal fire ignited his own. “If you can continue, time and again, to save me, the least I can do is save the world. Or at least a small piece of it.”
“Now you’re talking.”
“But first things first.” Chancho released her and strode toward the far wall of the shaft.
“Hello, what’s that?” Chloe followed him with her eyes.
A stack of crates lined one side of the shaft. Chancho knelt and used an arm to remove a swath of dust from one of the wooden boxes. “Dynamite. Mucha dinamita.”
“That couldn’t have been there before the explosion.”
“Did you see the passage splitting off from this one?”
Chloe nodded.
“Recently man-made.”
“Twitcher made?” Chloe asked.
A coil of rope struck the ground beside Chancho’s boot, causing him to jump. “¡Ay, caramba!” Looking up, he saw a speck of movement at the opening—a fleck of black against the gray sky.
“Our guardian angel,” Chloe laughed.
Chancho picked up the rope but then dropped it again. Quickly he pried open a crate and pocketed a stick of dynamite while Chloe tapped her boot on the mine floor. “What?” He slapped her on the butt. “You never know.” Finally he stepped into the loop at the end of the rope. “Come on, I’ve had enough tight spaces.”
He tugged the rope three times as she joined him in an embrace. She said, “I wouldn’t say that if I were you.” The rope jerked taut and began hoisting them up at a steady pace.
“Too early?”
Chloe laid her head on his shoulder, “Uh-huh.”
Thanks so much for taking the time to read Twitch and Die!, Season Four of the Lost DMB Files. I’ll be publishing FREE daily scenes from the Lost DMB Files until…I die…or something terrible happens. Seriously, I’ve got over 400 scenes written so far, and I’ll be writing more until the story reaches its natural ending. You are totally welcome to read the entire story for FREE! If at any point you decide you would rather finish the story in ebook or print format, just click the buttons below and you can do that as well. If you enjoy reading the serial releases, BUT you would also like to support me as a writer (my kids need wine!) please subscribe to my premium content for bonus scenes, exclusives, and insider access to my process. And of course, I’d be grateful if you would share this post with any of your reader friends who you think would enjoy the Lost DMB Files. Happy reading!