“When! When will we see? What happened to me? Was I shot? Why can’t I stand?” Drool hangs in sticky strings from my face to my hospital gown. “And what the hell is going on with my mouth?”

I pull.

GI Blonde, steps forward, gun aimed at my chest.

“Tell me!”

“Sit down! RELAX!” GI Blonde screams.

“Tell me!”

“I WILL shoot!”

“Why?”

Then I look down and realize why. The straps are nearly in half. Torn. Ripped. I could never do that in real life. I can’t do that now. What is going on? A dream?

Maybe I am dead.

Maybe I’m dead and a zombie. Zombies are strong aren’t they?

Crap. I’m a zombie.

GI Blonde gets right in my face. “Sit still!”

“NO!”

My arms rip free. GI Blond shoots. The bullet dings off my chest, knocking the wind out of me, skipping off my skin, but not injuring me.

Rubber bullets?

Maybe.

But GI Blonde looks shocked. Afraid. He’s backing up. So is everyone else. Like they’re about to run.  But I don’t care about them. I don’t. I need to know. And if these people aren’t going to give me answers, I’m going to find them for myself.

I stand up. Reach my bandaged fingers up to my face. Feel my head, my eyes, my nose, my mouth. It’s wrong, all wrong. My hair. It’s not there. There’s hard lumps, bumps, roughness. I pull at my finger bandages. Rip them off. See . . .

Black.

Was I burnt? What?

I feel my face once more. My lumpy, scaly(?) head runs down to an elongated face. My jaw protrudes outward. I can feel teeth.

My knees buckle. Legs jelly. Hands shaking.

“What. . . what happened?”

The lady comes over. Hand on my shoulder. Gentle. “You were hit by a meteor shard. We’re not sure what happened to you exactly. That’s what we’re trying to find out.

“Mirror. Give me a mirror.”

“That might not be the best . . .” she says.

“I DON’T CARE!”

“Let him.” GI Alpha says. “He’s going to find out eventually.”

“But his psyche. We don’t know how . . .” the lady rushes.

“Here.” GI Alpha pulls a small mirror out of his breast pocket.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Try to bite my lip. My face doesn’t work that way. I have to see. Open my eyes. Hold the mirror, trembling.

Black skin. Scaly diamonds. Mouth coming out a good twelve inches from my face. Teeth, sharp and white. Teeth like the ones which bit me. Teeth like my worst nightmare.

I am my worst nightmare.

I am the crocodile.

“What happened? Tell me.”

Chapter Three

My arms are strapped to the chair. I don’t get it. I’m not really in any shape to do anything. But whatever gets me to a phone which has my mom on the other end, I’ll play along with.

The hallway is more of the same. They must love this designer. Grey concrete with grey metal doors. The first door we pass reeks of exhaust and gas. Revving comes from inside. Must be a parking garage.

And a way out.

Perfect.

The next door is silent and so is the next, and the next. And so on. Just a long concrete hallway that finally turns and turns again lined with doors, none of them marked. Finally the woman opens the door with quick, furtive movements.

The room is dark, with a bright spotlight over an operating table. Not good.  Definitely not good.

“Where am I?” I clack. God, what is wrong with my mouth?

“You’re in a safe place. We’re here to help you.” GI Alpha says.

“But where?” My voice rises. “And what’s with this?” I tug at the bonds.

GI Blonde cocks his gun.

“I need a phone!” I yell, drool flying, words slurred.

“You need to sit still and answer our questions!” GI Blonde demands, his voice a higher pitch than I expected. It almost makes me laugh.

Almost.

But not quite.

The black haired girl, who now, on closer inspection looks like she may be Japanese, possibly, comes closer in her quick shuffle step. “What do you remember?”

“About what?” I ask.

“About . . .” She pauses, as if unsure of what to say.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” GI Alpha growls.

“Well after I fell into the crocodile tank . . . “

“You fell in the crocodile tank?” the woman asks.

“Yeah, slipped. Didn’t take the sign seriously I guess.” I try to say this all cool, but it comes out all slurred and toothy. Like my jaw is too big for my words.

“What sign?” GI Blonde.

“Doesn’t anyone read the signs? You know the one that says . . .”

“That doesn’t matter.” GI Alpha snaps, interrupting me.

“So you fell in the crocodile tank?” The lady asks. “And then . . .”

“African dwarf crocodile,” I say, trying to get specific.

“Yes, yes,” she says, her words as hurried as her feet. “And then . . .”

The croc’s teeth sinking into my arm rockets through my mind pouring ice through my mind, freezing. “I. . . I was bitten.”

“Go on . . .” the woman says with her staccato speech.

“Then I was shot in the back.”

“Shot?” GI Alpha asks.

“Yeah. I think so. There was a bang. Glass smashed. My back hurt like the bejeezus. My bones. God . . .” The memories. The pain of twisting bone. It turns my stomach. Makes me sweat. I can’t . . . I . . . just can’t . . .

“Can I call my mom now?” I ask, words hissing, gas leak fashion. “Please?”

“Not quite yet.” The lady pats the operating table. “Come up here, let’s have a look at you.”

“But you said!”

“We said, we needed to examine you.”

“And then I can talk to my mom?”

“There’s more to this than you think.” GI Alpha says, his gravel voice as gentle as it gets. About as gentle as a tank. “It’s best if we wait a while to talk to her. But if you cooperate, and we get things figured out, we can make some kind of arrangement.”

“Arrangement? Like I can see her?”

“We’ll see.”

Now that I’m here. Lost in the grey. I’m thinking.

I’m thinking.

I’m thinking.

That’s the last thing I said. I could be dead. Or I could be dying. Or trapped. I might . . . my chest contracts. Anxiety wracks me with earthquake tremors. A yearning snaps every nerve. I want. I need. I have to see her. Talk to her. Tell her, I didn’t mean it. Or I don’t mean it. I don’t mean it anymore. Not anymore.

“Mom,” I whisper.

It comes out with a clack of teeth. A long glistening drip of drool. I reach up to wipe my mouth. Or go to.

My bandaged hands stop me. Bandaged. What the hell?

I know I’m hurt.

I mean I feel hurt. Everything feels hurt. But bandages on my fingers, my hands. Wrapped big like there’s more to them than usual. Bandages following up my arms. Past my arms to my chest and continuing under what appears to be a gown. A hospital gown.

Is this a hospital?

I push up with one arm, everything creaking, groaning, popping. Swing my legs over the edge. Hear a slap on the wall behind me. Twist, my head. It doesn’t twist. Instead pain flairs like an X Ray in my brain. Place my feet on the floor. My feet. Too long. Too big. It’s all wrong.

Maybe it’s just the bandages making things look weird. Maybe it’s just shock making me see things out of proportion. I hope.

How badly hurt am I if everything is bandaged? How messed up are things?

Oh god! 

Chapter Two

Grey. That’s what I get in the afterlife.

Grey walls, grey bed, grey sheets. Concrete and steel. Pain and a rattling chest. Burning back. Dizziness. Nausea.

What the hell?

I look around a bit more. Try to get my bearings. I’m in a grey room. Small. Well not that small I guess. It’s maybe two of my bedrooms. It looks like a prison. Maybe less crowded than that. There’s one bed. The one I’m lying on covered in a grey blanket. The room is concrete. Really concrete. Ceiling, floor, walls. Stainless steel toilet. Screws sticking out of the wall. Scrape marks. The stench of bleach and exhaust. A low humming from the long, bare, florescent light.

Seriously, what the hell?

Where’s the white? Where’s the angles? Where’s the freaking harps?

What if I’m still alive?

Oh, my god! What if I’m still alive!

Mom.

Panic squeezes my chest. Panic. I’m in a grey room. Pain searing through every bone. Throbbing in the centre of my back like a blade pushed in and pulled out with every breath. And all I can think about is, Mom.

No. We’re not close. Maybe that’s why this grey room. This pain. This . . . it’s all a problem.

Mom and I fight. We fight about how useless I am. How controlling she is. How I can never please her. How she drove Dad away. How I drove Dad away. How stupid my life is and it’s all her fault. We fight about my homework not getting done. My grades. My attitude. About how the cops have brought me home for stupid things. We fight when the dishes aren’t done. When her check doesn’t cover food for a month. When I steal food. Or gas. Or clothes. We fight and yell and curse. She slaps me. I, yeah, I’ve hit her too.

I know. I suck.

I’m a terrible son.

But through it all, I’ve always come home. Always walked in the door. Slept in my bed. Had breakfast at the table. Even if I have yet to make a curfew. Ever.

I’ve always been there – until that last fight. The fight before the zoo trip. The city wide biology class field trip for high school and university students. It was supposed to encourage us in the field of biology. Morning didn’t go well. That’s an understatement.

I brought up Dad. The screaming must have echoed through the entire apartment complex. I’m surprised the cops weren’t called. We swore at each other. She said some really bad things. I one upped everything.

Then I said the worst thing I could think of.

The thing that would hurt her the worst.

Stab her through her little icy heart.

“I’m leaving. Forever.”

She stopped. Her glare melting to fear.

“No,” she whispered.

“I have the money. Lots of it. I’m out of here.”

“Don’t”

“I don’t need you anymore. I don’t need anyone. Goodbye.”

“Alex.” It was more of a gasp than a word. “Alex.”

“I hate you.”

And I slammed the door.

I had the money. Like I said. Unfortunately it wasn’t mine. Not one cent. It was Mac’s and he found his way to get it back.

Hi friends. I'm just setting up to do this crazy thing called a Scrawl-A-Thon. Basically 6 hours of straight writing in a room full of other writers (who will probably become more and more intoxicated as the night wears on). Me, I rarely drink. I probably won't tonight - so we'll see where that gets me.
The BIG plan is that I post whatever I am writing every half hour - here. So keep coming back. The smaller plan is that I'm going to start writing a new novel titled Amalgamation. It's about Alex, a messed up kid who, just as he gets tossed into a dwarf crocodile tank at the zoo by the people he's annoyed, get's hit with a meteor and amalgamated with the dwarf crocodile. And he's not the only one who gets hit. Then the military gets involved. And there's a grey room. And a cute little klepto girl/mountain goat. Anyway, it's a cool sci-fi/spec fic story I think you'll enjoy. . . in it's first draft . . . gulp!
More details: Throughout the night I will be getting writing prompts. Just to make things interesting I'm going to try to incorporate each of these writing prompts into my novel. Crazy, eh? But I like the challenge. Also, if you want to post suggestions for the novel below in the comments. I will do my best to get those in too.
I'd like to give a big shout out to all the people who have helped me with pledges for this thing. All the money goes to WordsWorth youth writing residency. A very cool camp that I've proudly been a part of for five years now. So thanks to Bruce and Donna Wakeford, Ami Persaud, Dïva Berry, Kate Train, Kim Musselwhite, Bob Firmston, Bunny Firmston, Jean Ann Steiner, Shelagh Lennon, Barbara Zimmerman, Lelainna M Dahl, Tony Carter, Shirley Jones, Kirsten Ireland, Sebastien Ringuette, and Joey Sayer. I would be no where without you guys and your support!
And one more thing - the story will only be up for today and tomorrow. After that it's gone. So read now, or you'll have to wait until I can find a publisher for it.
Take care and see you again around 4:30 tonight.