Bat Country
chapter 1.
"Goooood morning, Nevada! It's gonna be another hot one today, with temperatures soaring into the mid to upper --"
A single shot was fired from the revolver in Matt's hand, the bullet lodging itself into the alarm clock radio on the nightstand. Matt had been awake for hours now, sitting perched in the small recliner in the corner of the dusty motel room he called home. The man stared blankly ahead as his mind formed a whirlwind of ideas surrounding how the day would turn out. There was a gaping hole in the wall, allowing a hot breeze to flow through the room, picking up small, light pieces of debris as it blew.
Matt knew he had wasted the first and last of his bullets on an inanimate object, but he couldn't really care less. Nothing there was permanent, anyway. He tossed the revolver aside like a rag doll, pushing himself up from the chair and onto his feet. He was a bit unsteady, but his balance was soon regained. He casted a wary glance around the room, spotting what appeared to be a newspaper lying near the door. He shuffled his way through the sand and debris, bending down and grasping the paper firmly, bringing it up to eye level.
He read the same words he had been reading for the past few -- days? weeks? months? He had no idea how long it had been since he'd been trapped in this place. He shook the thought from his head, turning his attention back to the paper, the date printed at the top catching his attention. July 16, 2006.
That had been the last day he had seen his friends. It seemed as though it had been years ago. Matt closed his eyes and tossed the paper away, painful memories trying to find their way into his head. He turned on his heel, finding a small closet on the other side of the room. He approached the closet doors and pushed them open, a cloud of dust erupting in his face. He turned away, coughing up what sand had made it's way into his lungs. Once the dust settled, he crouched down, picking up a torn black t-shirt and a pair of ripped up jeans, both of them looking to be just about his size. What he didn't anticipate to find was a rotting skull beneath the articles of clothing. He scampered backward, tossing the shirt and jeans aside, his face twisting in horror.
"Fuck," he cursed himself. He should've known he'd find something like that eventually. That's how his mornings had almost always started since he'd been there. He felt his throat and stomach contract, but nothing came up. He needed to vomit after seeing that, but he hadn't eaten in god knows how long, so he dry heaved. He turned over, pulling himself up onto his hands and knees, and he sat there. He attempted to regain his composure, taking in a few deep breaths and slowly letting them out. Once his mind settled, Matt raised himself back to his feet, taking the shirt and jeans back into his hand.
He crossed the room and stopped at the edge of the bed, throwing the clothing on top of the mattress. The shirt had a few tears across the front of it, as though a monster of some sort had ripped it's claws through the fabric. It looked as though the shirt was made of some kind of flimsy material, so it wouldn't take much to rip it. But, since he had no idea what was waiting for him beyond that door, Matt figured a ripped shirt was better than no shirt. He grabbed the shirt by its hem and tugged it down over his bare, sweat-soaked torso, the fabric clinging to his body tightly.
The bathroom was his next stop. He carefully let the door swing open and slid a hand inside, feeling his way along the wall until he found the light switch and flipped it on. The lights eventually flickered on, giving the room an eerie, almost hospital-like vibe. Everything was white; the walls, the ceiling, the toilet, the shower curtain. It was creepy as hell, but Matt did his best to ignore it as he stepped inside. Broken glass from what appeared to be the mirror was scattered about the floor, and it cracked under Matt's heavy combat boots.
He stepped in front of the sink, turning the handle. The faucet sputtered, water tainted with rust and dirt leaking from it. Matt's face scrunched up in disgust and he turned the handle back off. He raised his eyes to the broken mirror, carefully lifting his hand to brush some dust from his reflection. He jumped back as another piece of glass fell to the floor.
"You'll never get out of here, Shads."
Matt jumped once again, startled at the sudden voice that filled his head. He looked around the bathroom, finding it to be empty aside from himself. He took a careful step toward the door and glanced outside. Nothing.
"Psst. Over here, dumbass."
No fuckin' way, Matt thought to himself, slowly spinning on his heel to look at the mirror.
There he saw his reflection staring back at him, eyes glowing red and a dangerously mischievous smirk on it's face.
"Hello, handsome."
A single shot was fired from the revolver in Matt's hand, the bullet lodging itself into the alarm clock radio on the nightstand. Matt had been awake for hours now, sitting perched in the small recliner in the corner of the dusty motel room he called home. The man stared blankly ahead as his mind formed a whirlwind of ideas surrounding how the day would turn out. There was a gaping hole in the wall, allowing a hot breeze to flow through the room, picking up small, light pieces of debris as it blew.
Matt knew he had wasted the first and last of his bullets on an inanimate object, but he couldn't really care less. Nothing there was permanent, anyway. He tossed the revolver aside like a rag doll, pushing himself up from the chair and onto his feet. He was a bit unsteady, but his balance was soon regained. He casted a wary glance around the room, spotting what appeared to be a newspaper lying near the door. He shuffled his way through the sand and debris, bending down and grasping the paper firmly, bringing it up to eye level.
He read the same words he had been reading for the past few -- days? weeks? months? He had no idea how long it had been since he'd been trapped in this place. He shook the thought from his head, turning his attention back to the paper, the date printed at the top catching his attention. July 16, 2006.
That had been the last day he had seen his friends. It seemed as though it had been years ago. Matt closed his eyes and tossed the paper away, painful memories trying to find their way into his head. He turned on his heel, finding a small closet on the other side of the room. He approached the closet doors and pushed them open, a cloud of dust erupting in his face. He turned away, coughing up what sand had made it's way into his lungs. Once the dust settled, he crouched down, picking up a torn black t-shirt and a pair of ripped up jeans, both of them looking to be just about his size. What he didn't anticipate to find was a rotting skull beneath the articles of clothing. He scampered backward, tossing the shirt and jeans aside, his face twisting in horror.
"Fuck," he cursed himself. He should've known he'd find something like that eventually. That's how his mornings had almost always started since he'd been there. He felt his throat and stomach contract, but nothing came up. He needed to vomit after seeing that, but he hadn't eaten in god knows how long, so he dry heaved. He turned over, pulling himself up onto his hands and knees, and he sat there. He attempted to regain his composure, taking in a few deep breaths and slowly letting them out. Once his mind settled, Matt raised himself back to his feet, taking the shirt and jeans back into his hand.
He crossed the room and stopped at the edge of the bed, throwing the clothing on top of the mattress. The shirt had a few tears across the front of it, as though a monster of some sort had ripped it's claws through the fabric. It looked as though the shirt was made of some kind of flimsy material, so it wouldn't take much to rip it. But, since he had no idea what was waiting for him beyond that door, Matt figured a ripped shirt was better than no shirt. He grabbed the shirt by its hem and tugged it down over his bare, sweat-soaked torso, the fabric clinging to his body tightly.
The bathroom was his next stop. He carefully let the door swing open and slid a hand inside, feeling his way along the wall until he found the light switch and flipped it on. The lights eventually flickered on, giving the room an eerie, almost hospital-like vibe. Everything was white; the walls, the ceiling, the toilet, the shower curtain. It was creepy as hell, but Matt did his best to ignore it as he stepped inside. Broken glass from what appeared to be the mirror was scattered about the floor, and it cracked under Matt's heavy combat boots.
He stepped in front of the sink, turning the handle. The faucet sputtered, water tainted with rust and dirt leaking from it. Matt's face scrunched up in disgust and he turned the handle back off. He raised his eyes to the broken mirror, carefully lifting his hand to brush some dust from his reflection. He jumped back as another piece of glass fell to the floor.
"You'll never get out of here, Shads."
Matt jumped once again, startled at the sudden voice that filled his head. He looked around the bathroom, finding it to be empty aside from himself. He took a careful step toward the door and glanced outside. Nothing.
"Psst. Over here, dumbass."
No fuckin' way, Matt thought to himself, slowly spinning on his heel to look at the mirror.
There he saw his reflection staring back at him, eyes glowing red and a dangerously mischievous smirk on it's face.
"Hello, handsome."
Notes
comments and such would be greatly appreciated.
7/20/13