Welcome to my weekly Wednesday Brief flash fiction entry! This is just a free piece of flash fiction (between 500-1,000) words based off of a prompt. I’m part of a wonderful group of flashers 😉 and I’ll have a link to a site where you can read other stories, after my piece.
This week is Radio Static Transmission #1. Jackson Meyer is a 22 year old monster hunter. Blogger and home video extraordinaire, he’s convinced that there are creatures that walk alongside humans. Through his various hunts, adventures and interviews, he finds that he’s right. He’s always been right–there is something that stalks in the shadows. It’s coming for him, and it’s not happy.
Rain pelted down, pinging cheerfully off of the blue tarp that was strung between two trees. The ground was soaking wet despite their best efforts to keep the rain out of camp, the moisture seeping up through the sleeping pad and into the sleeping bag. Jackson wiggled out of the cocooning fabric, kicking the damp sleeping bag to the side. He got to his feet, rubbing at his face. Nails scraped over three day’s growth of stubble, and his teeth were fuzzy. His stomach growled, and he nearly tripped getting out of the tent.
“What did you do? Piss yourself?”
A quick glance down confirmed that his sweats were wet. “Fuck off it’s rain water.” He sat in one of the lawn chairs, his weight causing it to sink an inch into already muddy ground.
“Keep telling yourself that bro.” Killen rolled his eyes shoving the Rubbermaid shoebox of MREs toward him. “You alright? You blew serious chunkage last night. I had to listen to it on repeat. Brody’s convinced he picked something up on audio while you were doing your best Linda Blair impersonation.
“Where is that asshole?” Jackson muttered sorting through them. All unappetizing, but his stomach clenched, rolled and it wasn’t from being sick. “Maybe I’ll feel better if I eat something.”
“Amen brother.” Killen said with a nod. Blond dreadlocks were twisted into some sort of weird loop on top of the other man’s head. His fingers drummed against card table, the lamp light catching on heavy silver rings. “He’s checking the trap cameras. Probably rubbing one out in a patch of poison ivy.”
“One can only hope.” He pulled the package labeled scrambled eggs. Ripped the top off, and pulled out the clear package. Freeze dried eggs were still unappetizing but it was the least offensive of the choices. He dumped in the water bottle that Killen had thrown at him and shook it gently, letting the chemical reaction take place, heating the food and re-hydrating it.
They had set up base camp four days ago, and it was looking to be a long week. Killen had gotten a good tip that there was a massive bipedal creature roaming the woods, and a more than a few decent pictures. It didn’t look like anything they had researched before. A couple of the backwoods hicks who had seen it in person had started calling it a Booga. “Anything show up last night?”
“The bait at trap camera six was stolen, but it was some funny looking cat.” Killen said. “Probably a bobcat with mange or something. Recognizable, and coded.” He gnawed at a thumbnail as he spoke.
“You want to sleep?” Jackson jerked his thumb toward the battered white full sized van. “You watched camp all night, I can take over.” He opened the bag and gingerly stuck the plastic fork inside, and pulled out a load of eggs. Stuck it in his mouth, chewed experimentally. He swallowed, waited, and when it didn’t instantly come back up, started eating quickly, shoveling them in before they got cold.
“I’ll wait until Brody comes back. He owes me something.” Killen said with a smirk. Metal clinked as the man grinned. It had taken some time but Jackson had gotten used to the man’s ‘look’. Tall, pushing six foot seven, Killen was all long arms and legs, corded and muscular. He claimed it was genetic, but Jackson had seen him spend hours in the gym. His blond, waist length hair was twisted into dreadlocks, kept clean. He had a beautiful face, punctuated by piercing in his nose, lips and tongue. His earlobes were gauged, deep black obsidian stone plugs closed the holes. He had a sailor’s mouth that was often wrapped around Brody’s cock, though they denied feelings or attachment.
“Can’t you keep it in your pants while we’re working?”
“Loosen up brother.” Killen said with a soft laugh. “I just want to shut him up for a little while. Out here in nature with all the birds and trees and shit. Brings something out in me.” Pause, “Just going to get a little oral satisfaction. Wouldn’t want you to listen to me plow his brains out.”
“That you’re a fucking pervert who can’t keep your dick in your pants.” Eggs gone, Jackson started in on the dried pears, licking crystallized sugar from his fingers.
“Keep that up, and I’ll give you something else to lick.” Killen stood, cupped himself through his cammo pants. Jackson flipped him off, which earned another laugh. “You keep promising. I’m starting to get blue balls.” He picked up a plastic bag which had a couple of rolls of toilet paper inside. “I’m going to go make like a bear. Holler if you need anything.” Walked off without a second glance.
Jackson finished off the breakfast, shoving it all into it’s original bag and then into the bear can they had packed in. His hands fumbled with the metal lock before reattaching everything. He returned to the table, and pulled the notebook that Killen had left behind toward him. Between pornographic doodles, he read over the night’s notes and observations. Occasionally he looked up at the hub of laptops and computers they had hardwired together to keep track of various trap cameras (cameras hidden and loaded that were set with motion detection.) Movement on the far left monitor caught his eye, and he watched as Brody walked in screen, adjusted the camera, gave a little wave and continued on his way. The path the man was taking would lead him back to camp within five minutes. He pushed the notebook back to where it was, deciding to wait on the journal entry.
To be continued:
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