The Flucks is my (Ed) first novel and an experiment. We are independent creators, publishing chapter by chapter as a podcast and text. It’s designed to be heard. We’d love to receive your feedback so we can tell stories better.
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Text copyright © 2025 Ed Herrington
⚠️ Content Warning: Drowning, Suicidal Thoughts, Mostly Naked
Last time on The Flucks
Bones poked through skin at various bloody angles, and his chest moved up and down slowly. He was looking at me, wide eyes pleading for help, almost childlike. His breathing stopped.
A flash of hot white light blinded me. Shit, did that kill me?
When the light faded, I was still lying on the polished concrete floor beside the towers of boxes. All that remained of the man was a pile of dust filling a chalk outline shaped hole.
After a meet cute that was confusing for everyone involved, Slacy assesses his injuries. Severely wounded in an barren, city-sized warehouse, filled with the forgotten relics of a dead civilization, he struggles to find pants.
Chapter 6 — Just keep swimming
After my confusion faded, the searing pain in my legs called out for attention.
I lay flat on my back, contemplating the lines in the metal ceiling. My leg felt like the man looked before he disintegrated. I had to look, but I didn’t want to.
I tilted my head up. A bone was poking out at a rakish angle from my leg, in my mind—but not in reality.
My skin was mostly unbroken. But it felt the opposite. Must be a fracture. Small cuts and abrasions peppered my shins. They must have been torn open by that guy’s bones. I did not want to think about his blood mixing with mine right now.
I sat up, my apron askew. I rolled to my side to test my weight on the leg—fuck! No, it would not hold my weight. I couldn’t just lie here, though, so I tried again.
Push up on two hands, good leg to hold the weight, bad leg stretched out: Eka Pada Phalakasana. Man, I haven’t been able to do that for thirty years. Okay—now what? I look like a flesh tripod.
Maybe if I just use the bad-leg knee—ah, fuck nope. Pain bit into my leg, tripod limbs flared out, chest and face hit the floor. I passed out.
✹✹✹
Waves crashed on the beach. A warm sunny day. Mom digging sandwiches out of the cooler. Dad standing in the water, goofy, wide-brimmed hat, long-sleeve sun shirt, fishing rod in hand. He’s got a bite!
Here’s your lunch, sweetie, Mom says, and I turn to grab the paper plate. When you’re done, you can put on your swim vest and Dad can teach you to swim, she says while I munch my PB&J with Cheetos. I turn back to see what he caught—wait, where’d he go?
✹✹✹
Gasp. I awake—take a deep breath, choking, trying to spit the water out. But there isn’t any. God, I hate that fucking dream.
My face is planted on the warehouse’s polished concrete. I can see the dim reflection of the young man I once was. I lay there, trying to assess the damage, hoping my nose isn’t broken. No, just a split and bruised lip.
Well now fucking what? I could just lie here till I starve, but that’s no fun. I still have the box cutter in Ash’s bag.
If I kill myself, will I come back with a new body? Are there some rules to follow? Who’s the referee? I lived a long life. This new one isn’t going so well. If I killed myself and died for real, then I could finally rest.
I could—but then there’s the water. So fuck that. It seemed that when I died, I’d come back at some random location—most of them deadly.
The Earth is mostly water. I had, like, a one in three or four chance of landing in water. It’s a wonder I hadn’t already. I appeared on a frozen lake once. What are the odds of the next one being liquid?
You see, I can’t swim—never learned. I had died horribly four times already. I’d choose every one of them again before I’d set foot in the sea.
If I landed in water, there’d be a brief struggle, then I’d sink. I’d have total awareness while the CO₂ slowly built up in my blood. My autonomic nervous system would panic—my body would force a breath, even underwater.
I’d inhale fluid, throat would spasm shut—laryngospasm—me staying aware until it relaxed again. Then my lungs would fill, blood oxygen would plummet, and I’d fade out. Sixty seconds of conscious hell, followed by a few minutes of dying asleep. No thanks.
You might think I was a medical professional, but no—I’m no physiologist. I just had search engines and LLMs teach me in intricate detail after—well, after I found out drowning was a thing.
Alright, so that’s out, now what? I rolled onto my back, careful not to jostle my leg. Work the problem, Slacy—think! I checked Ash’s bag, ah, coffee and nuts—that’s a good start. I took a swig and chewed a handful while I schemed.
Time to bodge something together, or as my mom would say, MacGyver it. If only I had some duct tape or zip ties. The journal was hardbound. I ripped the cover off, stowed the thicket of paper, opened the cover flat, and bent it into a half-column.
Then I cut the straps of the apron and tied the journal splint around my leg. I need a few more strips of fabric, so I cut the apron into strips. Janky but functional. Now for the hard part.
I put my towel in my mouth, grabbed the strips, and pulled hard to tighten the splint while I bit down through a scream. I wanted to pass out again, but I vomited instead. Then I guzzled some lukewarm-brew. Caffeine helped dull the pain a little.
With my head a little clearer, I dragged myself to the shelves to pull myself up. Hold the shelf, put a little weight on the leg—okay, didn’t die.
Without the apron, I felt naked. Good thing I remembered my towel. I wrapped it around my waist and was digging the Roman warrior look.
I hobbled forward, using the shelves for support. I could move, but it was agonizingly slow. I needed a crutch. As I stumbled to each box, I cut it to peek inside. Kitty litter. Appliance. Sex toy. Appliance. Rubber ducks. Kitty litter. How many fucking cats did y’all have?
I was about to slice into another box when I saw it, that neon-green-yellow color of a hard hat and vest. A dust pile underneath.
Were all these people working while they had the Flucks? “If you can walk, you can work, just put on a mask,” I could imagine their boss saying. Yep, a zero-particulate mask sat atop the pile. I thought about taking it to filter out the dust outside, but that would be worse than putting on someone’s dusty clothes.
As I approached to loot—I mean inspect—the pile for anything useful, something lit up. A white square. It was one of those ruggedized tablets for job sites like this.
And it was powered on and unlocked. What kind of psychopath doesn’t put a passcode or biometrics on their tablet? My savior, I guess, because it had network access. Poor operational security, though.
On second thought, it was probably intended for shared use with shift workers. The moment I stepped out of the warehouse, it would probably lock. Then I’d need to authenticate to get back in. Not like it’s got incriminating photos on it anyway.
I couldn’t get on the internet or anything. I couldn’t tell if it was connected to some backup wi-fi or satellite. It only had one app. But it was the most important app: inventory.
I searched for crutches, hoping some were nearby. Nope. But it could pull up related items on shelves near me. It had some sort of location awareness within the warehouse. A few shelves over, wheelchairs.
I won’t bore you the details, but it was a real bitch getting over there and unboxing a wheelchair. Then I had to use the stupid little included Allen wrench to connect the wheels. Finally, I was ready to roll.
Once I had the tablet, it was easy to find pants. The problem was they were thirty meters up on shelves. After watching that wobbly, mute, barely human guy fall, I wasn’t going to try climbing them—broke leg or not.
What the hell was with that guy? Is that what it’s like when I appear somewhere? Is that what it’s like when I die? Why couldn’t he speak? Why was he scared of me?
Anyway, I won’t leave you hanging on a cliffhanger. I found some pants. First, I found a first-aid kit and a proper, flexible splint to do a better patch-up job. Rolling around made it easier to cover a lot of area in the warehouse. But I could only reach stuff on the ground level.
Then I got kitted out: tactical boots and shorts (pants would have to wait on leg to heal), “CONTAINS MEAT” T-shirt, knife, weather-shield jacket—the apocalypse survivor starter kit.
Oh, and can’t forget my Scar Flucks ballcap and name tag.
Author’s Notes
You didn’t think Slacy could just kill himself out of every tough situation did you? His stubbornness is a blessing and a curse.
In case you haven’t noticed, every chapter title is a meme. Each one has a double meaning. Swimming doesn’t always help, but sometimes that’s all you’ve got left to do.
Sorry to disappoint those hoping Slacy would stay naked forever. The man’s got business to attend to and can’t go around flashing the empty world that was left behind.
How many of your bosses would have said to put on a mask and tough out the Flucks like Ash and whoever left the tablet?
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