Creep World: The End (Part One)

[natetheffrer]

Wow everybody is dieing, also why does the car not run out of gas?

[MalReynolds]

Fichter refuelled in the section before this.

And yeah, Iggy died. Poor poor Iggs.

Mal

[Eyoshi]

Wow, I thought Iggy was going to be one of the characters that will stay with Eric until the end. It was also pretty strange how you've eliminated one of the strongest characters even though the story has yet to reach the end.

[MalReynolds]

It was something I had planned from the beginning, to offer up a psychic character and then kill him off. I'm going to be re-editing the first 10 parts and posting them in a new thread once I finish, then keep adding. I'll also start doing character pieces called "Everyone Has A Story: 'character name here'" that details characters lives prior to the invasion up until the day of.

Mal

[talisman]

dunno if you've heard about http://www.nanowrimo.org but basically it's a site where they declare november national novel writing month and have a competition to see who can write the best 50 000 word novel starting in november and finishing in november. I figure you've probably got at least 10 - 15 thou here, you might as well start updating it there and see what happens. couldn't hurt anyway and might motivate you extra more.

[MalReynolds]

Well, you piqued my curiosity and I did a word count on my material.

20,000. 19,823 to be exact.

And that site looks interesting. I'd have to look over the copywrite information first. But it's definitley worth looking into. Thanks.

Mal

[MalReynolds]

I decided to do back-story sections for some of the characters. This one is going between chapter 5-6, and it's called "Everyone Has A Story: Wheels". The Everyone Has A Story things comes from Iggy asking people that. But yeah.

-

Ignatious Volter was born roughly twenty years ago and was an only child, records indicate. He wasn’t confined to a wheel chair his entire life; an accident when he was a small child stole away the use of his legs. His mother was driving and had installed the child-safety seat in the passenger area, negating its effectiveness. Within the span of ten seconds, his mother had been taken from him, as were his legs.

He had resided in an assisted living community for a while, his father unable to look after or take care of him due to the urgency of his job. Ignatious’ father was a marketing director for the radio station WXRP in New York, and with time, Ignatious’ father Ken forgot that he even had a son.

Ignatious was an unruly child, dissatisfied with life and what it had taken from him. He was bussed around from home to home, his father putting him up for adoption after two years. His life never changed dramatically, until one late December in 1995. The snow outside of the house was thick, the top layer ice. The wheelchair ramp had been cleared off the night prior so that he could go out and play in the yard with the other boys.

During the night, the ramp had become coated in ice. Ignatious was unable to maintain control of the vehicle as it went down the ramp; eventually, he crashed into the railing, being thrown over and into the snow. His chair stayed on the ramp, falling over.

He had cried out for help for hours. There was no one. Not even the other children were outside. Snow began to fall.

“I’m beginning to lose the feeling in my legs!”

No one was there to laugh.

Ignatious rolled over and began to claw his way to the ramp. He managed to pull himself to his chair using the hand railings. He grabbed onto one of the wheels, flipping the chair over. He sat down in it, but couldn’t make it up back the icy incline into the house; he kept rolling backwards.

He abandoned the chair and began to crawl up the ramp, finally reaching the front door. He rang the doorbell, but no one answered. Smoke began to pour out of the windows.

Ignatious was the only survivor. He was put into government care until he became of age. They helped him acquire and apartment in Manhattan, near the radio-station where his father worked. He had hoped one day to surprise him, coming into the building with a catcher’s glove. Clichéd, yes, but he was sure it would work.

It took nerve to go to the station. The rickety elevator was tough enough to brave. The tenants in the building always kept an eye out for him, lest he hurt himself or let himself be hurt.

Few had tried to talk him out of going to the station that day, but he wouldn’t have it. If Ignatious was one thing, it was determined. Once he had his mind set on something, you couldn’t deter him even for an instant. One of the qualities of being in a chair was his steely will.

He didn’t enter through the revolving doors; he entered through the side door that swung. The receptionist had been having an exceptionally bad day; Ken was sleeping with her, but refused to leave his wife. When Ignatious came through the doors, her smile brightened and she was reminded that there are other people in life that are worse off than she.

She loved helping the disabled as well; it gave her a feeling of superiority that rang in her voice.

“Hello, sir, how can I help you today?”

“I’m here to see Kenneth Volter.”

She blushed and nodded, flipping through the Rolodex of numbers on her desk. It was a façade, trying to find the number. She had it memorized; the one office the building she knew by heart.

She called up. “Hello, is Kenneth there? There is a young man here to see him.” She paused. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No. Tell him his son is here.”

She nodded. “Yes, he says his son is here.” She looked at Ignatious. “Yes, you’re son is here. All right, James, go on up. Floor 30”

He was unfazed by being called James. Could have been a mistake. She could have been reading some kind of label on his clothing or wheelchair. He rolled into the elevator, pressing the button for 30. The muzak over the loudspeaker was something familiar, sounded something like “Mr. Blue Sky” but with a heavy synthesizer and no lyrics.

The doors dinged open and he rolled down the hall, looking at the names on the doors, the carpet green save for the shadows that were constantly being cast over it. By the water cooler he spied his fathers name on the door, and knocked.

“That you, son? Come on in.”

Ignatious opened the door and rolled through. His father was slightly balding, blonde, sitting behind the desk. He wasn’t trying to hide the baldness; he was accepting the futility of the situation with an air of Bruce Willis.

“Who the hell are you?”

Ignatious was taken aback.

“I’m your son. Ignatious Volter.”

Ken didn’t move.

“You put me up for adoption a while ago.”

Ken still sat, unmoving.

“You’re my father. Martha was your wife. She was killed in a car accident.”

“Yes, yes. I know who you are.”

“Then why did you ask me who I was?”

The door opened behind him and a young child ran through, same blonde hair as his father. A woman stepped through the door.

“You might want to put in a word to have that receptionist removed. She was giving me quite a bit of sass,” the woman said, leaning over the desk, kissing her husband. “Who is this?”

“Oh, this is Ignatious. He’s Martha’s son.”

“I’m your son.”

“I’m sorry, not anymore. I’d forgotten about you a long time ago. Mary, could you take James into the hallway? I have to clear up some things in here.”

They left, standing by the water cooler. James played with the wax cups, crumpling them and tossing them aside.

“I’m your SON, Ken! You can’t just forget about me!”

“I didn’t want you. Didn’t you ever wonder how I could let you go so easily? I begged Martha to have you… Taken care of before you were born. But she wouldn’t have it. I’m sorry she died the way she did; I truly loved her… But I didn’t love the choices she made. You were one of them… I wasn’t ready for a child.”

Ignatious began to roll his chair backwards, towards the door.

“So that’s it? I have no father?”

“And I… I have no son. Except for James.”

“I expected you to get remarried, but I didn’t expect…” Ignatious’ voice caught in his throat. He turned the chair, opened the door and rolled down the hallway, tears falling down his face, onto his defunct legs.

People back at the apartment had tried to cheer him up, but he was inconsolable.

“I can’t believe I moved here… I moved here trying to get closer to him, thought we could start…” He couldn’t talk about it without bringing tears to his eyes.

Since that day, he surrounded himself with people in the building, creating relationships that were almost entirely false. He didn’t care for them; he just cared to be around them. He didn’t want to be abandoned, but had no problem abandoning.

The first day of the invasion, he was making soup.

The first time he heard of the things attacking was via his father’s radio station. It was advising people the flea the city, to try and escape. People in the building urged Ignatious to leave, his best bet was to head to Canada.

He sealed himself in the pantry while people, his protectors, tried to secure the building. They all perished. He felt almost nothing for them. Of course they would leave. Everyone did.

When the sounds died out, he took the elevator to the roof just in time to see the New York City skyline blink out, the power dieing save for a few offices that were running on generators. One by one, he watched them blink out. He turned the radio on his lap to his father’s station, but there was nothing but static.

The gunshots rang true from the adjacent building. He sat and watched the young man kill several creatures. Ignatious was filled with adrenaline. It was exciting watching someone able to fight back.

There was a click on the radio.

The door was locked. He moved his chair to a dark corner and began to listen intently for any signal coming out.

There was another click.

Someone was at the station.

[natetheffrer]

Gosh mal, you have all of the stuf tie together so well, I would have had wheels on the roof then him go down some ramp that was made for a rollercoaster. Then the story would end because I would give up.

[MalReynolds]

Bert Elman was born on Sesame Street. He did appreciate the irony but didn’t appreciate the horrible jokes that followed him for most of his life. One thing he wanted more than anything else was to have a new name, a proud name that people wouldn’t make fun of. When he turned 18, he planned on going down the courthouse, paying a nominal fee and changing his name to something that wasn’t Bert from Sesame Street.

His sister, Gina, had thought the notion of him changing his name was all together silly. Of course, she was Gina from Sesame street, a name that had an air about it of a prostitute, not a puppet.

Their father had gotten a job in Manhattan, supervising the construction of several buildings and parks near Wall Street. The Elman family relocated to New York in the following months, Bert losing interest in his name change now that he was away from Sesame Street.

He had moved to Manhattan when he was ten. His parents were happily married, having two children: Bert and Gina Elman, Gina being the senior of the two by four years. It was a large age gap between the children that made Bert often question whether or not his parents really intended to have him.

Gina wasn’t the best of siblings; she constantly would make fun of Bert, shooting down his ideas, but he didn’t mind. He looked up to her; in his eyes, Gina was the cat’s pajamas. Gina knew this and used his admiration to her advantage whenever she could.

Somewhere around his fourteenth birthday, Bert realized this as well. But he didn’t mind. It became a mutual idea that she would no longer use him, rather “get his help” wittingly or un.

Bert’s high school had several motivational speakers come and go, as well as Drug Awareness Resistance Education officers who would come and talk about the dangers of starting illegal substances.

Bert usually didn’t pay attention to the motivational speakers; he was happy enough as it was. But the DARE officer caught his attention when he came to speak to Bert’s class.

Officer Ned was dashing in his uniform, a moustache covering his upper lip. He seemed to be constantly blushing, friendly rather than frightening. He wasn’t portly, but built, his eyes almost shut from smiling all the time.

Gina had been dabbling in drugs ever since high school. Bert knew this, Gina knew this, but Gina didn’t know Bert knew this. As far as Gina was concerned, the only people that knew were the people she bought from and tripped with.

Officer Ned began his rhetoric at the front of the class, talking about how he joined the police department, how he had lived in Manhattan for most of his life and how he had at one point considered becoming an undercover agent, but the birth of his son changed his mind. “Too dangerous to have a family and be snitching on powerful families, you see.”

The class sighed. Everyone was bored, save for the wiry young diabetic looking kid in the back. Bert pushed his glasses up, rapt with attention, his pale skin glowing in the sunbeam that was pouring through the window.

“Which brings me to drugs and why you shouldn’t do them,” Officer Ned began. “The first thing to worry about is addiction. Getting addicted to any substance can off set your life, legal or not. I used to be addicted to caffeine, and when I didn’t have any for a long period of time, I would get a headache and my hand would start to shake. I shot a hostage one time because of than.”

There was an audible gasp from the mass of students.

“Just kidding, glad to see you’re all still alive.”

The students once again nestled in the chairs, trying to get comfortable. But as all students know, it’s impossible to truly relax in the hard plastic chairs.

Bert’s shrill laugh came from the back, alarming his classmates. Bert didn’t know why that was so funny; it just seemed like a good ploy to get the class to pay attention.

“Sorry, continue,” he said, regaining composure.

“Thank you, young man. There are several ways to get addicted to substances; physical and mental addiction being the primary two. The mental addiction is more of a craving than anything else; you can crave a chocolate bar and that would be considered part of a mental addiction. You can also crave marijuana mentally. Everyone in here know what marijuana is?”

Several students raised their hands.

“Anyone in here seen a picture of marijuana?”

The same students kept their hands up.

“Anyone in here know what it smells like?”

The hands went down.

“Anyone ever have some in brownies?”

Two hands went up.

Officer Ned laughed. “Alright, so we have some people in here more knowledgeable about the substance. It’s not my job in here today to bust your balls, so I’m going to forget your hands were up, but you know what it’s like.”

The hands went down and the students didn’t move.

“Physical addiction is pretty gross. Heroin, for example, has a huge physical addiction. You start to shake, much like caffeine, drool, and become unintelligible. This stuff can destroy your life if you’re not careful, and it will. Which is why,” he wrote on the board, “It’s good to stay away from the hard stuff.”

The bell rang, cutting the rhetoric short. The class grabbed their bags, fashionably swung one strap over one shoulder and began to file out of the class room quickly in Friday formation. Bert was the last one to leave, looking at Officer Ned on his way out the door.

“Glad you thought it was funny, son,” he said, smiling and waving.

Bert couldn’t get a ride home; no one really cared to be seen with him. It didn’t alarm him any, he knew he looked strange and gangly, especially for a teenager, so he didn’t mind riding the bus. That’s where he began to worry about Gina and what she might be doing to herself with the drugs.

When he got home, she had the familiar glare in her eyes, seated in front of the television with a bag of chips and a container of dip, a can of orange soda on the side table sans coaster.

Bert began to get genuinely worried about her.

“Any big plans tonight?”

“Going over to Erin’s. Spending the night. Can I borrow some money?”

Bert reached for his wallet. He knew in the back of his mind what she was going to spend it on. He gave her forty dollars anyway.

Gina spent the night in her room after her parents picked her up from the police station. Someone had tipped them off anonymously. When they walked through the door, she was in tears. They were angry but understanding.

As a first time offender, she was let off with a slap on the wrist and five hours of community service to be filled. She wasn’t allowed to leave the house, either; “grounded” is the term for it.

Bert was happy about it. He really felt he had helped her. As she was grounded, there was more forced interaction between the two. Mom and Dad noted how well they were getting along together, finally seeing eye to eye on things. Gina also stopped using him.

She would go on to die at the hand of her brother, never knowing he was the one who turned her in. Years passed and the bond between Bert and Gina grew.

The initial day of the invasion, Bert was at school. Gina was at home. Mom and Dad were at work, Mom a teller at Bank of America.

New reports swept in of the western coastal cities being attacked. The US army was mobilized and we sent word to other countries that we needed help. None came.

Bert and Gina hid in the basement of their building behind stacks of boxes, leaving a note for their parents should they return home. Bert doubted they would; he had a gut feeling… And his gut feelings were usually spot on.

They heard the things ransack the lobby and upper floors. Most of the people in the building had fled, but there were still screams. Maniacal laughter mixed with shrill glass shattering waves of terror. They waited for two days in the basement, making as little noise as possible, hearing the tiny patters of their feet finally leave the building.

At the next light, they went back to their apartment. It was torn apart, but there was no sign of Mom or Dad. Bert looked out the window towards the construction site where his dad worked. A plume of smoke rose from the framed skeleton of the building.

They stayed in their apartment for a few days, eating and mainly remaining quiet, hoping their parents would come walking through the door. The door remained closed.

Bert saw the flier from the window, three stories up. He actually saw a large grouping of them blowing down the street. He nudged Gina and pointed down. They carefully and quietly made their way to the ground level, stepping outside briefly, grabbing a flier.

“Big Apple Print Shop…”

“There’s a survivor there, Gina. He’s got candy, too,” Bert said, smiling. His voice had cracked, the first time he had used it in several days.

“There’s a survivor there, Gina. He’s got candy, too,” Bert said again, deepening his voice. A gut feeling again, telling him not to go.

“We’re not going. Alright, Gina?”

“Yes we are. What made you change your mind like that?”

“I just have a bad feeling about it is all. We shouldn’t go.”

“Well, I’m older. Your vote doesn’t really count now does it, little brother,” she said, ruffling his hair.

“Alright… Fine. But if we go, I’m changing my name.”

“To what?”

“I dunno. Something cooler than Bert. Lemme check the phone book.”

He opened the book to the middle, closed his eyes and dropped his finger on the page.

“Ignatious Volter.”

“That last name is retarded, Bert.”

“Fine. Just Ignatious.”

She sighed and shook her head, smiling.

“It does sound cool. Had a nice ring to it,” he said, as they began walking down the street.

“Ignatious.”

“Alright, Bert, keep it quiet. We don’t know if there are any of those things anywhere.”

He smiled and whispered, “Ignatious.”

-

Mal

[Fungishroom]

I've been reading them, just all my questions and comments on the stories are already answered by someone else.

[natetheffrer]

I hate countries that arent the USA, they never send help :/.

[MalReynolds]

That comes into play during the second half of the book.

Good news! Done editing the story! New chapters start going up tomorrow. PM me if you want the edited chapters.

Mal

[Varia]

No, screw you.

YOU should be PM'ing US.

harhar I am so a bad bully guy.

[MalReynolds]

Varia, your username is officially in the next section.

Ha. Jokes on you.

Ass.

Mal

[Varia]