The Long Dark by B.J. Farmer (reading women .TXT) 📕

raised my dim light above my head, trying to get a better look at my surroundings. More bodies at the stairs. Those I had to physically move out of the way. One of the bodies I moved looked normal. Normal enough to carry a pistol. I shouldered my rifle for it. It’d be easier to try to shoot it than the unwieldy rifle in the close quarters I found myself in. I hoped I wouldn’t need it. I shined my light on it, trying to see if the safety was on. It wasn’t.

Speaking of close quarters, the stairs were oddly narrow. Two broad-shouldered people could not walk shoulder to shoulder up them. As I looked at the dead on the ground, I couldn’t help but wonder if that was the purpose of the stairs. Whether it was intended or not, it worked like a charm.

I noticed something off to the side of the stairs. A sizeable bent metal door. Shining my light towards the top of the stairs, I could see that there was no door, and half the wall was missing, as well. Someone blew the hell out of it. My light’s dimming illumination caused me to end my sightseeing.

Something was off about the second floor. It felt warm, or at least warmer. I slapped my lamp. Why not, It worked for Avery. I figured I’d try it. It came back on for a second but then petered out again. I froze in place. The room was pitch dark. I hoped the staircase was on the opposite end of the rectangular building. That at least gave me a direction to travel in. I thought about leaving, but the unknown was as intoxicating as the fear I was feeling. I had come that far.

I fumbled across the room. A small amount of light I first thought was from the moon provided just enough light I could see the silhouettes of desks and other office furniture scattered across the long open room. But there was no moon that night. I wasn’t even sure if it was night time. I mean, it was dark twenty-four hours a day, so to me, it was always nighttime.

“Holy shit,” I muttered. Jagged light met me at the top of the steps. Heat too. A large part of the wall had been blown out, and the only thing remaining was the door and some charred 2”x 4”s. A large section of thick, like 5/8-thick, drywall was blown out, and it had settled in charred tatters on the bodies littering the stairwell.

I aimed my pistol at the opening and called out, “Anyone up there?”

I watched as the pistol danced in my outstretched arm as I waited for a response. With everything that had happened, I had almost forgotten I was an addict. My hands never let me down. I slowly walked up the stairs. It seemed clear.

The first door I opened was just bare office space. The second door, however, opened into a scene from hell. Two people sat at a conference table. One was a woman. The other, I had to study a moment before determining it a man. After walking around the room, I also saw something wrapped in a blanket on the floor. I walked over to it. I had unwrapped a corner of it when I saw small blue fingers. I recoiled.

Goddamn it.

Chapter 6

It was mine and Avery’s last summer as high school students. We were enjoying it as much as two nerds like us enjoyed summers. While other kids went to the beach, socialized, and dated, we sat at home playing Mario on the Nintendo 64.

Avery’s sister turned sixteen earlier that same year. I remember the night. I was at Avery’s when the call came. In all the time I spent with Avery’s family, I never remember Avery’s dad losing his temper once. That night he screamed and threw the phone against the wall. Freaking out about what his dad had said and done, Avery and I quickly made our way to the living room just in time to see his dad fall to the floor. We soon learned the phone call had been from the hospital. Avery’s sister had been in an accident.

Her accident had caused Avery’s dad to have a heart attack. His dad would initially recover, but his sister died on the operating table after surgeons were unable to repair the massive amount of internal injuries. The day I went with Avery and his mom to pick up his dad from the hospital was not a happy one. His dad, although recovered enough to come home, had lost feeling in both his left leg and left arm. He had also had a stroke during his time in the hospital. His dad died two weeks before school started.

The happy home was turned into something of a hull of its former self. His mom tried to hold things together, but she took to drinking and taking prescription drugs for most of his senior year. Avery began spending a lot more time with me at Palm Villa, which only added to his behavioral and emotional issues. My home wasn’t the most nurturing of safe places.

I awoke one night by the sound of someone talking. Avery was having a very frank conversation with someone in the bedroom: himself. I listened for a few moments, trying to understand what was being said. I couldn’t make out most of it, but he seemed to be having a conversation with his dad. Once he realized I was awake, he switched to snapping his fingers.

Avery’s ticks increased during that period. He always had milestones he had to reach – like having to snap his fingers x amount of times before he could leave his bedroom. The amount grew substantially after his dad and sister passed. He would wake up a couple hours before school just to get in the extra repetitions. They seemed to have a calming effect on him. I never said anything. It