Dystopia

Alright, I wasn't going to, but I'm posting the prologue to the book I started writing for my new writing group. This is unrevised (so it still says vampires, but it will say something else like Ghost, or banshee, or mermaid. IDK, it'll be changed. this scene's overt antagonist is an impossible monster, that's the important take away.)

amn the Writers. Monsters weren't real, this was just a sick twist
in his script. The lights flickered and went out, thankfully he'd come
prepared. It was really the only weapon against the Writers. When the
started to mess with you're story you could only try to prepare for
the inevitable, with luck you come out the hero, the alternative is
usually death. Ben was usually the plucky sidekick. He should be on
the phone while one of his friends guided him through the dark factory
with blood splattered walls. “What did I do? What did I do? What did I
do?” the phrase came unbidden from his thoughts to his mouth, as
little more than a squeak. Why were the Writers putting him in this
situation. There was no such things as monsters. All the same he
adjusted his grip on his wooden spike. The script said he had to kill
a vampire. But there were no vampires, vampires were a cliché, writers
avoided them because their lives depended on it. Why would they
reintroduce them now, after fifty years of avoidance?
Ben's flashlight followed a smear of blood on the wall down to the
floor.
“Oh God. Oh God he's dead. Oh God.” his stomach heaved as it had so
many times since entering the warehouse, and he dry heaved eyes
clenched tight against the horror. This morning he was just an
accountant. His stories hadn't been interesting, not really. His
family always warned him about that. “Ben don't be an accountant”
they'd say, “you know what's interesting about accountants? The way
they die. If you HAVE to be an accountant, be one that travels the
world seeks out adventure. Be one that writes his own story. Make as
little work for the Writers as possible.”
He hadn't listened. He just wanted a comfortable life. Wasn't that
the point of all the stories? Wasn't it all about the resolution
toward peace? Defeating evil and retiring into mediocrity? He'd
achieved that he just skipped the evil step. He avoided evil. But he'd
found the mediocrity and it made him happy. He had a wife a house and
2 kids. He had a dog named spot and a picket fence. He had a cat named
fluffy. He had the dream. Why did the Writers need to take that away.
Carefully avoiding looking at the mutilated body on the floor, Ben
walked deeper into to building. Find the vampire. Kill the vampire.
Maybe they'd let him have his peace then. He would have earned it. He
wasn't fit for this. Vampire! There were no such thing. What did the
writers want then? Did they want him to kill someone dressed as a
vampire. Could he? If it meant his peace, could he kill a normal man,
just following his own script? Damn the writers!
Ben's breath rang loudly in his ears, only the reluctant dragging of
his feet, and the throbbing of his heart were more pronounced. If
there were vampires, maybe that's what they'd hear too. The fear in
his footsteps, the edge in his breath, the panic being pumped through
his veins. He couldn't help but imagine shadows moving in closer,
surrounding him. Why am I doing this? What can they do to me that
worse than this? His steps faltered. Could they do worse than this?
Nobody was going to let him stab them with a steak. And he was hardly
an athlete. Without extraordinary luck he'd die tonight anyway.
He knew why. It wasn't because he was an accountant. Not really. It
was his own fault. He'd cheated on his wife, and worse he hadn't told
his listener. They said it wasn't in his character, which meant he'd
lied about other things. He'd wanted so badly to have that perfect
life that even a fake was better than nothing.
Maybe he did deserve this fate, but that didn't mean he had to accept
it.
“I'm going home. Do you hear me? I'm going home to tell my wife I'm
sorry and I love her. I'm not going to try to kill you, so you have no
reason to kill me. Let's just... Let's just all go home. I'll call the
cops about the body, they'll clean it up. Let's just go home.”
There was no concession, but then, there was no refusal or attack
either. Maybe they didn't want to kill him. Maybe they were afraid for
their own life. Slowly, Ben turned and began to take slow steps toward
the warehouse entrance, stake held tight, ready to defend himself if
he really needed to. Nothing moved. His hopes raised, and with it his
fear of hope being dashed. His slow creep became a walk, soon he was
jogging down the corridor. He could see light shining in through the
newspaper covered windows.
“Your life has been promised to me”
The disembodied voice come from all directions and stopped Ben cold.
Where was he? He searched wildly with his flash light, left right,
before and behind. Everywhere was empty. He began to creep forward
again. He was only 10 yards from the door. “please, I'm sorry. I don't
want to do this. I don't want to die!” Ben realized how helpless he
looked. He knew there was no such thing as vampires, but he couldn't
help feeling like he was looking like lunch. He straightened himself
and raised his stake. “I will defend myself if you attack me! Why
don't we both just go home to our families?” It was quiet and he was
so close to the doors. All the while his flashlight searched. No
sound, no movement. Left, right, before and behind.
And Above. Always look above, vampires hang from ceilings. It seemed
so obvious now. Now, Now that the room was spinning. Now that
consciousness was fading. It seemed so obvious, with the vampire's arm
around his throat, neck pierced and bleeding. “Damn the writers.”