Microwave ovens and presets on microwave ovens

Microwave ovens and presets on microwave ovens:

I like microwave ovens. They have made our lives better, I truly believe that. How else can you get a hot cup of coffee from yesterdays leftover coffee in just about 120 seconds? Not that I do that.. I mean drink yesterdays left over coffee… Okay… I do.

Here’s the thing though, it’s coffee! That’s my only argument. It should be enough though. I mean it’s like sacred, isn’t it? If I were living in a cave and discovered the coffee bean and bought it to my fellow cave dwellers they would probably build a shrine for me and worship me… Paint pictures of Coffee beans on the cave walls instead of hands, horses and signs for water. History would have been changed! Well, would have been changed had that happened.

So, no. I won’t throw out coffee. I guess that is a shocking admission, but it’s true.

Once, I can’t remember the movie, some western, the character threw the dregs of the coffee in his cup on the fire. The other guys around the fire looked at him like he was crazy… Crazy! And he must have been. I was just a kid at the time and I thought he was crazy! After that the other cowboys ostracized him. And he wasn’t asked along for the next roundup. That’s how serious a thing coffee was for cowboys back in the day. So I don’t throw away coffee. Which brings me back to microwaves. Don’t you wish your mind worked the way mine does? See how I came right back to where I wanted to be? Okay, I don’t even know how my mind works, I just thank God that it does. So Microwaves…

I like the idea of a Microwave, but I do have some issues with them. First, you can not make popcorn consistently. In fact I went to make popcorn the other day and the bag said “Do not use the Popcorn Setting on your Microwave.” Huh. Then why have the setting there? Isn’t that the whole idea? Ease of use? Push one button? Well we’ll get to that in a minuet. The bag went on to give precise microwave instructions. If you have this many “Watts” use this amount of time. This many, that amount of time. I had a headache when I finished reading it. Finally I put the popcorn back into the cupboard and got some chips instead. I sank into a deep depression over the whole technology thing. How can you eat microwavable popcorn if the button settings are wrong and you have to spend three hours figuring out wattage? You can’t just get out a pan and some butter, tear open the bag and do it that way, can you?

Well, as I sat eating my chips that I didn’t want I thought about that. There are a lot of buttons on a microwave. For instance, there is a beverage button on mine. It doesn’t work for beverages though. It leaves them too cold or too hot. But what if you accidentally pushed the popcorn button? And what if you then found out the popcorn button worked for beverages? Wouldn’t that be great? Well it does. I tried. But the beverage button will not work for Popcorn. What a mess that was. But in the end, I did go back out there, rip a popcorn bag open, and put it in a pan with some butter. Guess what? That did work.

As for the coffee on the popcorn setting it did come out pretty good, but I have an aversion to using a button marked Popcorn for coffee. But I wonder. If the popcorn companies don’t want you to use it, why do the microwave companies still make a popcorn button? Hmm. And if the beverage button doesn’t work for beverages, what the hell good is it anyway? And if coffee is the most nuked beverage, why not a Coffee button? And, stay with me here, if the Popcorn button isn’t used anyway, why not re-label it Coffee? Then I wouldn’t have to feel so bad about using the popcorn button for my coffee. Hey, I’m going to get one of those little label makers and make a coffee sticker and put it right over the Popcorn label. That will solve my problems for now. Feel free to just copy my idea and paste it on your own Microwave! No need to say thanks.

That only leaves the power button on mine. But that is kind of cool. You can press it, set the time amount, and watch the little turntable go around and around….


Hey take a look at Zero Zero. Zero Zero is the first novel length story I wrote. I began this book at 16 and did not finish it until I was in my fifties. I had an idea that writers were magicians, and I just didn’t know how to do the magic. I learned that it doesn’t matter whether the writer thinks it is magic as long as it takes the reader away from life and life’s worries for a while. I realized that in my thirties, but by then the book was lost to time. I happened to get it back because someone had saved a manuscript copy all those years before and so when I mentioned it my mention of it jogged their memory and they went looking; found it, and presented it to me along with other novels and short stories I had forgotten about.


ZERO ZERO

By DELL SWEET

Published With Amazon Digital

Copyright 2014 Dell Sweet

Copyright 1976, 1983, 1987, 2009, 2014 independAntwriters Publishing & Dell Sweet. Copyright renewed 2015, Dell Sweet. All rights reserved

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your bookseller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Much Thanks to: M. Laughlin, C. Maxon, G. Dell, C.J.


Peters had gotten up from the kitchen table as he spoke, apparently, Frank thought, to get the shotgun, and Frank followed him into the living room as he finished speaking.

He supposed a shotgun, even an old one, was better than no weapon at all. He nodded in approval, and then wandered back out to the kitchen to grab himself another beer, as Peters shuffled off towards his bedroom to locate the old shotgun.

As he opened the refrigerator, he thought, good thing I brought some food with me, this thing is totally empty. Wonder what the hell the old guy eats? Cat food? He had noticed earlier when he had placed the sack in it, that the only other thing in the General Electric, had been a six pack of beer, a half-eaten pizza, and twelve unopened cans of cat food. In fact the whole house had a slip-shod appearance to it, like Peters maybe didn’t spend a whole hell-of-a-lot of time in it, but where the hell else would he be, he asked himself, if he wasn’t here?

Frank popped the top on a can of the beer; closed the door; and turned to head back into the living room, to see if Peters had located the shotgun. It was a good thing he turned when he did, he told himself later, re-playing the scene over and over again, Peters’ was standing in the doorway with the old shotgun leveled at him.

Frank instinctively dropped to the floor as the shotgun roared in the small kitchen. He rolled quickly to the left, and then just as quickly he jumped from the drop-roll, and tackled the old man’s legs, taking them both into the living room. Foam, from the dropped can of beer, had spread quickly across the worn kitchen floor; Frank had almost slipped in it and lost his balance as he lunged for Peter’s legs.

His will to survive took over.

Frank wrestled the shotgun from the old man’s grip in the living room, with a well-placed punch to the throat, which caused the old man to release his grip and fall to the floor gasping for breath.

“What the fuck did you think you were doing?” Frank yelled, as he gained his feet, and leveled the shotgun at the wheezing old man on the floor.

Peters glared back at him as he struggled to catch his breath, and said between gulps of air, “I kill you for that if I can, you bastard.”

Franks eyes almost popped from his head as Peters spoke. He had almost convinced himself that it had been some sort of an accident. Maybe the gun just went off accidentally, he reasoned, and maybe you nearly killed the old guy simply because the damn gun went off.

Peters was struggling to get up off the floor, and Frank kicked him hard in the stomach, driving him back down onto the worn carpet of the living room.

The display of bravado Peters had attempted ended, as Frank roared the question once again.

“What the fuck did you think you were doing? What the hell is going on here?”

Frank was in no mood to take any shit from Peters, and when he didn’t immediately answer, he roared the question again, while pointing the shotgun threateningly at him.

“Okay… Okay,” Peters said, gulping air. “You’ll never make it anyway, you stupid fuck. We were wise to you before you got here.”

Frank’s mouth dropped open as he finally realized, that the accent the old man had demonstrated was now gone along with any pretense that he hadn’t known a thing about Frank’s situation, or why he was in Fort Drum.

“The only reason you’re still alive,” the old man continued, “is those stupid ass-holes that were sent to take care of you, killed the kid by mistake. If I hadn’t wandered over to look the place over myself yesterday morning, we wouldn’t even have known about it… Sincerely, you’re fucked Franklin, you might as well just give me that shotgun and call it quits,”

Peters fixed Frank with his old gray eyes, before he continued.

“You’re dead meat pal, this deal is much too big to allow some second rate reporter like you to screw it up. You think my supervisor doesn’t know you’re still alive? You think I’m that fucking stupid? If you don’t hand that shotgun over, and let me up, you’re gonna be in a world of shit.”

The bravado was returning to his voice as he spoke.

“Sincerely buddy, give it up, it’s not like you can just kill me or something, and it won’t make any difference at all. We’ll still get you, there’s nowhere to go.”

Frank was incredulous, and was having a hard time digesting all of what Peters was saying.

They had known he was coming?

They had been waiting?

What the hell was so important that they were willing to kill me to stop me from finding out about it? He wondered, and if they had known before he had left Washington, did that mean they had possibly taken the kids? Or hurt them? Or worse? Had they gotten to Jimmy?

He turned his attention back to the old man on the floor.

“Who are you,” he asked. “I mean who are you really?”

Peters just glared back from the floor.

“You had better speak if you intend to see the end of this day,” Frank said, in a deadly calm voice.

“If you’re thinking that I won’t shoot, you’re wrong buddy boy, I will. I’ll shoot you and leave you laying here, now TALK!”

“CIA,” Peters replied with a sneer. “Now, don’t you think it might be smart to put that shotgun down?” Peters was trying for the false bravado again, but the fear was evident in his voice as he spoke, and he kept glancing nervously at the shotgun that Frank held.

“And?” Frank asked.

He jabbed the shotguns barrel into Peter’s ribs, and shoved him all the way back onto the floor.

“And what?” Peters asked.

“Don’t you, and what, me, you son-of-a-bitch, what’s the real deal here?” Frank struggled to bring his temper under control, before he continued, and he began to speak in a calm, but deadly serious voice once he did.

“Listen, I’m not in the mood to play your stupid games Peters, if that’s really your name. I want the truth, and I want it…right…now.” He punctuated his speech by once again jabbing the shotguns barrel into his ribs.

“Right.” jab…”Now.” jab.

Peters began to talk, and in the end, when Frank was sure he ought to just kill him, he hadn’t been able to.

Instead he had kept the old man talking through the night, gleaning every detail he could. Then he had taken the old guy, whose real name it turned out was David Black, down into the cellar when the sun had come up, and securely bound him to one of the old kitchen chairs, he had brought down from the kitchen for just that purpose.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay there.” Frank warned him. He settled his green eyes on him as he spoke.

“Because If I see you again… I’ll kill you.”

Frank climbed the rickety old cellar stairs to the kitchen, reached into the refrigerator, and plucked out a cold beer, considered, and then grabbed another and sat down at the table to think.

He wasn’t sure whether he believed Black’s story entirely or not. He desperately hoped he hadn’t been lying when he had said that Patty and Tim were all right. Frank didn’t think he had been, as he had rested the shotgun on his chest, and had told him he would just as soon kill him. The bravery had fled, and Black had looked pretty damned scared as well. Frank supposed he would have been too.

He hadn’t seen a phone anywhere in the house, he realized, as he sipped the beer thoughtfully, and peered around the kitchen.

Wonder how he kept his supervisor up to speed on me, without a phone?

He left the kitchen and walked back down the cellar steps to where Black sat tied into the kitchen chair.

“Where’s the phone?” he asked without any preamble.

Black looked confused.

“The phone, you piece of shit,” Frank yelled. “You know, ring-a-ling-ling, a phone? You must have a phone here somewhere, if only to keep in touch with your supervisor, right?”

“In the car, under the front seat,” Black replied quietly, and then continued.

“Look, nobody hurt your kids Frank, this thing was strictly aimed at you.”

“Like I’m really gonna believe somebody like you?” Frank asked, as he turned and re-climbed the cellar stairs.

“Suit yourself,” Black called from the basement behind him.

Frank walked out to the car, glad now that Black had parked it out back, and retrieved the cellular phone. He carried it back into the kitchen, and re-locked the door behind him. He wondered briefly whether the phone could be traced, or was maybe being monitored in some way, but he placed the call to Cora anyway. He had to know that the kids were really okay, and he couldn’t just take Black’s word for it. In the same breath, he didn’t want to scare the kids. So he made up his mind to only speak to Cora, even though he desperately wanted to hear their voices, so that he could put his mind at ease.

In the kitchen of the old Pratt farm, the phone rang twice before Cora picked it up. Before Frank could say much more that hello, she spoke…

“I knowed you’d be callin’,” Cora said, “and don’t worry, the kids is safe. Go do what you got to do, Frank.”

Frank was caught entirely off guard by Cora’s remark, but with everything else that had transpired since he left Washington, he supposed it, at first, to be just an old woman’s suspicions, and not of any great significance. In truth it hadn’t really even clicked, until a few seconds after she said it.

“Do you believe in God?” she asked, before he had fully comprehended what she had said when she answered the phone.

“Of course I do, Cora,” he stammered, although in truth he was really not sure if he did or did not; she had expected that answer, so he had given it, as he had hundreds of times before when he had been asked. But, to say he really did, or did not believe would have taken a great deal more thought, and he was pretty sure the answer would actually be no.

“Then you oughta do some prayin’ fer yourself, and the kids too,” she said, as he listened over the static on the cellular phone.

“But…” he started, when she cut back in.

“Just go, Frank,” she said, “just go, before it’s too late.”

She hung up the phone on her end, before Frank could say another word, but he had heard the children’s laughter, as they had played in the background, and it eased his mind. He sat at the table, puzzling over what Cora had said to him.

In all the time he had known her, he had never known her to be afraid of anything. She hadn’t really sounded afraid this time either, but she had sounded upset, and her message had seemed so urgent.

The longer he sat at the table, the angrier he became. He had to control that anger before he got up from the table and went back down to the cellar and did something he might not be able to forgive himself for, he decided to leave. Enough was enough, there had to be answers, and he was through stepping around the edges of them.

The decision made, Frank got up from the table, and found the box of slugs for the shotgun in the bedroom. With the slugs slipped securely into his pocket, he locked up the house, and drove Blacks car into the woods to conceal it. He then made the circuitous trip through the woods to the house across the road, where he now waited patiently for dusk to arrive.

After he was sure that the children were okay, he had begun to worry about making the phone call. While it was true that they hadn’t done anything to the children, that didn’t, Frank knew, mean they wouldn’t. If they did go after the children, he was sure they would have one hell-of-a-fight on their hands from Cora, and somehow, Frank told himself, he would find them, and kill them, no matter who they worked for, if they hurt the kids.

The other thing that may not have been smart about the phone call, he realized, was that if they had traced it, it would lead them directly to him, so it probably wouldn’t be smart to hang around for long, Frank had decided.

Black had also told Frank, with some urging from the shotgun that he had kept tucked under his chin, about Jimmy.

They had killed him. Black had made no bones about it at all. They had taken him out, the same way they had intended to take Frank out.

Apparently Jimmy had gotten far to close, and they had waited for him to return to his apartment one night. Before he had really known what was going on, they had killed him by garroting him with a thin steel line.

“Quick and easy,” Black had said, “and no mess just in case somebody came nosing around to see where he was.” The cock-sucker had sounded proud, Frank thought, as he waited for darkness, deep within the shadows at the edge of the woods.

They hadn’t bothered to question him, Black had said, as they knew that he knew too much.

“That questioning shit,” Black had told Frank, “only takes place in the movies.”

The worries he’d had about the kids, and the knowledge of what they had done to Jimmy already, kept him indecisive for a few seconds, and he had hovered at the door to the basement, wondering if he should go back down and put a slug right between the old man’s eyes. If he somehow managed to escape, and get out of the basement, he would be able to tip off his cohorts about Frank, and what he intended to do.

Instead he had descended the cellar steps once more; checked the ropes to make absolutely sure they were tight enough, and then before he could change his mind and shoot him, he had left without saying a word to Black.

Darkness descended on the woods where Frank stood waiting, and he crouched low as he ran the few yards to the garage; fished the keys from his pocket and inserted one into the lock on the old wooden door. The door itself was still intact, and since he hadn’t seen anyone approach the old house as he had sat watching it yesterday, he supposed that was a good sign. Still he was cautious as he raised the door, keeping the shotgun pointed into the interior of the shadowy old garage.

It was empty, except for the small car he had left inside.

“Guess they figured I wouldn’t need it,” Frank said aloud, in the small space.

The sound of his own voice startled him for a second, causing his finger to tighten on the trigger of the shotgun. He quickly released it and let the gun swing down to his side.

No sense shooting the car, he thought.

He moved quietly to the car and after first peering cautiously inside, opened the driver’s door, and climbed behind the wheel.

He had been positive, while waiting in the woods, that somehow the car would not be there, but when it was, he had become equally sure that the car would not start. So sure, in fact, that he had to fight an urge to exit the car and open the hood, to see for himself whether the new wires were still attached to the distributor and battery. In the end he simply inserted the key, turned it, and it started with no problem.

He toyed briefly with the idea of trying to follow the old man’s directions to an alternate entrance to the caves. The problem was, he could not be sure if the old man had been telling the truth, and if he had been, he could not be sure that someone would not be there waiting for him.

He made up his mind to take the direct route. He had his press pass, so he could at least flash it, and try to get in that way. If it worked he would have to wing it from that point. There was no one he could trust to call to help him, and he had not thought the plan out any farther than that.

Frank pulled the small car out onto the highway and headed towards Watertown…


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Earth’s Survivors SE 4 The Story of Candace and Mike Dell Sweet

Earth’s Survivors SE 4 The Story of Candace and Mike Dell Sweet

Earth’s Survivors SE 4 The Story of Candace and Mike Dell Sweet

Earth’s Survivors SE 4. The Story of Candace and Mike


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This material is NOT edited for content


THE EARTH’S SURVIVORS SE 4

The story of Candace and Mike

PUBLISHED BY: Dell Sweet

Earth’s Survivors: SE Four: the story of Candace and Mike is © Copyright 2017 Wendell Sweet, all rights reserved.

Additional Copyrights © 2010 – 2012, 2014, 2015 by Wendell Sweet, All rights reserved

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your bookseller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.


In the Trees

The eyes watched her and the other cows from the cover of the trees. The hunger was terrible, all consuming, and it came in crashing waves. The impulse to feed seemed to be the only coherent thought she had. It was hard to think around, hard to think past.

A few weeks ago she had been… Been? But it did no good; she could not force the memory to come. A name came, Donita. She had been Donita; she knew that, but that was all she knew. And a name was not everything she had been. She had been something else… something more, but she could not get to whatever it was. Something that did not wander through the woods: Something that was not driven by all consuming passions that she could not understand.

She turned her eyes up to the moon. It pulled at her. Something in it spoke directly to something inside of her., something deep, something she believed had always been there, but there had never been a need to address it because it lived under the surface, out of her line of thought, sight… below her emotions. Now it didn’t. Now it ruled everything. It was all she could do not to rush from the trees, find the smell that tempted her and consume it. Eat it completely. Leave nothing at all. Oh to do it… To do it…

Her eyes snapped back from the moon, and a low whine escaped her throat. The calf, sated, had wandered away from her mother. Behind her, the boy made a strangled noise in his throat. She turned, gnashed her teeth and growled. The thin, skeletal boy fell back, hungry but frightened. She could feel his fear. It fed her, tempted her to taste him, but he was no food for her. She knew that much. It was a sort of instinct… Drive… Something inside of her. The boy was not her food. The boy was not her sustenance: He was one of her own; corrupted. And corrupted flesh could not feed and sustain itself on corrupted flesh. Fresh flesh was needed, live flesh. Fresh human flesh, she corrected.

The boy trembled and grinned sickly, his one good eye rolling in his head. The other eye was a ruined mass of gray pulp sagging from the socket. A great flap of skin below that socket had curled and dried, hanging from the cheek. He felt at it now, carefully, with his shrunken fingers. She hissed at him and his hands fell away. She turned her attention back to the wandering calf that was nosing ever closer to the edge of the trees.

She desired human flesh. She needed it, but it didn’t absolutely have to be that way.

Two nights ago it had been a rabbit. The night before that she and the boy had shared a rat. The night before that they had come upon the old woman. She thought about the old woman as the calf wandered ever closer to the line of trees.

The old woman had been good. They had brought her back here and her bones lay here still, in the weeds at the edge of the clearing behind her. She turned and gazed back past the boy into their makeshift campsite, searching for what was left of the old woman, finding her bones where they lay at the edge of the clearing they had made. She turned back to the field, watching the calf as she remembered the old woman…

The old woman in the ditch

They had come across the old woman at near morning. Near morning was the best she could do. Time was not a real concern to her anymore. The concept held no meaning. She understood near morning because the sickness, the sickness that began to send the searing pain through her body, had started. The boy had already been whining low in his throat for an hour in pain. It was like that whenever the night began to end, when the morning was on the way, soon to be.

She remembered sunlight. Her old self had needed sunlight just as she now needed darkness, absence of light. That had been Donita as well, but a different Donita.

They had been crossing the rock filled ditch to get to an old house on the other side. The basement of the house was what she had in mind: Quiet, private, darkness. She had been scrambling down the steep, sandy side when the scent had found her eyes and froze her brain.

That is the way she thought of it. Frozen. Everything… everything besides that smell of flesh was frozen out. The boy’s whining, the coming dawn, the constant hunger in her belly, the moon silvery and bright so far up in the night sky, nothing got by that desire. Urge. Drive. It consumed her, and it had then.

It had touched her eyes and then seeped into her brain; then it had spread out into her body. Her legs had stopped moving and she had nearly tumbled all the way to the bottom of the rock strewn ditch before she had caught herself, her head already twisted in the direction of the smell. Her ears pricked her tongue licking at her peeled, dead lips.

She could smell the old woman. Knew that she was an old woman. It was in the smell: Somehow it was in the smell; and her flesh, her fear. The boy had slammed into her then, still whining, and nearly knocked her to the ground.

She had come up from that near fall in a crouch, and the boy had slammed into her once more, so she had grabbed him to steady him. He had thought she meant to kill him and had pulled away, but a second later he had caught the scent and they had both gone tearing down the ditch.

The Old Woman

The old woman had heard them coming. She had begun to whine herself, replacing the boy’s whining which had turned to a low growl. The panic had built in her as she heard them coming. Her heart pounded, leapt, slammed against her ribs, bringing pain with it. The pain rebounded and shot down into her broken leg, the leg that she had broken the day before trying to scramble down into this ditch to reach the house across what was left of the highway so she would have a safe place to stay. The pain slammed into her leg, and she cried aloud involuntarily. A split second later, the female slammed into her.

She had been on her belly. The pain was less that way. When the female hit her, she drove her over onto her back. A second after that, she was ripping at her flesh, biting, feeding and she could not fight her. She was too strong, too… Animal strong. And then the boy hit her hard, pouncing on her chest, driving the air from her lungs, and before she could even react, catch her breath back, he was biting at her throat.

She felt the pulse of blood as he bit into her jugular, and it sprayed across his face. She felt it go, felt her consciousness drop by half, her eyelids flutter, flutter, flutter and then close completely. And the biting was far away, and then it was gone.

The Feasting

The boy had her throat, but Donita had been biting her way into her chest. She had felt her heart beating, and she had been gnawing against her ribs when she felt it stop. They had calmed then, loosening the grips they had on her, and settling down to feed.

~

She glanced now at the calf that was less than three feet from them, its huge moon eyes staring curiously at them. The calf did not know death, had not seen it, she thought. It knew its mother’s tit, the sweet grass of the spring field, the warmth of the sun and nothing else. It edged a little closer.

~

She had killed the old woman. She had no use for her at all. They had eaten so much of her flesh, that she was useless to them. Couldn’t sit up all the way. The boy had taken one arm off at the shoulder and carried it away like a prize.

Donita had eaten so much that she had vomited, but that had only forced her back to feeding until she was once again filled. She had looked around the ditch and spied the rock. The old woman had come back already, and she was trying to raise herself from the ground, trying to raise herself and walk once more. She had picked the rock up from the ditch. A big rock, but she was powerful, and she had smashed the old woman’s skull in as she had tried to bite at her. They had dragged her into the woods a little farther down the road, this place where they still were.

~

She turned again to the calf. The calf was not what she wanted, but the calf would have to do for now. She let her hand fall upon the boy’s thigh and they both sprang at the calf.

The calf did not have the time to react. It did not even bawl. One second it was standing, and the next it was on its side, Donita’s teeth clamped tightly across its throat. A second after that, it was sliding across the dew wet grass and into the woods, one wild eye rolling and reflecting the silver of the waning moon, as Donita and the boy dragged her into the trees.


SE 4: The Story of Mike and Candace. The most popular group from the website writings were Candace and Mike.

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WARMING UP HERE IN THE WESTERN PART OF NEW YORK

WARMING UP HERE IN THE WESTERN PART OF NEW YORK FREE LOOK AT WATERTOWN EBOOK

Posted by Jay

Warming up here in the western part of New York: It is amazing to me that at the end of last week we had temperatures in the 70’s, but Saturday and Sunday in the single digits. This morning is a balmy 34 degrees and slated to reach the 40’s. What a weird winter.

I will be working on web sites all day long. I do it on Monday because I know that by Wednesday, my next opportunity to do it, I will be completely sick of the week and dreaming of a sandy beach and a cold beer. There are few sandy beaches here in New York. I remember the Gulf Coast when I was down there however and those beaches were gorgeous.  I keep telling myself that I will retire there and call it a life. Just a beach bum walking about… With a girlfriend… And a cold brew… And a sailboat too… Yeah, that sounds about right.

So where are we, Wednesday? Damn, still Monday morning. Well this is going to be a great week I can tell, so I am just going to jump right into it. I will get busy, but I will leave you with a look at Earth’s Survivors Watertown.

Watertown is much different than the other Earth’s Survivors books. It does deal with some of the same characters, and the same town, places, but the focus is on the lives those characters lived before the apocalypse came along and skewed it all. I hope you enjoy the preview and I hope you use the links at the end of the preview to get yet another preview or download the book. I will be back on Wednesday, Jay…

EARTH’S SURVIVORS: WATERTOWN

By Dell Sweet

Copyright © Dell Sweet 2016, all rights reserved.

 

Additional Copyrights © 2010 – 2014 by Wendell Sweet

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

LEGAL

This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places or incidents depicted are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual living person’s places, situations or events is purely coincidental.

This novel is Copyright © 2016 Wendell Sweet and his assignees. The Names Dell Sweet and Geo Dell are publishing constructs owned by Wendell Sweet. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, electronic, print, scanner or any other means and, or distributed without the author’s permission. All rights foreign and domestic are retained by the Author and or his assignees.

Permission is granted to use short sections of text in reviews or critiques in standard or electronic print.

Cover art Copyright 2016 Wendell Sweet

Watertown Center

Shop and Stock

April Evans

“Going home?” Alice Chambers asked.

“Yeah,” April agreed. It was early morning, the sun just coming up, shining through the dirty front windows of the store.

“I could drop you. I know it’s not a long walk, but if you wanted a ride, you know,” she blushed and her face colored.

The Shop and Stock was on the main highway nearly directly across from the entrance to Lott road. It was a half mile down the road to the trailer park. Not far. She walked it all the time, including early morning and late evening.

April’s rule of thumb with Alice was not to lead her on. Not to give her false hope. Alice wanted to be with her, it was clear. There had been a time when they had been together, but that was over and had been over for nearly a year. She didn’t want her to think that it might start up again. Letting her give her a ride home might make her think that there was hope. It might, and that could hurt her and she didn’t want to do that.

“I think the walk would do me good, besides it’s just incentive for me to buy a car,” April said.

“You’re saving?” Alice asked. Her face had become sad when April hadn’t said yes. Her sad eyes were magnified behind her thick glasses.

“No, but I hope to be… That’s the incentive part. It’s just that it costs so much to live…” April stopped, regretting she had said as much as she did.

“Well they say two can live as cheaply as one,” Alice said. Her eyes became hopeful again.

Sometimes April wondered why she didn’t just do it. Almost everyone at work thought she and Alice were an item anyway. Guys at work didn’t even hit on her anymore, and occasionally she would catch girls looking at her speculatively, like the new girl, Haley, beautiful: She had some sort of tribal tattoo that covered one arm and disappeared under her sleeve. It peaked out when her shirt lifted enough to bare her stomach, making April wonder where else it went. Dark blue against brown skin. She had been looking at her, wondering about where that tattoo might go one day last week when Haley had caught her. They had both smiled and looked away.

“You didn’t say anything,” Alice said.

“I’m sorry, I zoned out… You know, maybe two can live as cheaply as one… I guess it is something to consider,” April said. She had no idea why she had said it except that it was true. She had two guys at the trailer park that were interested. She couldn’t stand either one of them, but they were persistent. And she supposed it was only a matter of time before something happened. Probably something she didn’t want to happen. She kept an aluminum bat next to the door, but she was a young woman living alone in a bad place. It was probably only a matter of time.

Alice was smiling up of her. “Are you sure about the walk? It’s such a bad place,” Alice said, echoing her thoughts.

“Sure… You’re right, Ali. Listen, I have a cold six-pack in my fridge, if it didn’t stop working again that is, maybe we could have a couple of beers, unwind from the night,” April said. “It’s morning, but technically it’s night to us.” She laughed.

Alice positively overflowed. “Sure… I’ll… I’ll get some chips?” She looked at April as if asking permission. April nodded almost imperceptibly. That was how they had gotten together in high school. Alice asked, April had never said yes, just that tiny little nod, but that had been all that Alice had needed.

Alice hurried off now and April told herself she wasn’t building her hopes up to dash them. She was sick of the trailer park: Sick of her life right now. Before she ended up with one of those clowns on either side of her, she would move back in with Alice. She shocked herself with the admission, but then she realized it was the truth. Maybe it was the truth she had been hiding from herself, but it was the truth.

Alice came back blooming. A totally different woman than the shy, unassuming person she normally was. She walked close to her as they left the store. She could see Alice wanted to slip her arm through hers, so April did it herself. She just slipped her arm through hers as they walked across the parking lot to Alice’s car.

Alice seemed to be in shock, but a happy kind of shock. April was surprised, but it lifted her mood too.

Route 81 rest-stop

Watertown

Danny and Daryl

“Who would really know?” Daryl asked. “I mean really, Danny?”

They were stopped at a rest area a few miles outside of Watertown New York. The trunk was open and they had looked through what was there. It was far more than they had thought, far more than Carlos had led them to believe. Neither of them knew how much, but they had a good idea. They had already made small holes in four of the bricks and discovered they were dealing with both cocaine and heroin. And since the holes had been there they had taken a bit of each. Only a little: Nothing that would be missed, probably, but that had been three or four hours ago at another rest area when the curiosity had gotten the best of them. That and their withdrawals after a two week crack binge and the little that they had taken was gone.

Now they were trying to decide if they took a few full bricks whether they would be missed. There were eight bricks of coke, and six of heroin in the black duffel bag. That was a tight fit. They had purchased a cheap foam plastic cooler just outside of Rochester and filled it with beer and packages of lunch meat and cheese. They had purchased bread and other stuff for the long trip. Thinking all those weeks of not eating right would catch up to them and they’d be starving. And they would’ve been except they had gotten right back into the coke. They were numb again. Hunger was on the back burner once more. All their bodies craved were more cocaine and maybe some heroin to chase it.

Daryl pulled the zipper on the blue duffel bag and opened it.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Danny asked.

“You know goddamn good and well what I’m doing,” he said.  He reached in and took one of each brick.

“Holy Jesus,” Danny said. “You’re crazy. They’ll kill us.”

Daryl licked his lips. “Maybe… But… Maybe we can blame that on the other guys. You know, they got the shit! They played with it. Our word against theirs, right?”

“Christ,” Danny said. His hands shook slightly, but then harder. Before he could stop himself he reached into the duffel bag and pulled out two more bricks, one of each. Daryl’s eyes bugged.

“I don’t know, man. That is a lot. Two is enough,” he said.

“To get killed over?” Danny asked. “Fuck that!  If it’s gonna get us in the shit and we gotta lie our way out of it we might as well make it worth it,” he said. He looked at the untouched ice chest, popped off the foam cover and plunged the bricks down into the ice. Daryl took a small chunk of the cocaine, sealed the brick back up and plunged both of his bricks into the ice chest too. They piled up the errant ice cubes and arranged the packages of meat and cheese to hide the bricks underneath them, breathing hard as they did: On the verge of panic.

“You can see the foil,” Danny said.

Daryl grabbed the plastic bag that the lunch meat had come in, fished out the bricks and wrapped them up tightly in the plastic. The bag was white and blended much better under the ice this time.

“Can tell, not really,” Daryl said. He had already sniffed some coke. Danny wasn’t far behind.

“Looks fine,” Danny agreed. “Let’s go.”

They both reached up to slam the trunk lid down, scaring the hell out of each other as they did. They laughed nervously and then got back into the car.

“Alright, I’m getting on top of it now, man… It’s gonna be all right,” Daryl said.

“Yeah… Yeah,” Danny agreed as he started the car.

Watertown

Thompson Park

Ben Neo

“This is a really big deal, Ed. As in a million plus, you see?” Ben asked.

“Sure,” Ed said. “I get it. Well, you mean a million plus as in more than a million dollars?” he asked.

Ben laughed. “Yeah, more than a million, Ed: These guys, well, I don’t know these guys. They’re really just hired flunkies. Pick up the stuff, drive it from point a to point b, that kind of thing. They’re probably not professionals. So we’ll have to make up for that by maintaining our own professional standards, Ed. We’ll just be cold: Aloof, removed. No laughing if they crack a joke. No small talk at all.” He handed Ed one of the flat black 9 mm guns. The one he had shoved under the front seat.

Ed looked it over. “Grips broken?” he asked. He fingered the tape that wound around them.

“No,” Ben told him. “That’s friction tape, stops them from getting prints… Most of the time at least. It’s what I call a throw away gun. Cheap, doctored up with tape in case I do have to toss it and I don’t have time to wipe it. Ground down serial number. Here’s a spare clip.” He handed him a clip. “The one in that gun is full, and there’s one in the chamber. I do that by putting one in the chamber then ejecting the clip and replacing that one in the clip. Then put the clip back in. Sometimes an extra bullet can mean a lot. All you need to do is flick off the safety, aim and shoot… You got that, Ed?” Ben asked.

“Yeah… Yeah… I do,” Ed agreed. He looked nervous. “Do you think we’ll have to shoot, Ben?”

“Sometimes… You can shoot, right?” Ben asked. He knew he owned a 9 mm and that he had taken a weapons class in Syracuse a few years back. He had carried a sidearm and had, had to train on a rifle when he was in the service. He had checked all of that out. He also knew he was a poor shot. Myopic, and even with his thick glasses his depth perception, which was critical to accuracy, was bad.

“Sure, sure, it’s just been a while,” Ed said.

“Just make sure you don’t shoot me, or yourself,” Ben said.

They were at the lookout in the park standing near the trunk of the car waiting for the other car. It could be a few minutes, maybe as much as an hour, Ben thought.

Ed nodded. “I won’t,” he said, unsmiling.

Ben had no idea what to expect. He knew what they were driving, but he had no idea how far out they were, all Tommy had told him was the make and model, a big silver-blue Toyota, and their names. They had picked up the stuff in Brownsville earlier that morning, and they were on the way. He popped the trunk lid and snapped open the catches on the big brown suitcase. Neat rows of bills: All hundreds. Ed whistled.

Ben removed one of the stacks, set it aside and closed the case. “Your pay,” Ben told him.

“How much is that?” Ed asked. His eyes were a little bugged out. He’d never seen that much money anywhere. Not even in gangster movies, which were his favorite kinds of flicks. It was a lot of money.

“Eighty thousand dollars per stack,” Ben told him.

“You’re kidding? I’m making eighty thousand dollars for this deal?” he asked.

Ben smiled and nodded. “I told you it was big.”

“Yeah,” Ed smiled. His mind was thinking about all the things he could buy with eighty thousand dollars.

Ben’s cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket, looked at the caller ID window and turned to Ed. “It’s my boss, I’ll have to take it,” he said. He walked away leaving Ed to his thoughts and answered the phone.

Suncrest Trailer Park

Lott Road

April Evans

It started out bad and got worse. First Alice tried to kiss her when they got to April’s trailer. April had pretended she didn’t see it coming and turned it into an embrace. But once they were inside she tried again and they had ended up in an argument.

“It’s my fault, I should’ve walked home. I didn’t mean to lead you on, Ali, I didn’t,” April said.

“But… You held my hand. I know you want this just like I do. I know it. Why can’t we just be together? I don’t get it… You’re not seeing somebody else, right?” Alice asked.

“No… It’s not about that… It’s about compatibility… I’m not like you, Ali. How else can I say it?” April asked.

Alice broke down into tears. “But you are…” Her voice fell to a whisper. “You’ve made love to me, April; better than any man ever has… Ever could… You are like me,” she sobbed.

“I’m not,” April said. “We did those things. I was drunk. I was upset. I hated what had happened to me, you know that, it didn’t mean to me what it meant to you, Ali, it didn’t.”

Alice jumped up. “So I’m the one who is sick? Interested in the wrong sex? The Lesbo?” Her anger was barely in check. She was spitting the words out, tears streaming down her face.  “Well fuck you, April Evans. I know about that boy at the end of the road. The one you talk about. If that’s what you want, then fuck you, take him.” She ran to the door, flung it open and rushed down the steps. Her car started as April got to the door, and she heard the gravel spit and clatter against the aluminum siding of the trailer as she took off.

Two trailers over a curtain parted and a woman’s face looked out into the gloom of early morning. Her eyes nearly skipped across April, lingered briefly and then the curtain edges fell back together. April sagged down to the top step and lowered her head into her hands. She got up a few minutes later, went inside and grabbed two of the beers. She left one in the plastic collar, slipped an open collar over her wrist and let the second can hang from it. As she went back out she picked up the aluminum bat, closed and locked the trailer door. She walked out to the end of the gravel road that cut down into the trailer park and looked towards the end of Lott road.

There was a guy, not a boy that lived at the end of the road. She had mentioned him to Alice. She shouldn’t have. He was just a guy. She had seen him go by a few times, but he had never paid any attention to her. She had even waited on him at the store a few times. Nothing: He wasn’t interested; Alice had that all wrong.

She hefted the bat in one hand. There were wild dogs all over the place. They lived in the woods and raided the county dump where it backed up to Lott road for their means of survival. It was best to be prepared. More than once she had driven one away with a quick tap from the bat. She took one of the trails that lead out of the trailer park and cut down toward the end of the road. She sipped at one of the beers as she pushed some overhanging small branches aside with the bat. The sun was finally starting to rise, casting shadows along the dirt path. She wondered about the boy at the end of the road as she walked.

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