The Ending:
Chapter One
- - : Mort's conscience
- : Mort
- - Yeah. Okay. That hurt pretty bad. - -
Mort Rainey's eyelids fluttered open to reveal painfully bright sunlight, and a thick gathering of trees. Rather startled by his odd surroundings, he stood, only to swoon and fall to the ground again. His head throbbed. He reached up to feel a large knot underneath his thick, dirty-blond mop of hair. He brought his hand down to his face, knowing what he'd see, but still not wanting to see it at all.
- - Yep! Blood. I mean, how can you not put two and two together in this situation? Waking up in the middle of the forest, big freakin' bump on the back of your head, and it's bleeding when you touch it! Something is most definitely wrong here. - -
This was one of the most unusual situations that Mort had ever found himself involved in. However, in light of everything that had gone topsy- turvy in his life recently, he figured he should learn not to be surprised by anything.
About a month ago, Mort had found his wife, Amy, in bed with her lover, Ted, at a cheap motel. He'd been crushed, and Mort was now stuck smack-dab in the middle of a big, ugly divorce. Well, actually, he wasn't exactly sure if he was...not anymore, anyways. Amy was dead. She'd been murdered by Mort's newfound psychopathic stalker out to "burn Mort's life and everyone in it like a cane field in a high wind", as he, himself had so subtly put it. The man's name was John Shooter. About a month after Mort had moved out of his big, beautiful suburban house that he had shared with Amy, into their tiny cabin in the middle of nowhere, Shooter had come banging at the door, accusing Mort of stealing his idea for a book that Mort had recently written. You see, Mort was a bestselling writer, but at the moment was consumed by a nasty bout of writer's block. Mort, this depressed, reclusive guy, gets in the middle of a big stink about his story that had obviously not been plagiarized...and the guy threatens to kill everybody Mort cared about. And, as it turned out, it wasn't an empty threat! Mort was on his own, running from Shooter, with no one to help him but himself. Although he hated to admit it, Mort was afraid. He needed to find help, right now. So without another thought on the matter, he began to run, in the opposite direction of his cabin, into the very heart of the woods.
Chapter One
- - : Mort's conscience
- : Mort
- - Yeah. Okay. That hurt pretty bad. - -
Mort Rainey's eyelids fluttered open to reveal painfully bright sunlight, and a thick gathering of trees. Rather startled by his odd surroundings, he stood, only to swoon and fall to the ground again. His head throbbed. He reached up to feel a large knot underneath his thick, dirty-blond mop of hair. He brought his hand down to his face, knowing what he'd see, but still not wanting to see it at all.
- - Yep! Blood. I mean, how can you not put two and two together in this situation? Waking up in the middle of the forest, big freakin' bump on the back of your head, and it's bleeding when you touch it! Something is most definitely wrong here. - -
This was one of the most unusual situations that Mort had ever found himself involved in. However, in light of everything that had gone topsy- turvy in his life recently, he figured he should learn not to be surprised by anything.
About a month ago, Mort had found his wife, Amy, in bed with her lover, Ted, at a cheap motel. He'd been crushed, and Mort was now stuck smack-dab in the middle of a big, ugly divorce. Well, actually, he wasn't exactly sure if he was...not anymore, anyways. Amy was dead. She'd been murdered by Mort's newfound psychopathic stalker out to "burn Mort's life and everyone in it like a cane field in a high wind", as he, himself had so subtly put it. The man's name was John Shooter. About a month after Mort had moved out of his big, beautiful suburban house that he had shared with Amy, into their tiny cabin in the middle of nowhere, Shooter had come banging at the door, accusing Mort of stealing his idea for a book that Mort had recently written. You see, Mort was a bestselling writer, but at the moment was consumed by a nasty bout of writer's block. Mort, this depressed, reclusive guy, gets in the middle of a big stink about his story that had obviously not been plagiarized...and the guy threatens to kill everybody Mort cared about. And, as it turned out, it wasn't an empty threat! Mort was on his own, running from Shooter, with no one to help him but himself. Although he hated to admit it, Mort was afraid. He needed to find help, right now. So without another thought on the matter, he began to run, in the opposite direction of his cabin, into the very heart of the woods.