Genesis

My first attempt, comments welcomed, please be brutal. I am developing this into a Novella/Novel, and any inputs, critiques, gripes, unadulterated worship of my great talent and or declarations of awe (especially those accompanied by large sums of money and/or movie deals) are desperately needed. ;)

What is that stench?
Harry slowly rolled over on his back. Everything hurt. He blinked a couple of times, trying to get his eyes to focus. He stared up at what appeared to be a concrete ceiling, like in a parking garage. He was chilled to the bone, the left side of his face numb from lying on the cold concrete floor. Where the hell am I? He tried to sit upright. Bolts of pain shot through his skull, driving him back down. It felt like someone was trying to drill a hole through his head, from the inside out. He pinched his eyes shut, willing the pain away.
He tried to think, to remember where he was, what he was doing there, but his mind was a murky pool of disconnected recollections. There seemed top be no timeline to his memory, no sequence of events. All he could manage was momentary glimpses of unrecognisable events. Thinking was making him dizzy. He could feel his mind make a loop. He rolled over and vomited, stinking bile rising from the pit of his empty stomach.
Vomiting seemed to help. He felt a little better afterwards. Shakily, he rose, first to standing on his hands and knees, then pulling himself upright against a concrete column. His first impression had been wrong. He could see now that he was in an abandoned building, not a parking garage. The building was huge, with a high ceiling. Probably some sort of warehouse. Even though it seemed to be light outside, very little light penetrated into the carcass of the building, a thin sheet of light, streaming through a large crack in the ceiling, providing the only visible illumination.
As his eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom he started making out shapes, nothing more than dark phantoms protruding from the shadows at first, followed by more and more detail, until at last, he could see enough of his surroundings to not stumble into some gorge in the floor or impale himself on a piece of metal jutting from the wall. He carefully started shuffling towards a set of large double doors a few meters away. He had to get out of the building. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something felt wrong. Harry was sure he was not alone. It seemed something else had also chosen the old warehouse as refuge, somehow finding its way inside, only to crawl up and die somewhere deep within the bowels of the old building. The smell was overpowering. It stirred a flash of memory from somewhere deep inside the murky pool that was his mind. He caught a flash of something standing over him, something big, with teeth. It stood over him, drooling in his face. He remembered hot, sour breaths, a hairy muzzle, sticky with drying blood. Jimmy’s blood. It ate Jimmy and now it’s come for me! A pang of fear raced up and down his spine. Gotta get out. Gotta get the fuck out, NOW! Panic worked like an engine stoker, shovelling loads of coal on the furnace which drove Harry’s legs. His careful shuffle turned into a careless stumbling run, the fear of falling into a crack in the floor overpowered by the anguish at being torn to pieces by the thing in the dark.
He burst through the rusty corrugated iron doors, his momentum driving the doors apart, ripping the old lock which held them together from its rusty cradle. Once through the doors, he dropped to his hands and knees, panting in the warm afternoon sun, trying to catch his breath.
His lungs were on fire, obviously not used to the exercise. Bright spots played in front of his eyes. He inhaled deeply, making a conscious effort to slow his breathing. It took several attempts to get his breathing back to anywhere close to normal. What the fuck was that all about? Who’s Jimmy? The name didn’t ring any bells.

~~~~~~~~~~

It was getting dark fast. When he had finally gotten up enough strength to get going again, following his little panic attack in the warehouse, he had realised that he had far more pressing problems than a phantom creature hiding in the dark. He had no idea of where to go. To his disgust he had also realised that some of the stench from the warehouse had followed him outside. Closer inspection had revealed that he had been the source of said stench. His clothes were filthy, drenched with sweat, sticky with other substances that he was too afraid to inspect closely. It appeared as though he had been living on the street for some time. I’m a bum? He seemed to remember having a life, a family, a home. His mind flashed snapshots of happier times, like he was watching a slide show of what used to be his life, but he couldn’t put together more than a snapshot or two at a time. He couldn’t remember living on the street, but the evidence certainly seemed to speak for itself. He definitely looked, and smelled, the part. He just drifted around a bit, unsure of where to go. At first he had considered going to the police, asking for help, but had decided that that might not be a good idea, seeing that he had no idea how he had landed up on the street in the first place. What if they’re looking for you, old buddy, old pall? Ever think of that? Maybe you slaughtered them nice folk you keep seein in your mind. Maybe you’re an axe murderer. Harry didn’t believe he was an axe murderer, but still, the thought of going to the police was unsettling.
He seemed to be in some sort of abandoned industrial complex, or an old warehouse district. None of the scenery was familiar, which added to his woes. Even if he did think of someplace to go, how would he get there if he didn’t even know where he was to begin with?
He wandered through the deserted streets, keeping well clear of open doors. Somewhere deep down in the farthest reaches of his mind, his subconscious kept going back to that blood soaked thing in the dark. That thing ate Jimmy, and you didn’t do anything to stop it. He couldn’t remember knowing anyone named Jimmy, but the voice was so persistent that it was unnerving to say the least. He kept imagining that hairy thing jumping out at him from one of the open doors. He kept seeing it sinking its yellowed teeth into his throat, ripping and tearing, pulling him into the safety of one of the buildings, where it could dine uninterrupted. Better not to take a chance, better to stay clear of the doors.

The landscape eventually changed. First the warehouses seemed to get even bigger, and then bigger still. He was just beginning to imagine that soon he would find one big enough to fit a small town in, when they abruptly stopped. He stood blinking for a moment, not sure if his eyes were playing tricks on him. Water, as far as the eye could see, the ocean. Not an industrial area after all – docks. You’re at the docks, dummy! He stared out over the ocean. It felt good to see something recognisable. He still didn't know where he was, or even which ocean he was looking at, but it felt good all the same. Where are all the ships? Big harbour like this, there should be ships, people, hell this place should be crawling with dock workers. He was starting to hate that little voice, but it was right. Not only were there no ships, there was nothing going on at all. He couldn't see anybody. At the very least he would expect to see security guards, but the place was completely deserted. Even more worrisome, it had the feel of having been abandoned for a very long time. Something was very wrong.

~~~~~~~~~~

He spent the night in a caravan parked on the docks. Judging from the furniture, it had once doubled as an office/home, probably for a security crew. Though relatively small, it was well equipped. Most of the cabin space was taken up by a table and two chairs. There was a little kitchen area, with a wash basin, and from the looks of it, running water. Harry tried the taps only to find that they had dried up a long time ago, the water supply evidently having been cut off. A little electric kettle sat abandoned on a shelf above the basin.
He rifled through two small little cupboards, finding only a couple cups and plates, and a biology experiment which Harry could only guess had started off as someone's sandwiches. A search of the little bar fridge turned out to be more fruitful. In it, he found three cans of coke. He drank the first one down greedily, his stomach cramping in protest. The coke was warm of course, no telling how long the electricity had been off, but it tasted better than anything he could remember having had before. He saved the other two cans for later.
A little closet, set to the back of the cabin, next to the little bed, delivered the night's second treasure – a set of clean clothes. One of the caravan's residents must have kept a spare set of clothes around just in case. Thank God for boy scouts.

He didn't feel like venturing out in the dark, but he couldn't stand the idea of sleeping in the caravan, smelling the way he did. He stood by the caravan door for a long time, listening, searching the night for signs of The Thing. The evening air was cool and inviting. The moon seemed very bright, its silvery light gently illuminating the deserted landscape. When he was finally convinced that The Thing was not hiding somewhere close by, waiting for him to leave the sanctuary of the caravan, he got undressed, and ran as quickly as he could to the edge of the docks. There he carefully climbed down a little steel ladder to the calm ocean below. The water was freezing. He slowly lowered himself into the water, allowing his body to acclimatise to the cold. He washed himself as best he could, using some dish washing liquid he had found in the caravan, while hanging on to the little steel ladder.
Undressing had been a little horrifying. He had been expecting dirt, being out of shape and just general neglect, but as it turned out he was in far worse shape than he had thought. The first thing that came to mind was faded black and white photos of World War II holocaust survivors. He must’ve lost a lot of weight, fast. Loose flaps of skin formed curious wrinkles all over his body, making him look like one of those wrinkled dogs that you used to see all over the place. Chinese Shar-Peis, they’re called Chinese Shar-Peis, old buddy, and yep, you sure look wrinkled enough. Better get some food in you. Strangely, he didn’t feel hungry. He had been dying of thirst earlier, but hadn’t even given food a second thought. Is that what it’s like to starve to death? Does your body just stop wanting food after a while? He didn’t know, but he was pretty sure that starvation was a very real threat. It was no wonder he felt so shitty all the time. He still had the headache, and walking had taken real effort. Even climbing down the ladder had been a bit of an ordeal, requiring him to stop every four steps or so to catch his breath. Hunting for food would definitely have to take priority in the morning, but first he needed a good night’s sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning his question of the previous night, about starving people no longer feeling hungry, was answered resoundingly. He awoke shortly after dawn, having slept soundly, dreamlessly, for most of the night. He was lying in bed, stretching his frail frame, unravelling some of the knots in his stiff muscles, when his stomach started loudly protesting the lack of sustenance. It growled angrily a few times, and then cramped together so violently that, for one terrifying moment, Harry was sure his timid body was going to tear in half.
When the cramps finally subsided Harry quickly got dressed, and drank one of the remaining sodas. He had to find food! He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to survive another cramp like the one he’d had that morning, and he wasn’t planning on finding out.

He searched all of the warehouses along the waterfront. They all seemed to have been built by the same company, according to the same plan. All of them were in effect little more than gigantic shells, no frills, just space. All of them had tiny little glass offices suspended two or three storeys above the main storage floor. Industrial looking iron staircases led up to the little offices. Harry carefully climbed these, afraid of slipping, breaking a leg. He was sure that without the normal padding protecting his brittle bones, a fall would cause them to shatter like glass. Besides the obvious danger of breaking a leg or an arm, with nobody around to help, Harry was terrified of ending up all twisted and broken, helpless, easy pickings for The Thing. He kept seeing himself curled up in agony on the concrete floor of one of the warehouses, The Thing circling him, coming closer and closer, licking its lips in anticipation of the luke warm treat pumping through Harry’s veins. He imagined it grabbing one of his feet, dragging him to its lair, its teeth sinking into his flesh.

His search of the offices was fruitless. One of the offices had a vending machine, but somebody had beaten him to it. Harry was close to panicking again. He was sure that he would not be able to go on without food for much longer. Already he could feel that his strength had been seriously diminished by the morning’s search. Climbing the metal staircases had become more and more difficult as the morning had passed. Harry sat down in one of the swivel chairs in the office he had just finished searching. He was shaky. His skin was clammy. He looked at his claw like hands, little more than those you’d see on a skeleton in a lab, only covered by pasty, unhealthy looking skin. You’re dying old buddy. Something’s got you alright, and it’s a lot worse than some hairy thing that hides in the shadows. Something’s eating you from the inside out.
Harry stared out over the warehouse through the glass wall of the office. He dreaded the climb down the staircase, in fact was sure he wouldn’t be able to make it down without having a nasty tumble. Even if he didn’t break anything, he was sure that his pasty skin would simply tear open from the fall, spilling what little was left of him onto the cold concrete floor. He considered just sitting there in that little glass cube, looking out over the untold number of crates, waiting for the final hunger spasm to snap his spine, or the hairy thing to climb the stairs and rip him to pieces. He saw himself still sitting there in that swivel chair months later. A bizarre decaying master, keeping guard of the precious crates nobody will ever collect. The crates! Harry almost jumped through the roof of the small glass cube at the thought. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? How ironic would that be, dying of hunger, sitting in an office overlooking a warehouse full of food? Harry could barely contain his excitement. He climbed down the tricky metal steps, going as fast as he could while not forcing his rubbery legs past their limit.
A short search of the warehouse revealed three crates destined for delivery to Joe’s Supermarket, marked “Canned Goods”. Harry couldn’t believe his luck. Tears of joy streamed uncontrollably down his boney cheeks. He shakily wiped at the watery snot dripping from his nose. The sudden overwhelming emotion surprised Harry. Ever since waking up in the old warehouse the previous day, he had felt overly emotional, ready to break down and cry at the slightest provocation. He remembered reading somewhere that people sometimes experienced such states of emotional fluctuation following very stressful events, but he wasn’t sure how that could explain his situation, since he couldn’t even remember exactly what his situation was. Did he have some sort of amnesia brought on by a stressful event? Possible, but how did that explain the severe weight loss? How could amnesia turn him into the Incredible Skin Covered Skeleton Man?
A deep, threatening rumble from his empty stomach warned him to get his priorities straight. He stared at the Joe’s Supermarket crates uncertainly. How the fuck do you think you’re going to open those crates, skeleton man? Don’t see no big, strong dock workers with crowbars standing around waiting to help you. The crates did look very sturdy. He knew he would have to find a way to open the crates, and soon, or end up spending the rest of eternity as the Incredible Rotting Skin Covered Skeleton Man.

~~~~~~~~~~

Its stomach grumbled hungrily for the umpteenth time that day. Food was becoming hard to find, forcing It to venture further away from the security of its lair than It felt comfortable doing. It hadn’t forgotten the painful lesson It had learnt the last time hunger had driven It to get careless. It would not make that mistake again, but It needed food, or the hunger would turn into a pain far worse than the pain of being hurt. It would be more careful this time, but It would have to hunt. It had learnt that there were things that could hurt It, man things, but that even man had weaknesses, men were in fact easy to kill, as long as It could catch them by surprise.
The concept of patience was as alien to It as feelings of greed or pride, but It lay waiting, patiently, confident in the knowledge that darkness would come soon, and with it, concealment for the hunt.

~~~~~~~~~~

Opening the crates had proven less of a problem than Harry had thought it would be. He had remembered seeing a forklift in one of the isles, which had worked brilliantly as a battering ram, the metal forks ripping effortlessly through the pine planks used as construction material for the crates.
The first crate had revealed an assortment of canned fruit, mostly peaches. Harry had greedily gathered up an armful of the cans, packing them into an empty box he had found in the office. The second crate was filled to the brim with delicacies such as corned beef and canned sausages, sure to bring back memories of long forgotten camping trips. Harry gathered as many of the cans as he could fit into the box, and drove the forklift back to the motor-home.

That night, Harry slept like he had never slept before. The canned food had literally been a life saver, Harry was sure of it. He had not eaten much, only half a can of peaches, out of fear of getting sick from eating too much, but even that had been enough to send a surge of energy through his battered frame. His stomach had screamed for more, but Harry remembered reading stories about famine victims going into feeding frenzies, dying from eating until their stomachs burst. Funny how you can remember crap like that, but you can’t remember where you’re from - the little voice had been surprisingly quiet throughout the meal, but had come back with a vengeance as soon as the sweet syrup from the canned peaches had begun releasing nutrients into Harry’s bloodstream. He had thrown the remaining peaches away. He didn’t want to waste food, but decided that food poisoning was the last thing he needed, and though he wasn’t sure if you could get food poisoning from eating canned fruit, he hadn’t felt it worth the risk.

Curled up in a fetal ball on the caravan’s little bed Harry dreamt. Disjointed strings of information played in Harry’s mind, like a madman’s film montage, created from snippets of thousands of different Hollywood creations, all sticky-taped together in a never ending parade of confusion. Scenes of cars and houses and places and faces all mingled together as Harry’s injured mind tried to bring some order to the chaos. Occasionally the jumbled memories of a forgotten life made way for disturbing flashes of torn flesh and ripping teeth, of claws tearing through tender skin, of blood curdling screams and the heart wrenching realization that Jimmy was in trouble and he was unable to help him.

~~~~~~~~~~

The hunt had been a disappointing one. It had searched around most of the night, finding nothing but some sweet fruit close to the water’s edge. There had been a familiar scent there – The Sick One’s scent – which had driven It mad with hunger for flesh, but It couldn’t find The Sick One, just some things which carried its scent. Not finding The Sick One had enraged It. It had torn the things to shreds, and had left its own scent on them. It knew The Sick One was not far away. It had heard noises earlier in the day, man noises, close to the water. It had gone to the water looking for The Sick One, and had found his things. As soon as darkness came It would hunt again. The Sick One couldn’t hide forever. Men were not good at hiding. It had learnt that. Men are not good at hiding and were neither strong nor fast enough to stop It from killing them. They were easy prey, as long as It was careful. Soon It would find The Sick One, find him and feast.

~~~~~~~~~~

Harry awoke feeling rested, yet apprehensive, he had the distinct feeling that all was not well. He vaguely remembered dreaming about The Thing, but couldn’t remember what it had been about. Blood and guts, buddy. With that thing it’s always about blood and guts.
For breakfast he had a can of corned beef, followed by a can of the magic peaches which had made such a remarkable difference the previous evening. When he had finished with the peaches, he greedily drank the sweet syrup they came in, scraping the bottom of the can to get every last drop out.
He was still busy attacking the empty can with his teaspoon when his mind suddenly exploded with color and sound. For one heart stopping moment he thought he was having a stroke, but as the colors and sounds started flowing together, forming shapes, taking on familiar forms and turning into long forgotten background noises of happier times, he realized a stroke would have been a blessing.
He remembered Jimmy. He watched as old home movies of barbeques and family outings turned into police footage of death and mayhem. He watched himself, sick, dying, reaching out for Jimmy. Jimmy’s eyes grey and lifeless, his face forever twisted in a painful scream, covered partly by a set of bloody claws. He realized Jimmy’s chest was still heaving, but a momentary flash of hope was shattered by the realization that the movement was caused by The Thing, feeding on the soft flesh in Jimmy’s side. Its eyes flashed like golden dollars in the twilight of the old warehouse, as it tore a strip of sinewy meat from Jimmy’s back.
Harry watched in horror as The Thing licked its lips, blood soaked from sticking its muzzle into the gaping hole in Jimmy’s side, and made its way over to where he lay. He rolled over onto his back, pushing against the cold concrete floor, trying to get away from the approaching beast, but it effortlessly caught up with him even though it seemed to be sporting a limp.
It stood over him, sniffing him, seemingly considering whether to end Harry’s misery, or to let the illness do it for him. Harry remembered the pungent breaths, washing over him in warm waves. He felt a terrible weight on his scrawny chest and looked up to find one of the gigantic claws pressing down on his fragile frame. He sensed more than saw movement, and turned to find the open jaws reaching for his jugular. He watched in horror as the teeth studded nightmare moved to rip out his throat.

~~~~~~~~~~

Harry awoke some time later. Apparently, like before when faced with certain death, he had fainted. Tears welled in his eyes at the thought of Jimmy’s pain distorted face, and his whole being filled with a hatred he would’ve thought impossible before.

“I’m going to kill you, you son of a whore. I am going to rip your head of and take a shit in your throat.”

He sat in the growing darkness, whispering promises of painful death to his new found nemesis, tears flowing freely for Jimmy, warm hatred radiating from the pit of his stomach, fuelling his need for vengeance. When the tears finally dried up, leaving only the smoldering hatred, he plotted, rejecting plan after plan, until finally he came up with an idea, so perfect in its simplicity and brutality that the very thought of it excited him.

~~~~~~~~~~

It hadn’t hunted for several days. Two days after finding the sweet fruit and The Sick One’s things, It had come upon an easy meal. Man animals, It had found, were almost as easy to kill as men. The huge animal had simply wandered right past Its lair, uneasy at the unfamiliar scent, but too stupid to realize the danger. It had been an easy kill, with lots of meat. It had had its fill that first night, had eaten till its stomach hurt, and had returned to the carcass to feed every night for a week. It had slowly but surely cleaned the carcass until little more than bones had remained.
It had almost been like being back at the man-cave – there its belly had always been full too. The meat they had fed It had been cold, dead a long time, and it had been torn into small pieces, almost small enough for It to swallow whole. It had hated being fed the cold dead meat while It could smell the tantalizing scent of prey on every movement of the wind. Being trapped in that man-cave had been torture, instinct screaming for It to hunt, to kill, to feast, and not being able to, but at least Its stomach had always been full. Hunger had been an alien concept, until the men stopped coming, stopped bringing It food, then It had learned what real torture was like. It had sat in the man-cave, surrounded by the glorious smell of food, starving. After the first two weeks It had started eating leaves from plants in its cave while its belly growled for meat. By then It could smell death all around It. Its mouth had watered at the buffet of aromas which seemed to fill its cave. Hunger had driven It insane. It had clawed and scratched and bitten and chewed at the barriers of Its man-cave, breaking its teeth, hurting its paws, maddened by the pain in its belly.
It had been during this time of madness that It had killed its first man. It had awoken one day, the sun already low in the sky, to find the cave open. There had been a man there, a sick man judging from the scent. It had followed that scent and had killed that sick man. He had been weak and had not fought much, which was probably a good thing, seeing that It too had been weak and most likely would not have been able to fight or chase the man. The man’s meat had been sweet and warm and wet, waking in It a hunger like it had never felt before. It had left that place of death and had roamed through the surrounding area, afraid at first, unable to hide due to the lack of plants, but soon becoming bold in the realization that there was nothing to challenge It.
It had found a lair and had hunted. It had ignored the scent of animals, seeking out men, killing and feasting on its former masters, regaining the strength It had lost. Soon however It had been forced to move further and further away from its lair to find food. It became increasingly more difficult to find prey. There was death all around, meat for the taking, rotting in the sun, but It had been wary of feeding on this meat, smelling a foulness on It which was out of place. It was like the sickness It had smelled on the ones It had killed had driven itself into the very bones of the men whose corpses were strewn about the strange stone jungle. After a while, the stench of death had become so strong, that It had moved out of its lair, away from the smell. It had found another lair, close to the great water, where it had first encountered The Sick One and its companion…