About the Book
Title: Those Who Are Left
Author: Josh Stricklin
Genre: Horror
Thinking back to when
everything changed, Derrick can never pinpoint if it was the pickaxe swinging
toward his own face that alerted him or if he knew moments earlier when he saw
the weapon hurtle toward the barn cat. Either way, he quickly realized that the
man he was facing—a farm employee he knew well—was not only no longer a friend,
he wasn’t even human any more.
An apocalyptic tale that
surprises you with humor when it’s not terrifying you with horror, Those Who
Are Left follows Derrick as he and two strangers venture through the major
cities of the South in search of family and safety. But not all the human
factions can be trusted, and if the trio can’t figure out what’s driving the
different groups they could end up with enemies on all sides.
But even in a chaotic world
of murderous screamers and posturing humans, there’s always time to play a few
games of bowling before the slaughter begins…right?
I
always felt safe there in the barn. Maybe it was the gun cabinet, or the
assortment of blunt instruments—shovels, posthole diggers, and my current
favorite, the pickaxe—that could be used to make quick work of what Mark would
undoubtedly call marauders. He has a way with words. Occasionally we'd get a
violent wild animal or a wanderer from town to hold up in the field eating the
vegetables. It’s pretty surprising which of the two we have to threaten with
the branch cutters more often. Before all this happened I owned a considerably
large farm. I inherited the place, but in time it became mine just as it was
anyone else’s. I employed a number of people. Their families counted on our
work to survive. I say that more for me than anyone else. Now no one counts on
what I used to do. They only count on what I do now. This. I assume one of the
little bald doctors with the clipboards will come wanting to know what I was up
to then, but then I'll have more important things to worry about than my
profession. Like this. For all anyone else here knows I was a carpenter, or
accountant. Although for all they know, I could have just as easily been a
murderer.
The barn was sort of my home away
from home. About one hundred yards away. I always went there to unwind. When
the barn was rebuilt I had a small office put in one of the far corners. Sound
proof, smell proof, windowless, and air-conditioned. A lot happened for me in
the barn. When Sarah and I were on the verge of divorce, I used the futon
multiple nights out of the week. I lost the tip of my finger fixing a combine
not long after things between her and me smoothed over, and right there in the
office she cleaned me and sewed me up. After she kissed it all better, we
shared the bottle of scotch in the mini-fridge, and she kissed me even better.
Hundreds of great moments in my life happened in that barn. Even when the new
barn went up in place of the old one, I felt like I had taken all my childhood
memories from the first and moved them into the new one. Including when I found
out that something had happened. Here in New Orleans we call that instant when
we found out something happened the new "how I lost my virginity"
story. We call it “the moment.” I've told mine so many times and seen so many
of them—the screamers, we call them—that I've stopped thinking of Tony as a
person.
I was sitting in the office. The
wall unit moaned and groaned, no doubt in pain from the dirty filter destroying
its life expectancy. I had done some much paperwork that morning that my
fingers smells like pencil shavings. Cleaning up the office didn’t do anything
to abate the smell. I don't remember exactly what I was doing at the time—maybe
looking for the to an air conditioner repair man in the phonebook—but suddenly
I heard a muffled crash on the other side of the wall. I remember standing up,
outraged, and ripping the door open. Before I could say anything, I was met
with a cacophony of banging metal and wood. I saw Tony, like a wild animal,
tossing random tools around the barn. His short, muscular stature jerked back
and forth. His sweaty black hair flinging side to side with every yank of his
head. He furiously grunted. He was looking for something. Not just looking for
something, but tearing his way through my barn to find it.
"Tony, what the hell are you
doing, buddy?" I asked the thing wearing Tony's body. He ignored me
completely.
There was motion. A feral cat ran
from beneath a countertop coming out from one of the nearby walls. Tony
snatched a pickaxe, which rested on two hooks from just over his head on the
wall. I walked toward him, hands up and trying to stop his rage. He swung the
ax at the cat, missing. A hole blew out of the wall at the sharp impact.
"Shit, Tony. Stop! What the
hell happened?"
The cat made for the opening at the
opposite end of the barn. Tony dove grabbing the cat's hind legs. He squealed
with what I now understand was delight. What it sounded like then was a woman
screaming in terror. The cat bit and scraped at his dirty, sunburned hands.
Tony stood up and slammed the cat into the wall.
"What the fuck, Tony?"
I grabbed a shovel from the wall.
He slammed the cat another time. And another. I slammed the shovel into his
head. He really saw me then. His eyes were bloodshot and filled with a
homicidal rage I've always lumped away in my mind with video game characters.
His dark, stubbly face an orgy of fury, surprise, confusion, and fear. He shook
as he heaved air. His shoulders rose up and down, up and down.
Tony charged at me, dropping the
cat on the ground. Fomp. I jammed the
end of the wooden handle into his nose it. Blood popped out like a tiny water
balloon busted on his face. He shrieked again.
Tony swung the pickaxe he still
held. His movements were clumsy. He lost his balance and tipped over onto one
knee. I hit him in the face. His blood coated my fist. He fell back onto the
ground.
"Knock it off. Have you lost
your goddamn mind?" I screamed at him.
From where he lay on the ground,
Tony clumsily swung the ax again. It stuck in my leg about an inch deep. I
looked at the pick hanging from my leg, not believing it. I screamed. Then I
was on the ground. I remember having time to groan once before I was fighting
Tony off. He was screaming and slobbering. He bit my forearm hard enough to
draw blood. I called for help between gasping breaths. Tony moved closer and
closer. I could smell his dirty breath. He bit at my cheek, barely missing. I
could hear his teeth clamping together. He jerked and flailed. His knee
connected with my crotch. His fingernails raked my face.
Then there was a loud, hollow bang.
And Tony went limp. Blood dripped in my face from the top of his head.
I came out from beneath him. A hand
dropped. I looked up. Mark stood looking down. He was bent as low as he could.
His six feet, seven-or-so inch frame towered over me. His scared eyes peeked
out behind a scraggly beard. They were so dark I thought they were black. For a
second it spooked me.
"I think we gotta go, bro.
There's more of them."
He helped me to my feet, and we ran
out of the barn.
Author Bio
Josh Stricklin is an American author and
musician with degrees in English literature and advertising from the University
of Southern Mississippi. His first novel, Those Who Are Left, made its debut in
2015. The terrifying follow up, The King of Evil, is available from Silver Leaf
Books. He's currently hard at work finishing his first series…or more likely
reading comic books and wearing a Seahawks jersey.
Links
Purchase on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Those-Who-Left-Josh-Stricklin-ebook/dp/B00ZG9WJ90/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1485626672&sr=8-1&keywords=those+who+are+left
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