Excerpt
Taken from the short tale, 'OLD STOMPING GROUNDS'


Tendons stretch. Ligaments tear. Bones creak as hairline cracks spread like a freshly spun spider’s web. Regardless, The THING shambles forward, driven by an unrelenting urge; a gnawing hunger that refuses to abate. The hunger is all The THING knows-all it understands-all it answers to.

It is The THING’S universal reason for being. It is the sole priority in a world once littered with a million separate agendas. The precious life source it seeks is a rare find indeed, much like an ancient relic buried within a rocky mountainside. Time has dwindled this precious resource to an almost nonexistent commodity, forcing those damned souls driven by the unstoppable urge to feed to seek out nourishment atop not only unfamiliar terrain, but also old haunts long since dismissed.

Still, regardless of such overwhelming, insurmountable odds, the search will not-cannot be abandoned, for The THING exists only to search out, discover and consume this elusive rarity.

The heart of the city has long-since emptied, leaving little behind save an army of lifeless husks and a landscape littered with hollowed out structures that paint the horizon like an apocalyptic mural.

The metal gate is spread wide, allowing just enough room for The THING to squeeze through. Its right forearm scraps across a hanging strand of razor wire, peeling away jagged strips of decayed, mummified flesh. The THING glances back briefly but feels neither physical or emotional pain over such a loss. Being that its limbs, torso and exposed organs have long since hardened, fossilized, or simply dropped off, this doesn’t exactly fall under the category of dire straights. It knows not what drives it towards its mystery destination.

Acting on primal instinct is not a chosen behavior, but simply the only option available since its pulse faded and its battered mind lost the power of independent thought.

The THING ambles through a caged sally port, past several abandoned ton- and- a- half trucks and scattered piles of jagged bone and tattered clothing As The THING makes its way down a winding catwalk towards a gray, two-story concrete building with smooth, window-less walls, it peers upward at a metal overhang which reads ‘BOLEN Cryogenics INC – Main Building’. Reaching up to scratch its bald, scab-infested dome, The THING pauses in mid-stumble and tilts its misshapen head to one side, as if struck by a sudden thought or impulse As is normally the case in such a rare occurrence, the faint vibe fades almost instantly. There is no time for such nonsensical drivel, its hollowed-out gut relays, not when there is still the hunger to feed.

The glass double-door entrance stands ajar and is smeared with the aged residue of spilled bodily fluids. The THING sniffs one of the metal handles as if to officially eliminate it as a drawing source, even giving it the obligatory lick before spitting a dark brown splotch onto the dusty tile flooring below.

Passing a circular, marble-based console littered with soiled computer monitors, keypads and assorted blown trash, The THING soon finds itself posed at the cusp of separate elevators, centered by a tiny numerical keyboard mounted between each.

Initially, The THING attempts to pry elevator one’s doors apart by wedging its skeletal fingers into the sparse space provided between creases, but quickly realizes the futility of such efforts.

Stepping forward, it peers at the keypad through one blackened eye, the pupil of which is plum red and shrouded in slug-like tumors the color of coal.

After a short pause, The THING reveals a hideous grin while slapping its palms together in drunken glee.

Reaching forward with one bony forefinger, it expertly pokes out a six-digit code before backing away as if expecting an impending explosion.

Elevator one immediately begins to sputter and hum as the single door slides back as if slightly off-track.
The THING steps through just as the door slides securely back into place behind it, narrowly missing trapping its jagged left heel in the process.