Status: Active
Nowhereville
In which the nature of the outsiders is expanded upon
“Must’ve been two and a half months ago when Dilworth here noticed signs of habitation in the old houses.” Here, Moriarty stopped and elbowed Dilworth, inviting him to jump in.
“Yeah that’s right. It must’ve been early May. I was driving my truck back into town – I’d been out of town to get some supplies for the store, no one bothers to deliver this far out in the desert anymore – when I first saw them,” Dilworth said, gathering confidence as he went along.
“Only on the outskirts, not in the innermost part of town. Just like before, with all the deaths. All things considered, I think we’re pretty safe here.” At this point, Dilworth let out a strangled chuckle. He then seemed to reconsider his statement. “Not you, though,” he added, looking at me. “You’re smack in the middle of ‘em.”
“Right. Back up a little bit. They. Who the fuck are they?” I asked. At this point, Moriarty reprised his role as the main speaker.
“Weirdos. Fucking creeps, that’s what they are. They look like they’re from the funny pages, you've seen 'em. No one knows where they came from, or how, or why. They never come round here, to the square. They lurk around the edges of town, and the house across the street from your old ma’s place seems to be their favorite haunt.”
Moriarty paused for dramatic effect, wanting to allow his foreboding words to sink into my consciousness. Seeing that I remained impassible, he continued.
“That girl you mentioned, she seems to be some sort of authority among them. When they do wander in this part of town (never in daylight, the cowards wait for the cover of darkness), she’s the one who’s leading them,” the undertaker remarked. He paused long enough to take two long drags on his cigarette and continued. “She’s the only one who's ever talked to any of us normal peeps. The rest only talk among themselves.”
“So you’re saying that they’ve simply just taken up residence in the houses of the recently deceased?” I asked.
“Yeah, they’re squatting. But law does not exist this far out in the desert, except for what you do with your own two hands. And with only a handful of us left, it’s not like we can drive them out, or even give them a good scolding,” Moriarty reflected, looking out the window at the desolated piazza. “None of us is younger than fifty years old. Whatever’s left of this shithole will die with us.”
“Yeah that’s right. It must’ve been early May. I was driving my truck back into town – I’d been out of town to get some supplies for the store, no one bothers to deliver this far out in the desert anymore – when I first saw them,” Dilworth said, gathering confidence as he went along.
“Only on the outskirts, not in the innermost part of town. Just like before, with all the deaths. All things considered, I think we’re pretty safe here.” At this point, Dilworth let out a strangled chuckle. He then seemed to reconsider his statement. “Not you, though,” he added, looking at me. “You’re smack in the middle of ‘em.”
“Right. Back up a little bit. They. Who the fuck are they?” I asked. At this point, Moriarty reprised his role as the main speaker.
“Weirdos. Fucking creeps, that’s what they are. They look like they’re from the funny pages, you've seen 'em. No one knows where they came from, or how, or why. They never come round here, to the square. They lurk around the edges of town, and the house across the street from your old ma’s place seems to be their favorite haunt.”
Moriarty paused for dramatic effect, wanting to allow his foreboding words to sink into my consciousness. Seeing that I remained impassible, he continued.
“That girl you mentioned, she seems to be some sort of authority among them. When they do wander in this part of town (never in daylight, the cowards wait for the cover of darkness), she’s the one who’s leading them,” the undertaker remarked. He paused long enough to take two long drags on his cigarette and continued. “She’s the only one who's ever talked to any of us normal peeps. The rest only talk among themselves.”
“So you’re saying that they’ve simply just taken up residence in the houses of the recently deceased?” I asked.
“Yeah, they’re squatting. But law does not exist this far out in the desert, except for what you do with your own two hands. And with only a handful of us left, it’s not like we can drive them out, or even give them a good scolding,” Moriarty reflected, looking out the window at the desolated piazza. “None of us is younger than fifty years old. Whatever’s left of this shithole will die with us.”
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Short, je sais. But I just have lots of ideas and I want to get back into the habit of updating.Y'all, don't be silent readers.
Drop a line or something.
xoxo