Hitchhiking Through the Fire
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University of New Orleans ScholarWorks@UNO University of New Orleans Theses and Dissertations Dissertations and Theses 5-20-2011 Hitchhiking Through the Fire Brent McKnight University of New Orleans Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.uno.edu/td Recommended Citation McKnight, Brent, "Hitchhiking Through the Fire" (2011). University of New Orleans Theses and Dissertations. 1329. https://scholarworks.uno.edu/td/1329 This Thesis is protected by copyright and/or related rights. It has been brought to you by ScholarWorks@UNO with permission from the rights-holder(s). You are free to use this Thesis in any way that is permitted by the copyright and related rights legislation that applies to your use. For other uses you need to obtain permission from the rights- holder(s) directly, unless additional rights are indicated by a Creative Commons license in the record and/or on the work itself. This Thesis has been accepted for inclusion in University of New Orleans Theses and Dissertations by an authorized administrator of ScholarWorks@UNO. For more information, please contact [email protected]. Hitchhiking Through the Fire A Thesis Submitted to the Graduate Faculty of the University of New Orleans in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Fine Arts in Fiction Creative Writing by Brent McKnight B.A. University of Washington 1999 May, 2011 Copyright 2011, Brent McKnight ii Dedication This book is for Melissa, Ladybird, and Bronson, for putting up with all of my nonsense. iii Acknowledgement It would have been impossible to complete this project without the undying support of many, many people. First Melissa, Ladybird, and Bronson, for putting up with my constant grousing and endless hours latched to my computer. Mom, Dad, and Bug, for not giving me grief for spending endless years in school. “Grim” Jim Grimsley, for steering me in the right direction, and haranguing me when I got off course. Steven “Mansas” Church saved my worthless hide when I needed it most, and randomly yelled “Wolverines” to lift my spirits. Though I’ve never met Adam Braver, he stepped up to the plate and joined my committee, saving that aforementioned worthless hide yet again. Lish McBride for pushing me and letting me bounce questionable ideas off of her. And in no particular order this rogues gallery contributed to the manuscript you find in front of you: Joseph and Amanda Boyden, Matt Roberts, Jeni Stewart, Bill Lavender, Teresa Kenny, Nick Mainieri, Danny Goodman, Bryan Camp, Merredith Allen, Nate Feuerberg, Sonja Livingston, Nix, Devon Fiene, Eva Langston, Ramon Isao, and many, many more. iv Table of Contents Abstract...............................................................................................................................vi Chapter1...............................................................................................................................1 Chapter 2............................................................................................................................25 Chapter 3............................................................................................................................52 Chapter 4............................................................................................................................62 Chapter 5............................................................................................................................84 Chapter 6..........................................................................................................................108 Chapter 7..........................................................................................................................138 Chapter 8..........................................................................................................................156 Chapter 9..........................................................................................................................166 Chapter 10........................................................................................................................181 Chapter 11........................................................................................................................190 Chapter 12........................................................................................................................195 Chapter 13........................................................................................................................205 Chapter 14........................................................................................................................215 Chapter 15........................................................................................................................221 Chapter 16........................................................................................................................240 Vita ..................................................................................................................................245 v Abstract Ten years after the outbreak of an aggressive, fast-acting virus that kills then reanimates those infected, the world has become a bleak, hostile place. Water and food are scarce, valuable commodities, and survivors cluster together for safety in isolated enclaves where life is cheap and debauchery is king. In the middle of this grim hell-on-earth, Huxley, a young boy, lives with his idealistic father. When the father is killed, Huxley falls in with Bracken, a rugged gun-for- hire, a desperado in every sense of the word. Against his instincts, Bracken is compelled to deliver Huxley to safety, all the while being pursued by a ruthless warlord of the wasteland. Through their association, Bracken discovers that he still has the capacity for feeling, emotion, and empathy, something he thought long dead. English, Creative Writing, Fiction, Zombies, Post-Apocalyptic, Western vi Chapter 1 The landscape is desolate, nothing but sand and scrub and the crumbling remains of an interstate highway stretch as far as one cares to look into the horizon. There is no green. All that lingers is a mute collection of browns and yellows. A merciless wind whips grains of sand with a sound like a woman screaming. The decaying band of asphalt runs over the dunes, directly into the city that spreads out in a shallow valley. To the south a band of cliffs runs parallel to the highway. A high wall, cobbled together out of whatever materials were handy, contains the miniature metropolis on all sides. Large rocks, rudimentary concrete work, and mud bricks make up the majority of the wall, but there are boards, remnants of fences, stacks cracked black tires, anything the inhabitants could find and put to use. Part of the barricade is an upside down charter bus. The paint of the logo has been worn off by the continual blast of sand and the elements, and the windows are coated with a thick crust of dirt. There is only a single secure entrance to the city. Armed guards roam the top of the wall between evenly spaced parapets, keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings. A series of makeshift windmills of various sizes and constructions line the rim of the valley. The blades turn in the wind. Pipes snake along the ground and run into the wall of the city. Everything but these conduits has been cleared away from the grounds. Nothing else even casts a shadow. There is no place to hide, and nothing to conceal an approach. Near the wall a rough wooden sign protrudes from the sand. Two human skulls dangle from the corner. Shreds of scalp, skin, and hair, cling to the bone and sway in the wind. A single word, “REQUIEM,” is hand-painted in what may be blood turned black from time and exposure. More recently someone had crossed out the name and below it written, “the Turd.” 1 Movement fills the streets. While the valley and the walls afford some respite from the winds, a smell of filth and sweat and garbage hangs over the city. The smell is that of too many people living in too small a space, of civilization compressed. Inside of the wall is the polar opposite of other side. Instead of isolated dereliction, there is a crush of humanity. The people of Requiem mirror the city itself. They are smudged and dirty and pieced together. Most are dressed in a similar manner, grimy patchwork clothes held together with coarse threads and squares of scavenged material. Within the walls they are safe from the winds, but many still wear goggles, pushed up onto their foreheads or hanging around their necks, and scarves to wrap around their faces should the need arise. Like the landscape they appear beaten and blanched. Many are missing teeth, and none of the men are clean-shaven. Their faces wear deep worn grooves, etched by the rivulets of time and worry, and they pace their confines endlessly, like caged animals. Men and women alike, everyone is armed. Some carry homemade shanks and crossbows. Others have rifles slung on their shoulders, or pistols on their hips. A few even carry gleaming swords or rusty blades. Around the gate a group of taverns sells makeshift hooch. In the back of these businesses stills smolder, churning out black trails of smoke that drift upward and dissipate into the atmosphere. Pickpockets weave in and out of the crowd. Figures move behind curtained windows, engaging in illicit acts of all varieties. Any vice can be indulged. A collection of stalls, shacks, and booths form a sort of marketplace and bazaar nearby where it is possible