Word: Ghibli

 

ghibli

[ gib-lee ]

noun

a hot dust-bearing wind of the North African desert.

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               The car limbered to a halt. Not because the driver wanted to though. In fact, he pushed down the gas pedal more, swearing at the old vehicle the entire time. His only reward was the engine sputtering, and then nothing.

               “Damn it.” He said. “Of course it’d die here of all places.” He looked out the window. All he could see was sand and sky. The wind kicked up the small particles, filling the air with dirty golden particles. “Where is here anyway?” He asked his passenger.

               “You drove us all this way and you don’t even know where we are?” The smaller man asked. The driver shrugged.

The passenger popped open the glove compartment and pulled out a map. The man grumbled and fiddled with the paper in one hand and a pencil in the other. The writing implement made faint lines on the map, and the passenger occasionally looked around.

“Can’t be exact without a landmark, but we should be somewhere in Northern Africa.” He paused and looked more. “I want to say somewhere around Libya, but it’s hard to tell from here.”

The wind blew. Some of the dust and sand landed on the car. The driver huffed. He could guess that was the reason the car had stalled. He would have to clean it before they could move, and even then there was no guarantee.

“Great. So where’s the nearest town?”

“No idea. Like I said, I don’t know exactly where we are. And even if I did, it wouldn’t do us any good. Not like there’ll be anyone to help us.”

“Yeah. I know.” The driver said heavily. Neither spoke for a few moments. “Hey, think if I clean the engine out, it’ll start?”

“You’re asking me? Cars are your thing, not mine. All I know is how to make them move.”

“Fair enough. It’s probably useless anyway, with all the dust in the air it’ll just get clogged again in a few minutes anyway.”

“You’re not suggesting we walk, are you?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s dumb. We’ll never make it anywhere on foot, not in the middle of the African desert. And it’s not like there’s anybody we can call for help.”

The driver winced. “Yeah, but we can’t just stay here. We’ll die if thirst.”

“So wait until the wind stops, then work your magic.”

Neither man spoke for awhile. They simply listened to the wind blow. The silence became almost oppressive.

“When the car starts again, which way should we go?” The driver asked.

The passenger thought about it for a moment. “No idea. At this point, any way is as good as the other. North, maybe? Get to the ocean. That way I can do a better job of finding where we are. Plus, we’re more likely to find food there. Seafood, you know? Plus, we might be able to take the water and purify it if we play our cards right.”

The driver nodded. North it was. He leaned back and closed his eyes. It was as good a plan as they would ever have. 

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A song to listen to while reading: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zSAJ0l4OBHM.  Yes, I know it doesn't fit perfectly, but how many songs do you know about traveling in a desert? Yeah, that's what I thought.

Word: Rathskeller

 

rathskeller

[ raht-skel-er, rat-, rath- ]

noun

1. (in Germany) the cellar of a town hall, often used as a beer hall or restaurant.

2. a restaurant patterned on the German rathskeller, usually located below street level.

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               George surveilled his domain, his little kingdom. It was not much, but it was his. A small, dingy room with poor lighting and even worse ventilation. Cigar smoke hung in the air like fog, and the smell of beer was always present. The sound of footsteps coming from the town hall came through the wooden ceiling, showing the evidence of the common man above them.

               It was the kind of place no sane man should ever want to set foot in. And yet, all the tables in George’s little kingdom were filled with people in fine business suits. The waitresses, all pretty young things in skirts just tight enough to be interesting, wound their way through the place with practiced ease. The customers joked as they indulged in drink and smoke. Those were high quality affairs. George had people to please. The ambience might not have been much, but he prided himself on having the best product.

               “Hey George, new booze?” Called one of his regulars.

               “Sure is, Jack. Nice little upstart brewery on the coast.”

               “Well, keep ordering from them! This is great stuff.” Jack said, raising a glass. This was met with approval from the other customers. George nodded. He always prided himself on picking out the best.

               His customers talked and laughed. But then a small yelp reached George’s ear. It came from a table near a wall. A group of new customers sat there. George always welcomed new customers, so long as they listened to the rules of his kingdom. George frowned as he saw what had happened.

               One of his waitresses had gone over for a little harmless flirting for tips. Everyone did it. All the customers knew it meant nothing but a little extra skin flashed every now and then in exchange for a few extra dollars. But this new customer seemed to not know this. He dared to lay a hand on one of his waitresses. In fact, the hand was still there, in a place where it had no business being. The waitress was clearly trying to get away, but the size of the room betrayed her.

               “Hey, hands off the staff.” George said. His voice carried well.

               The customer and his friends just laughed him off. George’s face creased into a frown.

               “Last chance. Hands off the help.”

               “Ah, get stuffed old man. I tell you what to do, you don’t tell me.”

               George huffed. What an attitude. He was just glad that not all young people shared it. But he could not lament. He was the king here. And a king’s word must be obeyed.

               “Alright, if that’s how it is, then you can leave. Get out of my bar.”

               By now, all talk had ended. Everyone was looking at the youth. The young man scoffed.

               “Did you just tell me to leave.”

               “I did.”

               The young man sighed. Then he reached under his jacket and pulled out a gun. “I’m sorry, but I think—”

               He was interrupted by everyone else pulling out their weapons. All of them were aimed at the troublemaker. George moved slowly and reached under the bar. He came up with a shotgun. He did not even need to cock it.

               “Get. Out.” He said. In those two words, he put all the weight of his authority. Outside the walls, his words meant little, but in here, they were as immutable as a mountain and carried as much weight.

               The young man holstered his gun and clicked his tongue. “Beer here’s rotten anyway. Come on guys, let’s find a real bar.”

               The man and his friends got up and left, heading up the stairs to the town hall proper. Eyes and guns were trained on him until the door closed. It was only then that peace and merriment returned. George nodded and returned his weapon. With the law upheld, all went back to normal.

               To others, George might just be a bartender in a small beer hole under another, more important building. But to those who knew about it, it was a kingdom, and George was the king. And nobody went against the king.

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Of course this word would be German. The Germans have crazy words for damn near everything. 

Word: Dauntless

 

dauntless

[ dawnt-lis, dahnt- ]

adjective

1.not to be daunted or intimidated; fearless; intrepid; bold: a dauntless hero.

noun

2. (initial capital letter)Also called Douglas SBD. the principal U.S. Navy fleet bomber of early World War II, capable of carrying bombs or depth charges and particularly successful as a dive bomber.

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               The enemy was endless. Unceasing tides of cold flesh that moved in chaotic waves. The people huddled behind the large, thick stone walls that protected them. All knew that it was a temporary measure. The swarms would break down the walls eventually through sheer weight of numbers. They needed someone to rally them. To restore their courage and will to live, and maybe even fight back.

               Terry just wished it was not him that had to do it. He did not want to be the leader. He should not be the leader. And until very recently, he was not the leader. Unfortunately, the person who people had actually been counting on to save them had died. At least it was a reasonably good death. Terry heard the guy took down almost two dozen of them down with him.

               It was a drop in the ocean, but damn did it sound good. Of course, that did nothing to help their situation. And now Terry had to play the part of the fearless leader. He had no idea how to do that. He was neither fearless, nor a leader. He got scared when a fly buzzed passed him, and the only thing he had lead was a crude song number with his cousins.

               And yet, for some reason his predecessor had left him in charge. He still had no idea why. There were so many better people for the job than him. And yet, there he was, standing on top of the wall trying to look brave. Trying to keep his knees from giving out. Trying not to think about what would happen when he inevitably failed.

               He looked out over the hoard, and then to the people who were looking up at him. Most had no idea who he was. He had always kept to himself. He liked it that way. When nobody knows who you are, nobody expects anything from you. So how had the least leader even known who he was? It made no sense. None of the situation made sense.

               He looked at his advisors. People who actually knew how to lead. People who could be brave. People who people could count on. Why were none of them standing there? They could give a great speech to rally to people. With one of them at the helm, they might actually have a chance to survive.

               But, he had been chosen. Out of all the people that could have been picked, it had been him. For some reason that not even the advisors seemed to know. And now the people were expecting him to give some kind of rousing speech. Something to lift their spirits and given them hope that they would survive another day.

               But Terry had never been good with words. He had never really used them to do much of anything. That was not how he could do what his predecessors thought he could. He needed to do something else. He looked around and saw something. A bow and a quiver of arrows, resting inside the door. One of many lined up for defenders, now that guns were no longer usable.

               Terry sighed. He had never used one of those before, but he did not have to be a crack shot to hit something now. So, he silently went and retrieved the weapon and knocked an arrow. It was awkward and he had trouble keeping it where it needed to go. Pulling the string back was harder than he thought as well. All in all, it took a few minutes before he could actually successfully fire the weapon. And when he did, the arrow struck an enemy in the arm. Not even a crippling shot.

               But it was enough. Another person, one of his advisors, took up the bow and wordlessly joined him, shooting at the unending hoard. Another advisor came out. And another. Soon, normal people were climbing the wall, weapons at the ready.

               They began fighting in silence. Shooting, throwing, whatever they could use. Nobody said a word. Nobody complained. Nobody ran. They simply picked off as many as they could.

               Maybe Terry could do this job after all, in his own way. 

*********************************

Ah, zombie stories. Is there anything quite like them?