The Origins of Lightfoot

[Lightfoot]

Chapter 1

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It's December 21, 1969 in the high desert of Arizona. A body lies motionless on the ground in the moonlit night. A light snow has bathed the scene with purifying white, masking the gravity of the scene underneath.

The remains of a Dover Lightning smolders quietly nearby. It's entire left side is smashed in and riddled with bullet holes. Small whisps of smoke from the remnants of the fire that burnt out the interior and engine compartment dance in the breeze with the last few flakes of snow from the passing storm.

This was the ignanimous fate of Quincy Blair and his #65 race car "Gama": To die in the cold, forgotten and alone...

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He heard the faint sound of a winter stream running in the background as dawn broke across the barren landscape. As the day grew older, the sound became clearer but the flow sounded like it would stop and then start in ever increasing intervals...and there was an old native americans voice in his head:

It started quietly:

"Aho na hay! Today is a good day to die!

...and then it got louder:

AHO NA HAY! TODAY IS A GOOD DAY TO DIE!

...and louder:

*AHO NA HAY!* *TODAY IS A GOOD DAY TO DIE!* HEY! *HEY!* Wake up, light foot. You slept too long...*YESTERDAY* was a good day to die... Today isn't..."

It was then he realized the gurgling was coming from a bullet hole in his chest and not a stream...

It is December 22...a cold, wet Monday. Yesterday would have been a better day to die.

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[Lightfoot]

Chapter 2

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As consciousness ebbed and flowed through his mind he began to wonder if he was really alive or dead. If he was dead, why was it so cold and why did everything hurt so badly? If he was alive, how he had managed to escape death? Regardless of his state of being he concluded with his last remaining cognoscente thoughts that lying on the ground in the snow probably wasn't going to provide him with many favors. As he stirred every part of his body cried out. Although he was aware of the gurgling in his chest it would prove to be just a fraction of his worries.

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Movement came slowly and painfully to every joint in his body. Most from actual physical damage, the rest from nearly freezing to death on that long December night. His left hand was smashed and useless, as was his wrist and elbow. The additional joint that had formed between his elbow and shoulder also indicated a problem. He attempted to raise his right hand and much to his surprise, not only did it function, the only real pain that movement caused was in his ribcage...until he touched his face. Hundreds of tiny pieces of glass had embedded themselves into his flesh. Apparently, the only thing that had saved him from being blinded by the maelstrom of angry silicon was a pair of racing goggles, which now sat innocuously around his neck. Along with a large chunk of something else in his forehead, he was probably no longer as attractive as he once thought he was.

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[Lightfoot]

Chapter 3

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Rolling on to his right side had taken the better part of the day. It had started to snow again but this time it brought a bitter wind. He was not as cold as he would have expected. Perhaps it was the lack of blood in his body or the lack of life in his bones. Either way he thought it was nice not to feel as much as he thought he should. He had rolled away from viewing the remains of his Dover by coincidence of fate. The sight of the car in it's current state would have probably taken what little life was left in him, as it was the cause what had recently transpired. In the darkening distance there was an outline of an old barn. The roof had partially collapsed and did not look like it had seen human habitation for decades. He had decided that this was going to be his new home for however long he managed to live if he ever managed to reach it.

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The first day of winter, the darkest day of the year had came and left like a phantom as he crawled towards the barn. The faint trail of blood he left on his journey was swept under the blanket of new snow as if he had never been there. It was now daybreak on December 23 and he was still only half way to the barn. In the last 12 hours he had managed not to die and to pull his mostly dead body about 150 yards. All in all it wasn't a bad feat. Unfortunately, he hadn't yet realized that the lack of feeling that was growing within his body was either from blood loss, hypothermia or both and he wouldn't make another night exposed to the elements. The snow between him and the barn was frozen from the night before and this was going to be his ticket to life or death whether he knew it or not. Calling upon the last bit of strength in his body, he rolled onto his back and began pushing himself towards the barn with his one good leg.

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The leather back on his racing suit slid across the snow with considerable ease for the first 50 yards. Then the day had it's fun with him. As the sun rose higher, the temperature crept to a balmy 38 degrees. Not warm enough to be noticed from the night before but just warm enough to cause the snow to start to melt, halting his sliding progress. He had blacked out one more time, losing the better part of the day. The old Indian was talking to him again.

He said: "Only cowards, old people and weaklings die in the snow. A real brave would just stand up and walk to shelter."

He yelled out loud in reply to the Indians voice: "Shut up or help!" his squeaky plea lost on the wind.

The Indian replied: "Someone with such a light foot should help themselves. Look at what happened the last time you asked for help and where you ended up."

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[Lightfoot]

Chapter 4

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The sun was setting as he came back to consciousness. He was leaning at the door of the barn when his eyes refocused on where he had been. He could see his footfalls in the snow and where he had dragged his dead left leg along with him. His Dover sat cool and motionless in the distance. As he gazed at the car he smiled. The snow had given the car a clean white paint job and factory fresh appearance. It was enough to give him hope that someday soon he'd drive out of this place. He had no recollection of standing up or the last 100 yards of his journey. All he knew was that he was at his new home and the temperature was dropping rapidly. He could sleep a genuine sleep tonight if he could make his way the last 50 feet into one of the stalls that was still sheltered from the elements. With a determination unmatched by any he had shown in his previous racing career he hobbled to the stall, eased his way down the wall and began covering himself with the old straw that littered the area.

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December 24th. was lost to time as he slept. Had he stirred at all, his damaged body would have woken him abruptly with biting pain. Someone, somewhere must have been thinking happy thoughts for him to have allowed his slumber to go undisturbed for so long...but all good things must come to an end. December 25 started for him with his body in revolt. As the sun rose so did the blood in his lung. The ensuing coughing fit painted the walls with half congealed blood and spittle. As he faded back and forth between unconsciousness he knew that this was probably his last day alive unless his luck changed for the better...quickly.

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[Lightfoot]

Chapter 5

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"...Merry Christmas, light foot..." he said to himself as he realized he had slept through a day, half chuckling and half crying in pain at his mind calling him by that name. "...what do you want from Satan this year, little boy?" Again, making himself laugh was probably the worst thing to do but he couldn't help it. If this was happening to someone else it would sure the hell be funny, in a really sick sort of way, but funny nonetheless. As he surveyed his accommodations he made a list in his head of the last few things on earth he'd want. "For starters..." he said aloud once his list was done "...I'd like some food..." surprised by the fact that he even noticed he was hungry. "...then I wouldn't mind a nice fire and maybe something to ease the pain...then maybe after a nice nap I'd like to get back to civilization..." The thoughts trailed off as he faded out again but he could have sworn he heard the old Indian ask him if there was anything else he wanted. From the recesses of his mind he saw a dark vision of himself step forward and speak one word: "Revenge." As the scene faded to black he thought he heard the Indians voice once more:

"It will be yours."

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[Lightfoot]

Chapter 6

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The sun was setting on Christmas Day when he came back to consciousness. Unlike the last few times he had came to, he was fully lucid this time around. Aware of most of his major injuries and in touch with his faculties he slowly unburied himself from the hay to assess the gravity of his situation in the fleeting light. His entire left side was rendered useless. On top of breaks in his hand, wrist, arm, and ribs, the bullet that struck him in the side had gone through his lung and out the front of his chest. There were two additional holes in his leg, one mostly superficial and the other responsible for shattering his kneecap. As he continued to inspect his body he found glass chunks in his face and the piece of the roll bar stuck in his forehead. "I need a mirror." he said aloud "...then again, maybe I should wait for these to scab over before I take a better look at myself." He smirked at his newfound humor albeit a darker brand than usual and continued to take stock of his plight.

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He had reasoned that the only thing that had kept him from bleeding out and dying over the last few days was his "one size too small" racing suit and the exceptionally cold weather. Hypothermia frostbite and not freezing to death aside, he was relatively convinced of why he didn't die. He was perplexed by why he was still alive to begin with, though. The Firm is not known for "botching" jobs like this. If they want you dead, you're dead and that's all there is to it...but he wasn't dead and guys sent to do the job were no where to be seen. Instinctively he went to scratch his forehead in thought and found the answer he was looking for in the piece of the roll bar that was stuck in his forehead. With the mysteries of life and death unraveling around him he decided to use the last of the light to see what he could do about affecting repairs on his body and keeping himself warm.

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[Lightfoot]

Chapter 7

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The first thing that struck him when he pushed himself up the side of the stall was the old oat bucket, still half full, hanging from the side of the stall. "Food", it, seems was covered for a day or two. Smiling at the fact that the oats hadn't spilled out or fallen on the other side of the stall, he carefully removed the bucket and put it on the ground by his hay pile. As he surveyed the barn, in the back corner under the collapsed section of roof was an old pot bellied stove. Also in the debris was an old, old farm tractor. Using the edge of the stall to lean on he headed for a larger inspection of the barn. In the next stall he found an old glass jug 1/8 full of a clear, caustic smelling liquid. There was a length of rope hanging on the wall and a moldy horse blanket and an empty kerosene lantern with a broken lens in the middle of the floor. He had hit the jackpot in his first adventure around the barn.

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His immediate thought was to pour the liquid into the lamp and get it lit before darkness set in...then common sense kicked in: "Hey light foot," he said aloud "how are you going to run if you light your house on fire?" Almost giggling to himself, he set about collecting small pieces of wood to make splints and slogged back to his stall to start patching himself up as best he could and to have some stale oats and snow for dinner.

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[Lightfoot]

Chapter 8

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Within the warm, moldy folds of the horse blanket the fly larvae hatched and began their feast.

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This is where the first part of the story ends. There are a few disjointed semi-chapters written and most of the ending is complete but I probably won't have time to get to finishing it off any time soon.

If you'd like me to post the rest of what I have, let me know in the feedback thread. If you'd prefer to wait, I'll eventually tie all the peices together and will post them as I write them.

[Lightfoot]

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<INSERT TIMEWARP HERE>

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He tapped lightly on the drivers window of the black sedan. The tinted glass rolled down with the quiet whir of an electric motor. As the driver looked up at the person at his window he realized he had made a mistake. Before he could react there were two .45's blazing into him and the rest of the cars occupants. 7 seconds and 14 rounds later, with both guns empty and four bullet-riddled corpses in the car, he simply lowered his guns and walked away.

The crowd forming near the car was still in shock when he pulled back along side of the parked coffin in his blue and white Dover. The smell of high octane fuel filled the air as he nonchalantly tossed a Molotov Cocktail into the sedan and drove off??Four down, four hundred to go?? he muttered under his breath, disappointed at the ease of his kill.

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THE END