P. Frank Winslow pulled page sixty-two out of the typewriter and added it to the pile, then leaned back and considered the stack of pages he’d typed. Averaging two hundred-fifty words per page, that came to 15,000 words. In less than one day! In all his years of writing he’d never done that. Never even come close.
Admittedly, it hadn’t been a typical day. He hadn’t slept a wink, hadn’t eaten a morsel since his arrival in whatever and wherever this was. With no fatigue and no hunger, he’d surrendered to the Disease and kept on typing.
He’d taken breaks to stretch his legs and use the bathroom and give his fingers a rest. The tips were sore from the extra pressure required by the mechanical keys.
When dark had fallen he’d flipped the wall switch and lights came on. Frankie used one break to go up to the roof and scan the city for another lighted window, but couldn’t spot a single one.
Earlier in the day, shortly after sunrise, he’d wandered the streets around his building looking for another soul but found no one. Completely deserted. No shops, either. Block after block of blank-eyed apartment buildings, all looking like they’d been furnished by Ikea, all fitted out with heat and electricity and hot-and-cold running water, but no people.
The loneliness and isolation on the street pierced him. Frankie had never been a social person, but also had never realized the subconscious comfort he’d taken in knowing other people were around if he ever felt the need for a little human contact. The loss of that option disturbed him more deeply now than he ever could have imagined.
He hurried back to his building. He didn’t need to sleep, didn’t need to eat, but he needed to keep writing. He’d already reached novelette length, and at the very least this as-yet-untitled piece was going to be a novella. Maybe even a novel. He didn’t know at this point.
What Frankie did know was that he was spinning out the best thing he’d ever written. Deeper, richer than he’d ever imagined he could produce. Being cut off from humanity had sparked an inferno of thoughts about the human condition, all weaving into a gut-wrenching story. This was going to blow readers’ minds. He’d have to come up with yet another pseudonym if he wanted it taken seriously, because no one would ever believe P. Frank Winslow or Phillip F. Winter or Phyllis Winstead capable of this.
No hunger, no fatigue, and once-in-a-lifetime inspiration. A writer’s dream.
He’d finish it here in this strange, lonely place…and then he’d have to find a way back. Because what was the point of writing the Great American Novel if no one was ever going to read it?