Pitch

Pitch
is a work of fiction

All of the characters, organizations, and

events portrayed in this novel are either products

 of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © by Jillian Eaton 2012

All Rights Reserved.

Except for use in any review, the

reproduction or utilization of this work in whole

or in part in any form is strictly forbidden.

eBook
ASIN: B0083XVMFS

www.jillianeaton.webs.com

“Death is when the monsters get you.”

STEPHEN KING,
Salem’s Lot

                                                     
PROLOGUE

The End of Everything

I can smell the blood. It tastes metallic on my tongue and I close my mouth tight, clamping my teeth together until my jaw aches. Still the scent of it invades my nostrils, sweet and ripe as an apple left out to rot in the sun. My stomach cramps, a knee jerk reaction to what the smell of blood has come to signify: death. 

A Drinker has been in the hotel. I can see its claw marks running down across the woodwork of the main desk. What little furniture remained in the lobby has been completely wrecked, as if the Drinker went into some kind of mindless rage, destroying everything in sight.

He was wrong. Not all of the Drinkers left. At least one remained. One who knew where we were hiding. One who waited until I left to finally strike.

With my heart in my throat I sprint across the lobby and fly up the stairs, screaming their names with every step.

The green and cold carpet muffles my footsteps as I race down the hall, bypassing door after door until I get to the one I want. I throw it open with such force I nearly fall forward onto the mattress, but I catch myself just in time.

The smell of blood is stronger here. There is no mistaking it. No point in convincing myself I am imagining things.

The shades are still drawn tight. My pounding heart counts off the seconds as I search the pitch black room. I know every nook, every cranny of this small space and I go through it ruthlessly. My fingers glance off the wooden dresser that houses my meager collection of clothing. I don’t bother opening the drawers. What I am seeking is not here. But it is somewhere. The blood does not lie.

Cursing, crying, pleading for their lives I stumble down the hall and search room after room after room, yelling until my voice is hoarse.     

 The further I go into the hotel the darker is gets, until I am running blind, using the walls to support me. When I see the light blossoming from the edges of a door at the end of the last hallway my knees nearly buckle with relief. I have found them and they are hiding away, just like they should have been. Safe and sound. A breathless laugh forces its way past my lips. I have worried myself to death for nothing. Except the scent of blood is stronger than ever, and I cannot shake the terrible feeling of dread that is threatening to choke me. 

I push open the door and instantly cover my eyes, blinded by the light after running so long in the dark. For a few seconds all I see are two blurry shapes. One sprawled lifeless on the ground and the other hunched over it.

My vision refocuses like a camera lens. Sharpening slowly around the edges before spiraling in towards the middle until everything is clear. Clear as crystal. And I see who is on the ground. And I see who is standing over him. And I see what I have chosen to overlook for too long.

“Is he dead?” My words come out flat. Emotionless. It is a rhetorical question. I know he is dead. No one can lose that much blood and survive. It seeps across the tile flooring, reaching all the way to the door and I am forced to step in it as I walk across the room.

The survivor turns to face me and my breath whooshes out to stain the air with shock and betrayal. I had not thought… I had never imagined… But the blood does not lie and his face is covered with it.  

“You,” I whisper in agony. “How could it be you?”

 His mouth opens and closes. Quick, so quick, but I see the flash of tell tale silver before he can conceal it. He reaches out his hand to me. A silent plea. Blood drips from his fingertips.

 “This is not what it looks like,” he says quickly. “Lola, you don’t understand. Let me explain.”

“Isn’t what it looks like?” I repeat dully. “You’re one of
Them
. You’re a… a… Drinker. You’re a monster.” My voice thickens with tears. “And you killed him.”

He says nothing. His eyes dart to my left hand.

The gun. It has become such a part of me I almost forgot I had it. I raise it now and point the muzzle true. His face pales. He takes a step back, then stops. Goes still. “Do it then. Just do it, Lola. If you think I could have done this I am dead already.”

“No.” I look at the body on the floor. “He’s the one who is dead.”

I aim the gun dead center of his chest. Aim it right at his black, lying heart.

“Lola, I love –”

I pull the trigger.

CHAPTER ONE

Fourteen Days Before

Once upon a time there lived a beautiful girl. The beautiful girl had two parents who loved her and an older sister who doted on her. She had a golden retriever named Buddy who knew all kinds of tricks. She lived in a perfect house on a perfect street in a perfect neighborhood. The beautiful girl got all straight A’s in school and wanted to be a veterinarian when she grew up. She was captain of the varsity soccer team and cheerleading squad. She had a handsome boyfriend named Todd and she was always very, very happy.

Yeah, that girl is not me. My name is Lola. My parents are divorced. My older sister hates my guts, and my dog got run over by a car two weeks ago.

 After the big D my mom moved across the country to California and got married six months later to some guy who rides a motorcycle and has a fu Manchu (for those of you who don’t know what that is, it’s a really stupid looking mustache). I decided to stay with my dad in Birdsboro, Pennsylvania.

We lived in a crappy apartment building on the wrong side of town. Big Sis went with Mom to California and I haven’t heard from her since. I’ve never had a boyfriend. I don’t play sports. The last time I got anything close to an A was in seventh grade English, and that’s only because I sat next to Patricia Clark, the smartest girl in the entire school.

But this story isn’t about me. This story is about them. The Drinkers.

No one knows where they came from. Not exactly. Our government blamed the terrorists. The terrorists blamed the government. The government blamed the Jesus freaks. The Jesus freaks blamed the sinners. The sinners blamed the hippies. The hippies blamed the owners of gas guzzling SUVs. The owners of gas guzzling SUVs didn’t blame anyone due to the fact that they were the first to die. Turns out gas guzzling SUVs can’t go very far before they run out of gas. Go figure.

Personally, I am of the opinion that the Drinkers have always been here. Lurking in the shadows. Biding their time. Waiting for just the right moment to strike.

Curiously enough, they decided on a Tuesday in the middle of August to destroy mankind. Just a normal day like any other. No holiday to speak of. Nothing to make the date significant. At least not then. Now we call it Death Day, but before that was just plain old Tuesday, the seventeenth of August.

I wish I could say I was doing something life changing on the day the world came crashing down. Saving a life. Coming up with a cure for cancer. Rescuing a cat from a tree. Instead I was stealing a car.

“Lola, are you sure you want to do this?” Travis, my best friend and reluctant partner in crime, peeked over the top of the dumpster we were huddled behind and ducked back down. “I think it’s a bad idea.”

I glanced at him sideways. Tall and thin with bright red hair, brown eyes, and crooked teeth Travis hadn’t exactly won the genetics lottery. He was a geek of the first order, but he was
my
geek and so I tolerated his chicken shit ways. Most of the time.

“Don’t be a p-wussy,” I said, amending my word choice at the last minute. Travis was wound up so tight that any cursing would send him right over the edge. I reached across the gravel between us and patted his hand reassuringly. “It will be fine. It’s not as if we’re
taking
the car anywhere. We’re just starting it.”

“But why?” he said miserably.

“Because we can.” It was my new mantra for everything. Why steal one of my dad’s cigarettes and smoke it out behind the apartment even though it made me sick?
Because I can
. Why toilet paper Missy the cheerleader’s house even though we used to be best friends in the fifth grade?
Because I can
. Why make out with bad boy Everett James in the boy’s locker room at school even though he sucked at kissing and tried to feel up my boobs?
Because I can
.

“Come on,” I said, grabbing Travis’s arm and hauling him to his feet. “We have to go now, before the street lights kick on.”

The car I had decided to hot wire was located on a quiet suburban street ten blocks away from my suck ass apartment complex. Here the sidewalks were litter free and every lawn in front of the copy cat houses was mowed to perfection. Even the garbage bin we were hiding behind smelled nice. Like Chinese food and Febreze. I took a deep sniff as we slowly edged out to the street and my empty stomach growled in reply.

“Shhh!” Travis hissed.

“I can’t help it if I’m starving.”

“What! We just ate, like, half an hour ago.”

“I didn’t eat that much,” I protested.

“You had two cheeseburgers, an extra large fry,
and
a milkshake!”

I elbowed him in the ribs. “What are you, the food police? You know I have a fast metabolism.”

He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like ‘pig’ before he clamped his mouth shut. I let the insult pass. I have plenty of problems, but body image isn’t one of them. I am more than content with my height to weight ratio. I’ve always been able to eat whatever I wanted without having to worry about adding extra pounds. Just lucky, I guess. That’s me. Queen of Luck.