Otherwise, this will be a novel, maybe even a series. It was born out of a storybook/RP on a site I'm not sure if I can link to (?). You can thank the creator of the site for letting me host the massive storybook there and all the members who volunteered their characters to be used as guinea pigs (members who I will list in 'The Hall of Fame'). None of their characters are being used as of now (either I haven't asked for permission or I haven't received it), so the characters mentioned are all mine--as of now.
Thirdly, be aware this is a LIVE document and subject to changes.
Lastly, any and all reviews (except flames) would be lovely.
Hall of Fame
Site Admin: Frosty.
Members: "Spotted" (Spottepdath), Moony, Shadowy, Dawnfoot, and Teo. (The best online peeps a person could have.)
You can thank them for the inspiration and all the practice I got from speed writing. *starts to tear up* Gone ruddy soft...
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LUKEWARM
“And GOD said: You are neither hot, nor cold, but lukewarm, so I shall spit you from my mouth.” -Revelations 3:16
CHAPTER ONE
Luke
1965
To say Luke’s current living situation was ‘bad’ would be a lie. The shanty hodgepodge of tents and lean-tos wasn’t much different than the old, windowless farmhouse that had belonged to his father. He missed the protective feeling of the house, but there wasn’t much of a difference. To him, it wasn’t bad. It wasn’t unusual. The only change was that here he was respected and that made all the difference. He just wished, once more, that there would be one distinct change--a lack of biting bugs. But it was North Georgia. What did he honestly expect?
He sighed and swatted at his left arm where a skeeter had been threatening to land. The sun was sinking fast back behind the pine woods to the west, darkening and lengthening the shadows, and the fear was starting to set in once more.
He wasn’t afraid of the dark. No, he was afraid of what came out of it. The half-starved mongrels that had been run off by the fires, the fires that razed innocent Georgian towns to the ground. Blue-coats. His face twisted into a half-hearted sneer. Blue-coats could come out of the woods. Half-starved people could come out of the woods. The blacks could come out of the woods, moving up from the south; vengeful and angry. Not that they had a reason. Nobody here had ever owned a slave, not that he knew of. North Georgians hardly ever owned them. Not that they seemed to care. Having a white face was a death sentence with them, or that’s what Jeb said.
He glanced over at said man and took note of the flies buzzing around him and the half-empty whisky bottle in his hand. He’d even managed to grow a decent beard in the few days they’d been away from the camp. He snorted. He probably shouldn’t be listening to the old drunk, anyway. Full of lies and empty promises.
He almost wanted to whack him over the head with that stupid glass bottle of his. But he couldn’t. Wouldn’t. He wasn’t a killer. They’d made him to be, but he wasn’t one at heart. He’d done it to prove a point and the nosy blue-coat gits had it coming. He winced. He couldn’t even think it. Lies.
Ugh. Old Jeb was rubbing off on him.
“You doing okay, man?”
Luke glanced over at Noah and grinned. “Perfectly fine.”
“You looked like a bear that some idiot decided to poke with a stick.” Noah smiled back at him, anyway, and scratched at his own beard. Luke decided the color of a fox’s tail.
“Hm,” Luke hummed in response. “I just don’t like it getting dark is all.”
“Scared of a swamp-man coming and eating you up?” Noah smirked.
“Nah.” Luke shifted away. He had bigger problems. Lack of a home, for one thing. Noah had himself a fancy sweetheart, a wife and they had two daughters, red-haired, two girls, one six and the other five. He’d told him all about them. Jeb even had his mum and a missus, some probable suffering woman. Luke couldn’t imagine being married to that. Everyone else--Blakeley, Llyod, Rhett--they had plans, too. Of course, he was the only one here that was eighteen--seventeen, honestly, but eighteen according to what he’s said. Maybe that had to do with it. All the other boys were twenty-somethings, except for Jeb. They had their own homes, ruled them. Luke didn’t have that. He’d also decided early on he was never going back to that house of horrors that used to be his home. He about shuddered just thinking on it. He’d much rather face that bobcat him and Noah had chanced on a couple of nights ago than that other ungrateful drunk. Even Jeb, for all his forgetfulness and craziness, never got mean. So Luke had nowhere to go, except to wait until everyone else drifted off and he was left alone--alone and homeless.
He huffed to himself, annoyed with his own lack of forethought, above all else.
“You’re still thinkin’ too much,” Noah said.
“I know.” Luke yawned.
“Go on to bed. My turn to watch, anyway.”
#
In the brutally beautiful light of dawn, Luke was on his back--elbows propped and staring out at the water.
The ocean lapped at the gold sand beach and a seabird sat on a rock, watching with its shoulders all hunched. A few smaller sand-digger sorts raced along on their long legs, leaving minute feet prints which were washed off a second later by the hungry, brown mass of water.
Luke shivered, still a bit unnerved, and sat up.
With the call of some animal far off, Noah plopped down beside Luke, who automatically about jumped out of his skin.
“Oh, calm down,” Noah said, then let out a brief chuckle.
Luke rolled his eyes and brought up his knees. His gray clothing stretched over his skin uncomfortably and he started to feel the heat of the sun for the first time that morning.
“Did you know breakfast was done?”
Luke nodded firmly. “Even knew Rhett cooked it, which means it might be half decent--if I don’t wanna know what it bloody hell is.”
Noah shook his head. “You’re a mouthy kid, ain’t ya?”
Luke shrugged, gaze still on the sunlit water. “We’re going over to that mist heap later, eh?”
Noah sighed. “Yes.”
Luke continued to look out across the channel, at the far off hills. The island looked small. With the mist hanging like a shawl over the place, he couldn’t have said if it was a mile long or ten, though. Having the sun in his eyes didn’t help matters, either.
“I’ll be up in a minute,” he said, eventually.
#
And, after a bit, he did manage to end up on one of the log seats around the bonfire; eating what would appear to be stew of some sort. Not a normal breakfast meal, but he didn’t judge. It tasted good.
While eating, he took the time to look around. He took note of Rhett, a brown-haired fellow of about twenty-five (his calculations--the crow’s feet skewed his findings, though), where he stirred the stew remaining in the pot and Lloyd, who was far-too-relaxed where he sat in the shade of a young cedar. Luke frowned at him. Lloyd practically basked in the cool dark with his overcoat thrown aside, with a calm smile on his face. Then he realized they weren’t fighting anymore, that the war was more or less over--and lost--so he probably could do with some of Lloyd’s laid-back attitude. He then noticed Blakeley, the other blond of the group besides him, and Jeb arguing. They’d grown louder and the noise had caught his attention. Blakeley was standing stock still with a peeved expression on his face, lips pursed and eyes steely, and Jeb danced around in front of him, making wild hand gestures and yelling.
“I’m tellin’ ya, that place is cursed. Do you know what happened to the people who lived there before? Injuns killed ‘em!” Jeb shrieked.
Luke blinked owlishly and did his best impression of a scared dog. If he’d had fur to bristle, he’d be bristling. But he didn’t, so he just hugged his bowl to his stomach and shifted away.
“Don’t mind Jeb. He’s harmless,” Noah said from across the fire.
Luke didn’t find it in himself to respond.
#
“Do you think this place is really cursed, Noah?” Luke whispered.
“Nah,” Noah shot back, tossing his armful of rope to the powder sand beach.
They’d landed on the island, a mere hour ago, and everyone was in full ‘moving-in’ mode. Fighting Jeb to get him to come along had been surprisingly easier than imagined, though. All Blakeley did was put the rum in the first boat and pow--gone as fast as a cannonball, Jeb was. Jeb kept muttering about crazy ‘injuns’ and stuff, but he seemed calmer. Luke shot him a half-eye glance and then walked away to get more stuff from the rickety boat.
“Good,” Luke said. “Jeb sure is worried, though.”
“He’s always worried.” Noah frowned. “He’s bloody paranoid as a father with a daughter when he’s drunk. Ya know that.”
“Uh huh,” Luke said. He glanced around the island--at the dunes, the grape vines, sand blackberry bushes, and dense palmettos, trying to distract himself. “Do you think this place is inhabitable?”
“Inhabit-a-what?”
“Can we live here?”
Noah barked a laugh. “‘Course we can. There’s free food on the bushes, even.” He grinned ferally. “Maybe even enough fruit to make some love-el-ly wine.”
Luke frowned.
“What?”
“N-nothing.”
Noah snorted and went back to work. Luke tried to do the same, but he found his mind drifting. They’d--supposedly--only have to stay here a few weeks, until everything died down and all. But he didn’t have the feeling he’d like it. He eyed the swarm of bugs flying low to the ground a few yards off and he decided that, no, he most certainly would not like it.
Someday, he’d head inland. Far inland. Away from the swamps that haunted most of his more detailed nightmares.
#
The sound of an owl hooting woke him. The sounds that followed kept him up. There was a rustle against the canvass then a low hiss.
His eyes widened as he stared at his own shanty house’s scrap roof and his pulse gained speed.
Probably just a raccoon, he decided. It wasn’t like anything bigger could live on the island, not that he could tell. Of the coast of Georgia and on no map. What were the odds of it being huge?
He shivered, then noticed a sliver of moonlight on his arm. He looked up at the canvass to his right. An inch-long gash hung four feet off the ground.
He felt his limbs go stiff. He licked his lips and looked forward. The flaps into his tiny home flailed in the faint wind, even if the air felt heavy. He slowly moved backwards, getting into a more defensive position, and reached left. His fingers clasped over the old skinning knife he’d kept with him and he waited.
He shouldn’t have.
The first scream told him that much.
The sound was like nothing he’d heard before--high-pitched and so pain-filled it hurt, his ears and chest when his heart lurched. It reminded him of the time the help, a half-black woman his mother had paid spilled hot cooking oil on herself. However, it was worse.
In response, his vision grew sharp and every thread of the canvass seemed to jump at him. He held the knife, tight enough a few knuckles popped in the sudden noise that followed the yell, and he was out of his “house” in a flash. Well, as fast as he could jerk forward and crawl.
#
Outside made little sense. The bonfire, previously damped down with sand until it hissed lowly on a single piece of hardwood, was roaring. It was also not confined to its chosen “pit”. The stones were tossed in all directions and a canvas “house”--Jeb’s--was on fire. His eyes latched on the scorching orange flames, but his brain couldn’t make sense of it. One word stood out, how? Had Jeb gotten drunk on watch? Lit his own place ablaze?
Then he saw the form--so lithe and wiry it couldn’t belong to any male in the place. It moved low, like the person was crouched, or maybe bent over.
Had Jeb been right?
He saw the fat, painted-red lips, the gentle, dimpled chin, and the long, brown hair, tangled and wild as the person moved into the firelight and out of the smoke, the off-red flares turning her flowing white dress into chintz.
Confusion set in. What was a woman doing here? That made less sense than Jeb lighting his belongings on fire.
Then she turned to him and her eyes flashed; one green, the other violet.
Something broke in him and everything went black.
#
Luke had the unfortunate experience many of his old war mates had at one time or another. Waking up and being totally confused. Now that might be okay, but then you tacked on the last part. Waking up, totally confused, to stare into dead eyes.
And that’s what he woke up to. Unseeing, light-less eyes. Blue ones. He jerked away immediately, scrambling back on dead, wet leaves. He almost started hyperventilating. Blakeley.
“Oh no, no, no, no,” he said to himself, as his fingers sunk into moist earth. He felt something sticky, something wrong, and he looked down. The ground was tacky with blood. Old, dark blood. He felt bile rise in his throat and his vision darken at the corners, before he was able to yank his hands away and fall back.
He continued to stare, unable to look away: Bent neck--wrong, wrong, wrong; blood-covered shirt; permanently horrified expression; pants--gone.
Wait, what?
He shook himself, and managed to close his eyes. He then managed to push himself back a few more yards.
Need to see. See what’s going on. The threat could still be--
His eyes snapped open.
He was in a clearing; a treeless ring of ground with just saw grass, most of it oddly stamped down, and large patches of muddy ground, some of it bloody ground. No one but him and Blakeley were about.
He glanced down at his hand. His knife was gone, too.
I didn’t--
The thought was too horrible. He balled it up and tossed it out.
Then he saw a trail of ashes. He scrambled to his feet and followed it, unsure of what else to do. He didn’t see any nice sticks that could be used as clubs and Blakeley had been half dressed. He’d kept his gun in his belt. He hadn’t had on a belt.
He shuddered, a full-body tremble, but he managed to keep going, even if he did stumble over his own feet more than once.
#
He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. This wasn’t it.
The camp was half destroyed by fire, yet his house stood proudly, with only a smattering of black ash to decorate it. Almost the entire right-hand side, however, was obliterated.
That wasn’t the worst. It didn’t come near to it, but thinking of the goods that were left over was better than taking in the fact that he seemed to be the only man standing.
He exhaled, low and long, and accepted.
Jeb was dead. Lloyd was dead. Rhett was nowhere to be seen. Noah was--
He let out a small sob, unable to help himself. Whoever had done this, they hadn’t been neat with it. Blood was everywhere. The smell was horrible.
He choked and his vision blurred. He wouldn’t have been able to defend himself, even if someone had attacked. It was just too horrible.
Then he noticed the knife--sticking plain out of Lloyd. Where, he would not say, but it was his and he realized this was his fault--if not directly. That woman’s fault, maybe, or whoever was to blame; but whoever had taken his knife.
And then, nails were digging into his ankle.
His whole body stiffened in horror and he could only stare at the hilt of his knife for a long moment, before he let his vision trail.
Noah was holding his foot.
“Noah?”
He smiled a bloody smile.
Luke stared. “You’re alive.”
“Yeah,” Noah murmured. “Help?”
Luke dropped to the ground unthinkingly. “Where are you hurt?”
Noah gestured vaguely at his chest. Luke nodded and he carefully started to unbutton the blood-soaked gray overcoat.
“Hurry,” Noah rasped.
Luke bobbed his head and met the wound. A tear, a deep, ragged tear. “Looks like you were bit by a bear that got poked by a stick,” he mumbled.
“Wha’?”
Luke didn’t respond. He just went and tried to find the med supplies Blakeley had forced them to pack, or maybe just some rum and anything to bind up Noah. Noah’d bled, a lot, and had been still bleeding. He needed help, but Luke knew near nothing about playing the doctor.
So pale.
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A/N: So, whoever has read this, I hope you're enjoying my little novel so far. I'll give a big thanks to my current reviewers for helping me figure out the technical stuff and anything else. Thanks, guys.
Also, one and all, thank you for reading.
Most of this review is nitpicks, but pay attention -- a lot of the bits I have pointed out aren't the only mistakes of the same kind in this story. What I mean is try to absorb what I've said about a certain sentence, for example, and adapt that in your writing in general, so you can avoid making the same mistakes over and over again.