And now, the short story I will be creating over the next four weeks begins! Keep in mind – this is VERY rough draft territory.
The church was cold. It wasn’t just old. It was freezing. As the man in the charcoal trench coat slammed the iron doors shut behind him, his wild eyes traced the path back to the red 1985 Chevy Sllverado that had brought him here. It had been a gift from his dying grandfather and he’d managed to give it a few upgrades. It was now a beastly 4×4 with a secured truck bed with more tricks and trouble than he cared to admit. He felt a bit of relief strike his heart at the thought. There was still some hope in this messed up little town.
Terry McCloud had spent most of the day searching for something particular. He’d started a few weeks ago in Colorado and moved on Wyoming with little luck. It had only been when the oversized tires of the Silverado had crossed into Montana had he felt the tremor in his heart return. He’d followed the sensation across the state in a terrifying back and forth path in a harried game of ‘Marco Polo’ with his senses leading the way.
Now he had found it. What the hell did he do now? He glanced around the grounds of the old stone church. Sitting on the hill above the city it had mostly been forgotten by those that lived in the fading buildings below. Coldstone was dying and the hundred or so that had remained knew they’d be lucky to see their dream last another ten years. It had drawn McCloud, charcoal trench coat and all. The snow crunched beneath his feet and he pulled the black Stetson down in a desperate attempt to take cover from the brutal cold.
His right hand swept out across the ground as the wooden staff gripped in his hand warmed as his thoughts poured through it. The craggy granite rock laid into the tip glowed lightly as the snow bank before him melted as he walked forward and eventually he was back in his ancient truck, his eyes returning to the ornate iron double door at the front of the church. It was in there. He’d been tempted to reach out and touch it and claim his birthright. There would be time for that eventually. There was a plan and there were steps to be followed. His crafty grandfather had seen to that.
He turned the keys and was rewarded with the deep guttural roar as the unbelievable and unworldly engine screamed to life. Glancing down the road he took a deep breath. The town’s elders would be waiting for him. As would she. And them. And all the rest. The time had come.
The time had come for the end of the world.