About Autophobia

by Lydia Thorne
28 pages / 12800 words
ISBN: 978-1-60370-129-7, 1-60370-129-X
Available file types - html. lit, pdf, prc

Jake has been on his own for a long time. An ex-military man in a post apocalypse world, he’s used to doing what it takes to stay alive, and to keep the diseased remnants of the world away from him.

When Jake meets Sam, another survivor, he remembers how nice it is when he doesn’t have to go it alone. Sam seems young and nervous and it’s amazing that he’s survived as long as he has, but Jake gradually comes to admire him, even need him. Will Sam turn out to have more courage than Jake ever dreamed?

Sample

It figured.

He was the first living soul Jake had seen in weeks—or was it months now?—and of course Jake had to find him right after his run-in with that thing in the filthy Little League uniform.

Jake had broken into the Wal-Mart easily enough, distantly surprised that the looters and rioters and…other things had left it alone, and made a beeline for the pharmacy section. He’d poured the peroxide with one shaking hand over the other, breath too loud in his ears, his stomach roiling. The shuffle of a step had made that roiling stomach jump right into his throat, and he’d quickly pulled his thick gloves back on and grabbed his shotgun, scolding himself for not keeping track of his surroundings.

He knew better than to call out. Instead, he’d ghosted down the dark aisle, eyes sweeping side to side for any sign of movement. Shotgun raised, he stepped out of the relative cover provided by shelves of rubbing alcohol and cotton balls and found himself looking into a pair of dark eyes filled with as much life and intelligence as his own.

The man stood there, one leg extended in front of the other in what was nearly a parody of tip-toeing, left arm raised above his head brandishing a wicked-looking machete, mouth a slack ‘O’ of surprise. He blinked stupidly at Jake, shook his head as if to clear it, and then blinked again. Jake lowered his gun. A sharp bark of laughter escaped the man. He slapped his free hand over his mouth and dropped the arm with the machete to his side. 

“H-holy shit,” the man said from behind his hand as another nervous giggle bubbled up from his throat. He seemed to flinch at the sound of his own voice. “Are…?” he began, swallowing as the hand over his mouth drifted down to curl around his chin. “Are you real?”

Jake nodded. It took him a moment to find his voice. When he did, it sounded rusty and gruff in his own ears. “Yeah, pretty sure I am.”

They stood and stared at each other, both drinking in the details of another living human being. Jake took in the blue bandana covering limp hair that might’ve been a sandy brown color when it was clean, the flannel shirt and cargo pants that were two sizes too big for the lanky frame they hung from, so the guy had either lifted them in a hurry or lost a hell of a lot of weight recently—either possibility was likely—and the circles under brown eyes so dark they looked like day-old bruises. The man looked like shit. Jake decided he was beautiful.