Gutshot: The Catastrophe

By Patricia Loofbourrow

What does it have to take to change who you are?

Donald Kerston's life up to now could only be described as a nightmare. But what he wakes up to suddenly becomes much worse.

Struggling for his very survival, for the first time he finds friends and a future - only to be confronted with the one thing he didn't ever want to face: his own terrible past.

Gutshot: The Catastrophe is a 16,000 word story which takes place 1899 years before The Jacq of Spades: Part 1 of the Red Dog Conspiracy. It has no spoilers for the Red Dog Conspiracy series and can be read at any time.

This is how the world ends. This is how it begins.

Releases April 2nd.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patricia Loofbourrow
• Release date: Apr 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9781944223205

Patricia Loofbourrow

Patricia Loofbourrow, MD is an SFF and non-fiction writer, PC gamer, ornamental food gardener, fiber artist, and wildcrafter who loves power tools, dancing, genetics and anything to do with outer space. She was born in southern California and has lived in Chicago and Tokyo. She currently lives in Oklahoma with her husband and three grown children.

Book preview

GUTSHOT: THE CATASTROPHE

Patricia Loofbourrow

Copyright © 2018 Patricia Loofbourrow

All rights reserved.

ISBN 9781944223205

This is a work of fiction.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. You may not re-sell or give this book to others. If you would like to share this book please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please visit an online book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

Published by Red Dog Press, LLC

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Vegas

Gabe

Alive

Billy

Dad

Natural

Sun

Mountain

Compass

Food

Weeds

Sick

Brave

Rough

Trouble

Death

Weak

Real

Dreams

Vegas

The smell of sulfur was what woke me.

My nightmare about bombs and earthquakes turned real. Pieces of concrete fell around me. Billy about pulled me out of my sleeping bag as he dragged me up against the culvert wall with the rest.

Fucking lava!

Billy wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but this time I agreed with him. Half the thirty-foot wide culvert was blocked with rubble, but the way the rocks dissolved in the bright orange seeping under the pile forty yards away got to me.

When faced with extreme danger, some men run, others fight.

I freeze.

I stared at the glowing blob. I couldn’t move.

Wait, I thought. I fell asleep by the wall. How did I get in the middle there?

Guys had blood on their faces, huge bruises, broken arms. A man lay in the dirt down the tunnel, unmoving. Gabe’s mattress — he had it standing up across the culvert to dry out — was flopped over on the ground.

Gabe crawled out from under it, pulled his leg on, and started throwing his crap into a three-wheeled shopping cart, which now had a huge dent in its side. Come on men, move out!

Acrid smoke stung my eyes. The way Gabe barked orders reminded me of my old drill sergeant. I couldn’t move.

Other men screamed in terror, grabbing anything they could, running up the culvert past me into the blackness beyond. Billy pulled at my jacket. Come on, Donnie, we gotta go! His Raiders football helmet had a huge crack in it, and his neck brace was gone.

I hated being called Donnie, but something in Billy’s voice got me moving. I patted my shirt pocket, which held the one photo I had of my family, zipped up safe in its baggie, then retrieved my pack. I found my pillows — sewed together on their ends, eye pillow and head pillow all in one — nearby. A guy in Chicago taught me that trick.

I rolled up my sleeping bag, all the while glancing over at the blob inching closer. Strapping my sleeping bag to the top of my pack’s frame, I hoisted the whole thing on my back and followed them into the darkness.

Yeah, I always wore all my clothes back then, including my boots. That way if my pack was stolen, I didn’t lose everything.

Once my eyes adjusted, I could see the other men well enough. And I began feeling better. If I stayed with them, I should be okay.

I’d gotten to Vegas the night before, just off the bus the fine city of San Francisco provided to send its homeless citizens out of sight. When I was in prison, I read a book about people living in the culverts. Since I was clean and had decent clothes, the cabbies actually looked at me, let me ride.

Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas, the sign read, and friendly faces greeted me in the storm drain nearby.

Thunder pealed overhead, and the men’s shouts became panicked. Rain too? Billy screamed up ahead. Oh, fuck!

I don't know why, but Billy's scream of terror kept me from freezing up. I ran to catch them, screaming too, arms out front to keep from running into a wall, or pipe, or one of them. That book talked about the people who died every year down here during flash floods.

I had to get out. I had to get out, and I didn’t know where the next culvert was.

A horrible rumbling rushing sound up ahead, then something hit my stomach so hard it knocked the air from me. I flopped forwards onto something big as water gushed over me, drove me and whatever just hit me backwards at terrible speed.

Daylight came from behind. An instant of terror at the thought of going near that lava, then I shot out of the culvert like a cannon. Horrible burning pain washed over the back of my legs as I emerged into madness.

Water lay everywhere. The Las Vegas sign slipped under the rising water much too fast as it receded in the distance.

The sky hung black with storm clouds. Lightning flashed all around. Rain pelted me. The wind howled, debris flying through the air.

A frozen death grip on this thing in front of me as we spun like some nightmare carnival ride. I was sick.

Planes jerked wildly overhead, careening