30 Hours to Nowhere: a collection of short stories

"Abigail Lewis"

The void-like sludge had started in the well beneath the oldest two-story house on Great Hickory street. It traveled swiftly through the pipes that drew the water into the home and found itself draining from the leaky faucet into the bathroom sink.

I'll tell you now that Abigail Lewis didn't stand a chance. It came in as she slept and it consumed and grew until it blocked the front and back exits.

The odor of it invaded her dreams and coated her tongue as she went to breath and she awoke with a gasp. The air was thick with it and it hung heavily in her lungs.

She coughed and covered her mouth and nose with her shirt, but even then, the smell crept through the pores of the fabric and pervaded her nostrils again.

Abigail gave up, rising from her bed and opting to find the source.

But it was already seeping under the closed bedroom door.

She realized this fact too late and stepped in it, allowing it to taste her flesh. She tried to remove her foot in disgust, but it clung possessively to her sole, refusing to release her with ease. She pulled harder on her leg, hearing a joint or two move with a sickening pop. For a moment, she could feel the sludge releasing her, slowly, filling her with hope, and, with a new energy, tugged her foot free, falling back onto her bed.

Abigail held her legs close to her on her bed, watching the stuff ooze across the carpeted floor.

The door was now out of commission, being guarded by the black soup. The only other option was the window.

She decided quickly, rushing to the window to slide it open. She pushed the mesh screen out, listening to it fall to the garden below.

She had a small fear of heights, however, the primal fear of death was much greater, so she swallowed and climbed through.

Abigail fell from the second story window, but in the moments before her violent collision with the earth, Abigail thought. No one knows what she thought about, that is a private matter, but I can assume that it was what to do when falling from a second story window.

Her thoughts were too late, however, and she landed with a terrible snap in her leg.

She howled in pain and laid there, unmoving and still. Her chest rose and fell in uneven, wild breaths.

The sludge then slid from the ground, emerging from the tilled earth of her garden where she had planted roses.

It crawled towards her as her chest rose and fell in pain. Her tears were sparkling unlike the starless sky above her, her last sight, ingrained in the back of her blurry mind.

Abigail Lewis has joined us now, embodied in the sludge that roams from county to county for a meal. Her body won't be found, but her conscience is not lost, just shared with all the others in the sludge, those who had been consumed too. Like me.

Poor Abigail Lewis stood no chance. None of us did.