Marin's Dale

1

The girl with the eggshell eyes was coming closer now, on the cusp of a world born from the rise and fall of man; at the brink of a world plunging into the gloom of unspeakable horror.

"The Well" seemed to be a part of the landscape that never died. As torn and gnarled as the mountains themselves, this main source of influx transitioned seamlessly; if anything, one could not distinguish its gaping mouth from the silent looming masses of rock and trees that choked off the Dale.

The only indication that this blackened hole was, in fact, a product of man seemed to rest in the small, nondescript sign dangling above its entrance. The words, "The Well" were all that stood. Not "Wellington Tunnel," as it was more formally known by those few who had overseen its construction. Simply, "The Well."

And as it was, boring into the once-impenetrable flank of the monstrous mountain, Marin's Dale's aptly named "Well" was nothing of its original intent. At one point, the pass would have streamed with vehicles; teemed with the raucous of the human traveler. Now, the very breath of the motorist was sucked dry. Whether manmade or wrought from towers of nature, "The Well" was dead. Like all things that had come and gone in the short-spanned day, its soul was waning.

Its pulse, faint.

This is where Paul rediscovered the girl with the eggshell eyes. She was waiting by the entrance to the tunnel, right aside the road and beneath the rocky outcropping. Paul stared at her as she, presumably, stared back. Her small frame seemed as if it would blow right off the road, and so he slowed, bringing his 'borrowed' vehicle to a halt. Glancing once to the unopened bottle of whiskey at his feet, Paul rapped the window.

The girl needed no further signs. She moved toward the vehicle and entered the passenger side. Paul smiled.

And so they continued on, the unlikely pair, disappearing into the black throat of the tunnel to a world unknown.

             ###

The Man with the boots had arrived.

The husk was tight on his face now, as the bulbs flittered in the voiceless hallway. Lockers, left with backpacks, left with school notebooks, pens and textbooks. Rats like tumors fettered in the dark spaces between walls.

Every classroom door was open, admitting the apparition of heat. Steam could not be contained. It would not be contained.

The harvest would soon commence. It was important that stragglers be collected.

The Man with the boots gripped the husk. There was no need for it now. It no longer mattered what they saw. Resistants would likely emerge, as the homo sapiens were mercurial in nature. But their acclimation was inevitable. The Harvest was nearing.

With each passing classroom, small fans whirred; though they were not plugged in. At every chalkboard, there were lessons half-completed and dropped rulers and yellow blotches of worn chalk.

There were students in the seats—some of the seats. Students once with character and spirit, and who had joked, and the unhappy and the unknown; and students who had once drudged through the world without ever expecting anything to change. Some who could not fathom change.

There were students in the seats—some of the seats. And they were all dead.

                 ###

The first thing was the twitching. It started below the eye usually and you couldn't get it out if you took a fuckin pitchfork to the spot. You wanted to practically claw through your own flesh and rip it out and then go zip one out before anybody knew what you were doing. And then you could come back to class and you'd feel fine and everybody would think you were fine but you weren't though you were.

And then GT Stats seemed a lot more interesting.

But if you couldn't get to one to get the itch out then you started getting the itch and a whole slew of other things. A slew. It was fine of course you were going to be fine you just needed to get back on the horse and get back in the saddle and it usually wasn't an issue—unless you made it an issue not like you should or could or would but maybe if you did it'd make more sense that way. Like you never knew what was going to happen unless you had a few in you and then it seemed pretty good no matter what the fuck happened.

Guide the ship. Stay on the ship. But when you couldn't get the itch out and you get this whole slew of other shit and started freakin like you were going to be in a royal pickle and nobody liked the royal pickle. Unless you were royalty.

The worst part was the thoughts. Your mind got used to being one way so when you didn't put the right ingredients in the mind to keep it at its chill factor you ended up far from fine. But you had to tell yourself it was fine or else your mind started firing like a loose cannon and you'd be all over everything and nothing and half-way to Hell.

Tyler didn't like this feeling particularly though he couldn't argue with the mistake he had made and it seemed pretty clear what he had to do didn't it? He needed to go back to his locker and get the drugs from his locker there and then of course, they'd make their way to the Well and get the fuck outta town.

Everything was going to be fine of course that wasn't the issue. What was the issue was that Tyler needed to make sure he had more in his backpack in his locker or else he was going to go back to his home and get the safety.

He had engineered a certain remedy to acute withdrawal effects and it had a strong success rate though the studies had been limited obviously because Tyler usually didn't let himself run dry. He liked to stay wet and loaded at all times with skittles in his right pocket and the jellybeans in his left. He always bought in bulk and stupid heads would buy them off him at 350-400% mark-up and then he'd use the money and buy more. And stuff for Audrey.