This story is pretty dark so I doubt it will be something everyone wants to read. I'm going to post it a chapter at a time.
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Chapter 1 (Part 1)
He’s dead. Dead and buried. I’m having a hard time believing it but I was the one that watched him die and I was the one that buried him so it has to be true. Please God don’t let it be a dream that I’m going to wake up from.
I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to make plans. Where I’m going I haven’t figured out yet. And I’m not sure how I’ll get there either. For sure I’m taking the gold and silver that he had on him. I know that stuff is dirty but at this point does it really matter? In the old days wouldn’t it be considered inheritance or something like that? I know I should care but I’ve got bigger problems. And yeah, I know carrying it around makes me a potential target if someone guesses I’m holding it but again, I’ve got bigger problems. I’m certainly not going to leave it behind for the other monsters to find and just perpetuate their inglorious monsterhood. This monster might not have “earned” it in the traditional way but it was still more his than his so-called partners and their customers. Who knows how they got it, or where it originally came from. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know. And now that he is gone it is more ours than theirs. They owe us almost as much as he does … did … whatever.
I know where he cached other stuff too. He never allowed me to go inside his hidey holes but I’ve been to the different places often enough that I know I can find them on my own. I also know how to disable the kinds of surprises he used so that won’t be a problem. There is stuff in those holes that will help us start over some place. Where I haven’t a clue yet but I’m thinking … and planning. And apparently repeating myself. I’ve got to get better control. Last thing I want is for my twitchiness to make us stand out, get us noticed.
If I can manage it I’m going to take his tools too. I’ll need them anyway for some of my plans. But I’ll put them on a new tool belt first, the one he’d just had me sew. Sewing is one of the few things he wasn’t better at than I was. He wouldn’t let me use the skill my mother and grandmothers had taught me for anyone else but him, but now it might be a way for me to support us without having to find a protector. Doesn’t matter what it is, I can sew it … denim, muslin, cotton, homespun, salvaged clothing, leather, felt, etc. I’ve got the tools. I can create a pattern if I need one. All I need is the material.
This world isn’t the one that my parents expected me to grow up in. They didn’t teach me the survival skills I would need to have to avoid the worst of it. I don’t blame them. Not even for a second do I blame them. But sometimes it hurts. Sometimes I wonder why me. Sometimes I have so much hate inside me that I’m literally sick from it. But I don’t hate my family. Mostly I hate him, only that’s wasted energy now that he is dead. That leaves other people to hate. Most of them are worth hating that’s for sure. I don’t blame my family for what happened, but I do blame other people for not helping me when they saw and knew. Oh yes, most of them that I saw did know, even when they wouldn’t admit it.
The sad thing is to survive I can’t run away from people. There are things that we’ll need I can’t make for myself. That leaves salvaging and trading. From the stories I heard his customers tell him salvaging isn’t what it was in the beginning. Most of the good stuff is used up, gone, or gone over. The good stuff that isn’t gone is located in territories belonging to Salvagers who protect what is “theirs” with fierce intention, or so I heard, and some I witnessed. They are so vicious that what little “authority” is out there leaves them strictly alone. I don’t plan on dealing with salvagers, but I’ll likely have to deal with the middlemen who do. That is going to be dangerous enough.
But before I run into other people I’m going to need to change … my looks, my clothes, the packs, all of it. The way I look now and how I’m dressed will get recognized. He always demanded I dress his way even though I hated it. It was his way of controlling me, controlling us. When others were around, or I was working the crowd for him, I was in short buckskins designed to entice the customers to his booth. When we were further up the mountain with no one around and he was in the mood to humiliate me, I was dressed like a baby doll. He was a sick monster. But he isn’t around to control me anymore, now I’m just going to have to be careful of everyone else.
He had too many customers of one kind or another in this area; there’s a risk that they’ll recognize us and want to know where he is. Besides I hate it here, hate all the people around here. So many did business with him and not one of them helped us. They needed him and didn’t want to rock the boat, didn’t want to take the chance that they would offend him and him refuse to trade. He was a monster, a sleaze, he grew as crazy as a rabid bear and acted accordingly … but he was still good at what he did, better than good. And a lot of the time, unless they got too close, he could hide the worst of himself and they’d ignore the rest that gave them that prickly, uncomfortable feeling. Until he got too crazy. Then word started leaking out. Gossip. So much smoke they knew there had to be fire. The truly decent people stopped coming around as much, some of them never again; but some were so desperate that they’d overlook his … compulsions and corruptions.
They are one of the reasons that we were still captive after so long but he was the reason I was captive and alone in the first place. He is the one that made sure I was all alone. Right before The Chaos some kid had finally gotten someone to listen and revealed what he was. Daddy was the one that arrested him. He blamed Daddy for the beat downs he got handed while in prison even though it was his own actions that had created the consequences. Daddy was the protector. But he’s gone now. All of the real protectors are gone now. The few that remain, hiding what they were supposed to be back then, are too busy trying to stay alive and protect their own. Or they’re too busy getting paid to protect the few people that can afford to hire them. Not enough protectors. Too many monsters. And the rest of us have to become monsters in training just to survive.
I think I hate people. I’m saying that a lot but it is true. People certainly never helped me. Even when they knew my situation they turned a blind eye, turned away so they wouldn’t have to see my pain, my humiliation and fear, my life … our pain and fear, our life. People aren’t how I got free. God might have been the one that rescued me. Or one of His angels did it. Or maybe my rescue was nothing more than the byproduct of the Devil calling one of his own home to hell. I’m not sure. I’m not sure of much right now. Except I am sure that we can’t stay here. I keep repeating that too but only because it is true. They’ll be coming back soon because he owes them product they’ve already paid “good money” for. Real money, not the paper crap that passes for money in the different Emergency Districts. That stuff is used in towns but out here in the boonies people will only take real stuff … blanks, bullets, and barter. When his customers don’t get their order they’ll take us as repayment. No way. He was bad but some of them are worse. A lot worse.
Sam was his name, or what he told me to call him … Master Sam. I was the only one to call him that … or the only one that I know that called him that. Everyone else, including his occasional partners and customers, just called him The Fixer. He was a shade tree mechanic with the expertise of a brilliant artist. He never met anything broken that he couldn’t fix if he had the resources and parts … and even when he didn’t he could figure out a work around or build something completely new to do the same job. He dabbled in electronics and programming but he preferred moving parts … even if they were micro-sized moving parts. He built a few robotic apparatus and drones but those were very high-end items sought by powerful people. He avoided advertising that particular skill because even sleazy monsters like Sam needed the cops to keep the bigger monsters in check … no cops, no checks on the big monsters. Big monsters aren’t very discriminate; they eat little monsters just as often as they eat the innocent, and care just as little about which their meal is made of.
Sam – I refuse to call him Master anymore – wasn’t just a mechanic. He was also a chemist, a pharmacist … almost an alchemist. Tell him what you needed and if he could get the raw materials he’d eventually give you what you wanted. And if in the mood, or just to prove he could, he’d give you more than you expected. He knew what would make someone well, even from their deathbed … and he could also brew a poison that was deadly and undetectable that would send you to your deathbed. He knew how to maximize both pain and pleasure and he enjoyed both with an oversized appetite.
People came to him for his knowledge of the local flora and fauna as much as they came to him for anything else. He could have done so much to help people. He was a freaking genius. He may have been a monster – a Victor Frankenstein, Josef Mengele, and Westley Allen Dodd all rolled into one – but his genius was undeniable no matter how perversely you wished it was otherwise. At least until the end when his crazy started eclipsing everything else.
As good as he was, as smart as he was, in the end none of that saved him. It is actually what wound up killing him. An explosion in his lab. He claimed it was because someone messed with his stuff but I don’t think that is what happened. I think his crazy made him careless and in turn killed him, even if it was the long way around. But I had no way of knowing that would happen. Since the beginning my days have been filled with little more than trying to survive and that’s all I thought about. Well, that and my father’s last words to me.
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Chapter 1 (Part 1)
He’s dead. Dead and buried. I’m having a hard time believing it but I was the one that watched him die and I was the one that buried him so it has to be true. Please God don’t let it be a dream that I’m going to wake up from.
I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to make plans. Where I’m going I haven’t figured out yet. And I’m not sure how I’ll get there either. For sure I’m taking the gold and silver that he had on him. I know that stuff is dirty but at this point does it really matter? In the old days wouldn’t it be considered inheritance or something like that? I know I should care but I’ve got bigger problems. And yeah, I know carrying it around makes me a potential target if someone guesses I’m holding it but again, I’ve got bigger problems. I’m certainly not going to leave it behind for the other monsters to find and just perpetuate their inglorious monsterhood. This monster might not have “earned” it in the traditional way but it was still more his than his so-called partners and their customers. Who knows how they got it, or where it originally came from. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know. And now that he is gone it is more ours than theirs. They owe us almost as much as he does … did … whatever.
I know where he cached other stuff too. He never allowed me to go inside his hidey holes but I’ve been to the different places often enough that I know I can find them on my own. I also know how to disable the kinds of surprises he used so that won’t be a problem. There is stuff in those holes that will help us start over some place. Where I haven’t a clue yet but I’m thinking … and planning. And apparently repeating myself. I’ve got to get better control. Last thing I want is for my twitchiness to make us stand out, get us noticed.
If I can manage it I’m going to take his tools too. I’ll need them anyway for some of my plans. But I’ll put them on a new tool belt first, the one he’d just had me sew. Sewing is one of the few things he wasn’t better at than I was. He wouldn’t let me use the skill my mother and grandmothers had taught me for anyone else but him, but now it might be a way for me to support us without having to find a protector. Doesn’t matter what it is, I can sew it … denim, muslin, cotton, homespun, salvaged clothing, leather, felt, etc. I’ve got the tools. I can create a pattern if I need one. All I need is the material.
This world isn’t the one that my parents expected me to grow up in. They didn’t teach me the survival skills I would need to have to avoid the worst of it. I don’t blame them. Not even for a second do I blame them. But sometimes it hurts. Sometimes I wonder why me. Sometimes I have so much hate inside me that I’m literally sick from it. But I don’t hate my family. Mostly I hate him, only that’s wasted energy now that he is dead. That leaves other people to hate. Most of them are worth hating that’s for sure. I don’t blame my family for what happened, but I do blame other people for not helping me when they saw and knew. Oh yes, most of them that I saw did know, even when they wouldn’t admit it.
The sad thing is to survive I can’t run away from people. There are things that we’ll need I can’t make for myself. That leaves salvaging and trading. From the stories I heard his customers tell him salvaging isn’t what it was in the beginning. Most of the good stuff is used up, gone, or gone over. The good stuff that isn’t gone is located in territories belonging to Salvagers who protect what is “theirs” with fierce intention, or so I heard, and some I witnessed. They are so vicious that what little “authority” is out there leaves them strictly alone. I don’t plan on dealing with salvagers, but I’ll likely have to deal with the middlemen who do. That is going to be dangerous enough.
But before I run into other people I’m going to need to change … my looks, my clothes, the packs, all of it. The way I look now and how I’m dressed will get recognized. He always demanded I dress his way even though I hated it. It was his way of controlling me, controlling us. When others were around, or I was working the crowd for him, I was in short buckskins designed to entice the customers to his booth. When we were further up the mountain with no one around and he was in the mood to humiliate me, I was dressed like a baby doll. He was a sick monster. But he isn’t around to control me anymore, now I’m just going to have to be careful of everyone else.
He had too many customers of one kind or another in this area; there’s a risk that they’ll recognize us and want to know where he is. Besides I hate it here, hate all the people around here. So many did business with him and not one of them helped us. They needed him and didn’t want to rock the boat, didn’t want to take the chance that they would offend him and him refuse to trade. He was a monster, a sleaze, he grew as crazy as a rabid bear and acted accordingly … but he was still good at what he did, better than good. And a lot of the time, unless they got too close, he could hide the worst of himself and they’d ignore the rest that gave them that prickly, uncomfortable feeling. Until he got too crazy. Then word started leaking out. Gossip. So much smoke they knew there had to be fire. The truly decent people stopped coming around as much, some of them never again; but some were so desperate that they’d overlook his … compulsions and corruptions.
They are one of the reasons that we were still captive after so long but he was the reason I was captive and alone in the first place. He is the one that made sure I was all alone. Right before The Chaos some kid had finally gotten someone to listen and revealed what he was. Daddy was the one that arrested him. He blamed Daddy for the beat downs he got handed while in prison even though it was his own actions that had created the consequences. Daddy was the protector. But he’s gone now. All of the real protectors are gone now. The few that remain, hiding what they were supposed to be back then, are too busy trying to stay alive and protect their own. Or they’re too busy getting paid to protect the few people that can afford to hire them. Not enough protectors. Too many monsters. And the rest of us have to become monsters in training just to survive.
I think I hate people. I’m saying that a lot but it is true. People certainly never helped me. Even when they knew my situation they turned a blind eye, turned away so they wouldn’t have to see my pain, my humiliation and fear, my life … our pain and fear, our life. People aren’t how I got free. God might have been the one that rescued me. Or one of His angels did it. Or maybe my rescue was nothing more than the byproduct of the Devil calling one of his own home to hell. I’m not sure. I’m not sure of much right now. Except I am sure that we can’t stay here. I keep repeating that too but only because it is true. They’ll be coming back soon because he owes them product they’ve already paid “good money” for. Real money, not the paper crap that passes for money in the different Emergency Districts. That stuff is used in towns but out here in the boonies people will only take real stuff … blanks, bullets, and barter. When his customers don’t get their order they’ll take us as repayment. No way. He was bad but some of them are worse. A lot worse.
Sam was his name, or what he told me to call him … Master Sam. I was the only one to call him that … or the only one that I know that called him that. Everyone else, including his occasional partners and customers, just called him The Fixer. He was a shade tree mechanic with the expertise of a brilliant artist. He never met anything broken that he couldn’t fix if he had the resources and parts … and even when he didn’t he could figure out a work around or build something completely new to do the same job. He dabbled in electronics and programming but he preferred moving parts … even if they were micro-sized moving parts. He built a few robotic apparatus and drones but those were very high-end items sought by powerful people. He avoided advertising that particular skill because even sleazy monsters like Sam needed the cops to keep the bigger monsters in check … no cops, no checks on the big monsters. Big monsters aren’t very discriminate; they eat little monsters just as often as they eat the innocent, and care just as little about which their meal is made of.
Sam – I refuse to call him Master anymore – wasn’t just a mechanic. He was also a chemist, a pharmacist … almost an alchemist. Tell him what you needed and if he could get the raw materials he’d eventually give you what you wanted. And if in the mood, or just to prove he could, he’d give you more than you expected. He knew what would make someone well, even from their deathbed … and he could also brew a poison that was deadly and undetectable that would send you to your deathbed. He knew how to maximize both pain and pleasure and he enjoyed both with an oversized appetite.
People came to him for his knowledge of the local flora and fauna as much as they came to him for anything else. He could have done so much to help people. He was a freaking genius. He may have been a monster – a Victor Frankenstein, Josef Mengele, and Westley Allen Dodd all rolled into one – but his genius was undeniable no matter how perversely you wished it was otherwise. At least until the end when his crazy started eclipsing everything else.
As good as he was, as smart as he was, in the end none of that saved him. It is actually what wound up killing him. An explosion in his lab. He claimed it was because someone messed with his stuff but I don’t think that is what happened. I think his crazy made him careless and in turn killed him, even if it was the long way around. But I had no way of knowing that would happen. Since the beginning my days have been filled with little more than trying to survive and that’s all I thought about. Well, that and my father’s last words to me.