Callous (Part 8)
Note - This is the continuation of a vanity project. A novel written in parts, with minimal editing or fuss. If I like the end result I may gather up all the parts and rewrite them into something better. This is a learning process. I’m a decent writer but a total amateur when it comes to putting a good story together. I’m struggling with incorporating various philosophical and political ideas I wanted to include, so I’m beginning to simply focus more on the narrative.
As I progress certain elements from earlier chapters may be dropped or changed, and as I rewrite the whole thing they’ll be updated to reflect this. Certain details are too sparse, and others are far too descriptive. As I progress I’ll learn what works for my style. I think by the 2nd or third rewrite I’ll have something decent.
This has been a struggle for me, but with each chapter I think I’m working it out. Join me and lets see where it ends up.
You can find parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7 here.
NOTE - I have plenty of non-fiction articles and ideas in the wings, will resume posting articles every few days tomorrow onwards.
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The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown. - H.P. Lovecraft.
Jonathan woke up on the floor, the sun in his eyes shining through the open front door. He realized quickly he was stuck to the floor, it felt like glue. He peeled himself of, only then realizing by the smell that he was stuck to the ground with blood! He looked at the two corpses next to him. Another bout of grief struck him, though this time it was more of a selfish “WHY ME!?” kind of feeling.
He was alone… again…
He didn’t know how long he sat there, could have been minutes, could have been hours, but when he noticed flies gathering all over Fred’s face he thought he better sort him out. He didn’t eat, he didn’t drink. He mustered up his courage and dragged Fred outside. He dragged the…thing outside too. He was just going to dig a hole to put them in, then realized that he wouldn’t feel right piling Fred in with this creature. So he had two holes to dig.
It took the better part of a day, but eventually it was done, he then spent hours cleaning the shack. As he finished up there was a brief moment of panic, just what was he supposed to do now!? To occupy himself he checked on the goats and the cow, all seemingly fine. As he filled in the hole he read some lines from Fred’s book to him, it felt fitting. He didn’t even pile dirt onto the creature, just dragged and dropped it into the hole, leaving it for later. When dragging it in the stench and the clammy feel of it revolted him.
He paced the house, realizing he’d been avoiding Fred’s room, amazed that in all these months he’d never even seen the inside of it. He grabbed a candle and went to take a look. It was locked somehow. A tedious ten minutes was spent hunting for a key, or even a locking mechanism, but he couldn’t find anything. As he tried to pry it open his frustration and impotent rage came to the surface, he shoulder-charged the door, practically going straight through it. It was only thin wood after all.
Jonathan didn’t know what to expect, feeling all sorts of dread, the creature itself had really unnerved him. As he got himself up off the floor and the remnants of the door he kept picturing the creatures unseeing eyes, and part of him imagined he could still hear that strange pitiful goat-like cry. He convinced himself it must have been one of the goats, and looked around the room.
It was a fairly normal affair, a large old fashioned bed, a bench covered in tools, and various books scattered around the room. There was something that looked like a lamp, and something else that looked like the toaster he remembered his dad using. It was half taken apart then left as interest waned. The garbage and contraptions were like loose elements of Fred’s personality dispersed around the space. As he continued to inspect the space by candlelight he noticed a small notepad on the bed sticking out from the pillow, he grabbed it.
Flicking through Jonathan quickly realized it was a journal of sorts, on the front scrawled in surprisngly neat handwriting was written “Frederich Gerstard” and underneath in much rougher writing was the word “THOUGHTS”.
Jon took the journal and went back to the central room, he briefly considered sleeping in Fred’s room but realized how revolting that felt, so stayed in his couch-bed. He laid back with a cup of tea and began to read.
The journal told the tale of how Fred came to live here, how his father knew an inevitable collapse was coming, the words “Convergence of catastrophies!” were written in bold, as well as a few political rants on subjects Jon couldn’t possibly understand, then came the part that snapped Jon into awareness. A chapter titled: The creatures I care for. It was dated as unknown, and a quick flick through led Jon to realize every chapter was named such. It seemed Jon hadn’t bothered to keep track of real dates or times. I began to read:
Phew boy, gotta write this all down.
So I’m here, on this property my good ol’ daddy gave me, caring for the remnants of my family. They’re been underground for nearly a century now, the new ones were born down there! I gotta make sure to drop off food every 3-4 days or they get restless, I’ll make sure to rotate which door I use so they never know where I’m coming. When I drop it off I’ll make sure it’s during the day. Even underground they somehow can tell when its night, and thats when they want to feed. I don’t even know how I got to this situation, what the fuck are they? Why were my parents caring for them? What the fuck is wrong with them?
I’ve tried to talk to them, nothing. Why was my dad caring for these things? Why does he call them my brothers and sisters? Do I really have to continue to feed them?
This was all for this one, Jonathan anxiously flicked through the journal trying to find more, then towards the end there was another.
This boy Jonathan is here, he’s a good lad, will be a great help around the farm. It almost feels like I have a basic sort of family again. I have decided I won’t even tell them about our brothers and sisters underground, ever since the disaster ten years ago (I’m so sorry Mary!) I refuse to even risk him being in danger, but I’m gonna have to make sure to add more locks to the damn doors. Dad told me this is what our family deserves, that we are doomed to look after these things forever, but I don’t want Jonny to be involved. May God forgive me for involving him at all. I just didn’t want to be alone anymore.
Jonathan reeled, he flicked through the rest of the journal trying to find anything else relevant, but all he could find was a loose ‘feeding schedule’, some notes about “the roving zipper-heads” and some scribbles and doodles. A more careful look through of the journal revealed a lot of philosophical discussion.
As Jon sat back, realizing he’d not really learned much even if he felt a new sense of dread, he heard a now familiar scratching on the hatch by his side. It wasn’t intense or urgent, just a light scratching. He could hear a faint mewling sort of sound too, but wasn’t sure if it was here or elsewhere. Before he could sleep he decided he’d have to do something about the dead one outside, but he knew he didn’t have the energy to bury him now. Instead he just went to take a look.
Jonathan was terrified as he approached the small pit, somehow sure that the creature would be gone, and he was filled with terror as he couldn’t see it as he approached. As he peered into the pit he realized why, it had seemingly curled up into a ball. Like a slater or a pill bug, it had seemingly dried up and turned almost-black. The teeth and claws were still obvious, otherwise Jon would have struggled to even recognize it as the same creature. It was well and truly dead.
Jon threw some rocks at it anyway, just to be sure. The second rock he threw actually hit it, and it seemed to flake off like old plaster or stone, dust filling the air. In confusion and disgust Jon went back to the cabin for a restless night of sleep.
The next day Jon woke with the sun, he decided first to bury the creature, then to plan out his survival. He went to the pit and all that was left of the creature was a dark smudge on the ground, looking like the ashes of a fire burnt recently. Jonathan buried it anyway, forcing his mind onto his more immediate concerns.
First he thought he must make sure he can feed and manage the animals, and then he will have to learn how to drive the Landcruiser.
He spent the day focused on the animals, making sure they had food and water, and learning how to milk them. Fred had shown him the basics so this wasn’t particularly challenging when it came to the goats. The cow was another story, it was much bigger than it had appeared from a distance, and he wondered why Fred had never bothered to show him even the basics. Hours later with lots of milk spilt and a very upset cow, Jonathan managed to do the job. The new field Jon had helped put together was full of grass now, so Jon made sure to move the cow there. The goats seemed to be happy chewing on all sorts of weedy plants that were around. Jon just had to make sure to top up their water. Water was supplied via a large tank, Fred had neglected to tell Jon how this was filled up, but suggested it would become obvious when the rains came. Jonathan checked the tank and saw he had at least enough for a good few weeks, so he let the matter settle for now.
He got home, ate some cold tinned food, and read Fred’s book for an hour or two. Only realizing this time that Frederick was probably named after Nietzsche. Afterwards he flicked through the journal, then settled in to reading it in depth. He felt in all those months with Fred he had hardly got to know him at all, and the journal provided a very frank and direct connection to someone that had been starting to feel like family.
Jonathan lay down on his bed, and though he was sure he heard yet more faint scratching from the hatch in the floor, he ignored it in his grief and cried himself to sleep anyway. Somehow he felt more alone now than his days in Condonia. Somehow he had never felt so alone.