Done for the Day

Think I’m Done for the Day

Yeah, there were too many distractions today to finish off three chapters. I like ending a chapter or scene before taking a break or stopping for the day. This way, if I have to find out where I was heading, there’s no disjointed start.

So, chapter 10 is now finished and the manuscript has over 30,000 words at the end of day 4. I’m now averaging at 7,600 words a day, but that may fluctuate depending if I get on a roll or not.

Knowing that I usually watch fishing on Saturday mornings, there will be a big sacrifice for this if I’m writing.

Until tomorrow, here’s a little something of what came out in this chapter:

I bring the truck to a stop. There’s eight single headlights blazing in front of us, and several corpses crawling out of the doors of Walmart behind. One of the bikers unslings a rifle, and starts shooting at the dead escaping the store. His shots find their mark as I realize he’s using an automatic rifle. Totally illegal in Canada, but whose going to tell him that.

On the largest bike sits one of the biggest men I’ve ever seen. His long gray beard is braided into two ropes that reach to the middle of his chest. The helmet he wears is more a brain bucket than anything else, and the spike on top glints in the sunlight. His leather jacket shows signs of the road, and is undone to reveal a black t-shirt with writing that I cannot make out at this distance. Chaps and cowboy boots, both black, complete his look.

The biker guns his engine, then shuts it off, allowing for a little backfire to split the air. He swings a leg off and lets the beast of a bike rest against the stand, then pulls off his helmet. Gray hair spills down over his shoulders, and he stands there with his arms crossed.

“What the fuck is he waiting for?” Mindy whispers.

I reach down, take out my glock, prime it, and place the weapon on my lap. “Don’t know, but try not to show him we have any guns.”

Jill is shaking beside Mindy who puts her arm around the back of my seat.

The man starts to walk toward us, unslinging an assault rifle, and carrying it cradled in his arms. He stops a few paces in front of us, staring through bushy brows, before shaking his head and coming up to my window. The stare he gives me takes a few years off my life. It is a hard stare, like Gandalf confronting a small hobbit. He reaches out, and taps the window softly, making a circular motion with a finger.

I hit the window control, and it slides down into the door.


Well, until next time, keep your fingers flying!

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