Posts Tagged ‘dark thriller’

Rebel graves

Light the fire, there’s a tale to tell,
Of a man who was more than man.
He came here many years ago,
A stranger to this land.

When the wind sings through the branches,
And yonder fire’s burning,
We shall set off on a wicked journey,
From which there’s no returning.

Now, this tale I wish to tell,
Of men and blood and war,
Is unlike many other stories,
In that it’s no mere folklore.

No, my friend, this really happened,
So draw your loved ones close.
And we’ll talk of Death’s own madman,
While winter’s chill wind blows.

When Henry landed on the New World’s shore,
Far from his native land,
He carried with him a lust for blood,
And a soul bound to be damned.

At once he was conscripted,
And sent straight off to war.
In the conflict between North and South,
On the New World’s blood-soaked shore.

Henry fought with rage unequaled,
His body count was rising.
He was feared by all, both foe and friend,
His methods paralyzing.

For Henry’s love of blood was such,
That when enemies did dwindle,
He simply switched his uniform,
And his death-lust was rekindled.

He killed by knife, he killed by gun,
He killed by bloody hands.
His savagery and brutality,
Was feared throughout the land.

In the blood of many he did bathe,
And drank their crimson veins.
In leaner times, he ate their meat,
And feasted on their brains.

One day, by chance, a musket ball,
Sank deep into his chest,
And Henry fell down to his knees,
Hands clutching at his breast.

Said Henry then,
“Come take me, Death!
I’ll take your place for certain,”
Death looked down at him and said,
“Oh no, dear lad, I won’t be had,
No man will draw your curtain.”

“From this point on, accursed man,
Your name will be Dead Henry.
You’ll have the world your slaughterhouse,
From the rabble to the gentry.”

“Wage all manner of perversity,
Impress me with your numbers.
But here’s the thing, my only string:
You’ll never know death’s slumber.”

Dead Henry’s wound did thusly heal,
And all wounds ever after,
As he walked the land, forever banned,
From Death’s own sweet hereafter.

He landed in Elmira,
That Hell upon the Earth.
Dead Henry found the pickings easy,
As he embraced rebirth.

He killed his way through inmates,
He took them day and night.
Their suffering at his horrific hands,
Gave Dead Henry great delight.

By and by the war was ended,
The prisoners were set free.
Dead Henry vowed to walk the land,
To kill just as he pleased.

So now, all these years later,
Though countless many tried,
His scars stand a mute testament,
To the times he should have died.

And here, my friend, the story ends,
Although without an ending.
Dead Henry walks among us,
His damage never mending.

So hurry home, and tell your children,
In the stillness of the night,
Dead Henry cares not what you’ve done,
And he’ll take what is his right.

For no innocent is innocent,
When all is said and done.
Dead Henry makes fools of us all,
But his battle’s never won.

Because a man who is damned,
Is more than a man, and possessed of one thing more:
A love of death in a strange new land,
On the New World’s blood-soaked shore.

Available in print at Folk Horror Revival,
in the Corpse Roads anthology.

 

Advertisements

happiness-07All along the boardwalk, happy people and happy families wandered, enjoying the warm late summer sunshine that carried with it the faint but unmistakable light of the approaching autumn. The air was saturated with the smell of corn dogs and soft pretzels, and children scampered around their parents, playfully shrieking with the sense of unfettered freedom that only comes with the very young, a freedom that would be lost soon enough to the vagaries of adulthood. The parents knew this, as all adults do, and quietly mourned the loss of innocence that would one day fall upon their children, as surely as it had fallen upon them.

Music rang out softly from cleverly concealed speakers; 70s pop from bands whose names few remembered, but lyrics everyone knew, their contagious catchiness declaring with anthemic earnestness that happiness was only a heartbeat away, just one more kiss away, that her magical spell was working so well, and that all would be right on a Saturday night. A slight breeze off the ocean wafted past the revelers as they took in the sights and the sounds of one last weekend before the weather turned.

The town’s autumns were its best kept secret; known locally as “Second Summer,” it was the delicate span of two to three weeks after labor day, when all the tourists had gone back home, and the town again belonged to those who lived and worked there. The pace slowed, rules relaxed a bit, and a cheerful glow enveloped the strand along the beach. This was the time in which, as if by communal agreement, nothing happened, as per the unwritten code of the tourist towns across the country. In the absence of Them, all that remained was Us.

Hands held, arms around waists, moving at a pace that spoke of neither hurry nor worry, everyone just happy and content to be here, to be sharing the quiet joy of Fall, and even if something was lightly fouling the air, a faint whiff of what, decay maybe, it would pass soon enough and be as quickly forgotten. Except that to some, the smell was growing stronger, more pungent. More wrong.

A gasp arose from somewhere in the crowd, the sound repeating as others turned to see, a susurration of shock whose echo grew louder, instead of diminishing. Children cried, their mothers and fathers drawing them close with iron-gripped hands, shielding their eyes from what they had already seen, could never un-see, their childhoods crashing down around them like milk bottles in a rigged carnival game. The throng of people parted, not unlike the Red Sea, at the sight of the woman among them.

The woman, if she could even be called that anymore.

She staggered along the promenade, this ruined wreck of a human being, oblivious to the multitude staring at her. Barefoot, shambling toward an unknown destination, each step leaving a bloody smear on the ground, gangrenous toes the dark purple-green of putrefaction, the hem of her tattered sweatpants as filthy as the feet beneath them, the knees torn through and crusted with dried blood, suggesting a lifetime spent on her knees; a torn, sleeveless cardigan hung open, making no secret of the nakedness behind it, the awful, shameless bruising and open sores weeping sickly yellow pus and blood, and the arms, the terrible arms with countless scratches and scars, suggesting that she might have been a cutter, but even worse, much worse than that, were the blackened track marks that flowed down from the crooks of each arm, the wounds that had never closed, homemade tattoos unidentifiable now but staining the flesh for ever more.

But the left arm, it must have been a trick of the light, certainly that if nothing else, because the left forearm…the skin was rotting away, the radius and ulna brownish-white and exposed like a dirty secret for all the world to see, ragged flaps of desiccated skin and tendons hanging loosely, hardly any meat to cling to, just empty air, the hand, if indeed it was a hand, flopping limply at her side and wrapped in a towel soiled and dripping, no tissue to give it life, to give it motion. As the horror of the arm attempted to lodge itself in the minds of those who saw it, they were powerless as their eyes went to her face, which was perhaps the worst of all.

Her hair, which may once have been strawberry blond, was a dirty, matted mess, hanging in her face, but not enough to cover it, not nearly enough, for her face was a tattered roadmap of self-hatred and abuse of many types. Blood vessels had bust like fireworks in one eye, leaving the sclera red and angry, while the other eye, its pupil dilated, wandered about, searching everything, focusing on nothing, blood leaking like awful tears from the depths of a hell beyond comprehension, her nose partially eaten away, scarcely more than a diseased crater in the middle of her face, yellow-green snot hanging in thick ropes, her occasional sniffles doing nothing to stem the tide of mucus running into and out of the hole where once had been a mouth, where once had been strong, white teeth, but now was home to rotting, ragged stumps of black and brown, lips chewed to shreds as though incredible pain had been sustained.

Her shoulders slumped, betraying any sense of height, and such was her appearance that her own mother, had she been there that day, would have failed to recognize her. The woman’s ruination was so complete, so absolute, that nothing of her humanity remained. Dragging a leprous foot behind her, she slouched onward, humming a song to herself, a discordant but familiar tune, so quietly that none of those nearest her, who cleared a broad path, could have heard it. Had they chanced approaching this malignant, walking nightmare, they might have learned something about her, but none there on that awful day were willing to cross the line between caution and foolishness which, as it turned out, made no difference whatsoever.

The sniffling got louder and she stopped in her tracks, body shuddering and trembling as though current was passing through it. Suddenly, explosively, she sneezed, the force of it doubling her over and as phlegm spattered the horrified faces around her, the sneeze caused her to violently void her bowels, a vile torrent of toxic shit staining her pants and cascading down her leg.

Screams erupted as those covered in her mess caught the smell, as though all they had seen had been abstract until they were spattered in her filth, that they were shocked back into reality. As the people scattered and ran, frantically clutching their children, the woman coughed slightly and pitched forward, her swollen, distended abdomen disgorging an impossible amount of black bile onto the ground, her face landing in the puddle of vomit. With death, the last of her muscles gave way, and a reeking lake of dark waste soon surrounded her, her wretched destruction complete.

In the distance, a siren wailed. By the time paramedics arrived on the scene, the woman’s purpose had been served; the poison that had exploded from her orifices and leaked from her pores, had reached nearly every soul on the boardwalk with absolute efficiency.

It had begun.

Cellar LightWe had to put Gramma in the cellar. We told ourselves it was for her safety, which was easier than admitting it was for our own.

Her ‘spells’ had been coming on more often, and with greater…passion. I guess that’s the word for it. There was no talking to her then, once she got it in her head that she was, well, once she got it in her head, is all.

We’d considered the attic, but there were too many chances for problems. She could have fallen or jumped out a window. Neighbors (not that there were many left) could have seen her up there and called the authorities, in some noble but misguided effort to help a crazy old lady they didn’t understand. And honestly, the noise wasn’t as bad when she was in the cellar. Call it callous, call it selfish, but you don’t understand. You can’t understand.

So yes, we decided, as a family, to put her down there. Because we couldn’t control her anymore. Because we love her. Because we deserve some goddamn peace. How the hell were we supposed to know what would happen? I built a bed, a solid pine bed, just for her. I sank the posts two feet deep into the earth of the cellar, so she couldn’t move it around. We put down a nice rug and made sure no drafts could get in.

She wanted her candles, but we knew better. Pa ran some basic electric down there, so she could have light to read her Reader’s Digest and bible stories, and we made sure to take her meals down every day. A hefty lock on the door helped us sleep at night. Routine settled in.

Days turned to weeks, then months and seasons rolled by, and we almost began to believe we were a normal family again. Except when Gramma had one of her spells. During those times, Pa and I dutifully took the van for the four-hour round trip up to the city, to fetch a playmate for Gramma. A playmate, for God’s sake. There wasn’t enough craziness in our heads to call it what it really was, and that’s saying a hell of a lot. Because it was the crazy that kept us afloat, kept us from coming completely unglued, kept us from calling the authorities, kept us from admitting that we were doing bad things. Really bad things.

That’s the power of family: It kept you doing things you knew were wrong, knew were bad, because there’s this bond that says family is more important than anything else. So you abide, and God only knows the depths to which you’ll sink to preserve that goddamn bond, even if it drives you to do the Devil’s work. Damn our souls.

So yeah, we took the van to town, and cruised skid row, looking for some poor drunk with one foot already in the grave. It’s a public service, we’d tell ourselves in the quiet, dark parts of the night. We’re helping those poor souls on the road to salvation. Because what they had to endure, we desperately hoped God would show them mercy, just as we knew He would have no mercy on us. We deserved no mercy, no salvation; we’d damned ourselves from the outset, booked our passage to hell because of family.

Gramma had come from the old country, making the passage across the ocean in the windowless hold of a wooden ship, with hundreds of others, all piled atop one another, with not enough room for all to sleep at the same time, taking shifts standing while others lay on raised planks, the floor covered in vomit, piss, and shit, all for the sake of escaping to the Promised Land, enduring Hell on earth as shipmates died from exposure, pneumonia, infection, beatings, and God knows what else, while those that lived choked on the stench of death and sewage in the hot, rolling chaos of the ship’s steerage hold. Food was scarce, causing some to shatter long-held taboos out of desperation.

Occasionally, a mate would open a hatch in the deck, allowing sunlight to stream in, fresh sea air mingling with the unspeakable reek emanating from below deck. When land was finally sighted, the dead were gathered up and unceremoniously dumped overboard, their tattered clothing and meager possessions long gone to the wretched horde, half-insane in the darkness of the hold.

Out of this waking nightmare came Gramma, not knowing that even then she was carrying the sickness in her gut like a despised parasite. Even at her tender young age, she came out of the darkness and brought with her a viciousness that few would ever live to see, and fewer still would ever believe.

Gramma, in her better days, would tell us her story, over and over, like a record stuck in a groove, as though we’d never heard it before, wanting us to understand the sacrifices she’d made, the things she’d had to do, to provide for us, to give us a chance in this place. To make us understand that we were beholden to her, forevermore.

So Pa and I would find a lost soul and bring it home. Send it down the cellar stairs, where we assured it that there would be food and drink, and a warm, safe bed. Our challenge was to get the door closed and bolted before the screaming started. Before the wet, tearing sounds found their way to our ears and burrowed into our souls, an ironclad guarantee of a sleepless night, fraught with images best left to a slaughterhouse.

Later, after Gramma’s hunger was sated and she was asleep, we would descend the stairs with the buckets and clean up what remained, thankful for the earthen floor of the cellar, into which the blood and other fluids had seeped, which fed an army of beetles and worms that kept Gramma fed and satisfied until the next time she had one of her spells.

I tried not to look at Gramma; we’d given up on trying to keep her clothed ages ago. Anything we tried to put on her would end up stained and shredded, as though the fabric on her skin was a sacrilege she couldn’t abide. The sight of her, covered in sores and filth, made my heart ache, despite the monstrous things she did. Her skin sagged, a testament to her years, its elasticity long since lost to the brutality of gravity and time. She stank of a dangerous musk that ran deeper than simply an aversion to bathing; though alive, a pervasiveness of decay floated about her like a dark and awful cloud. Stray teeth, blackened and jagged, glistened when she licked them with the remains of her tongue, chewed upon so much and so often that it had given up any hope of regrowth.

The madness of Gramma had forced Ma to flee while I was still a child, her teary eyes beseeching us to run with her, far from the grasp of Gramma, all the while knowing we would never, could never, leave her, not until the old woman died, which wasn’t going to happen any time soon. She’d already passed her one hundredth birthday, and seemed hell-bent on outliving all of us, despite the sickness that had ravaged her brain.

Ain’t nothin’ gonna stop her, short of a silver bullet,” Ma had wept, her breath hitching in her chest on that last night, rain coursing down her face as she stood in the doorway, taxi idling a few yards away. I remember her eyes then, soft and pleading, heartbroken and miserable, hating herself for the abandonment, but determined not to fall under the wheels of this inherited madness.

Those words resonated in my mind down the years that followed, as I scoured the land around our property for metals, slowly finding bits and pieces of what I sought, knowing that I could simply steal what I needed, but knowing too that, despite all the wrong I had done for the sake of Gramma, I couldn’t do the one wrong that might deliver us from her. By and by, I’d put together enough to melt down, the last of it coming from a small crucifix I’d found on the roadside, its tiny Christ shedding tears of pain and joy in his last torturous hours on this earth. I shaped the blob of metal carefully, burning my fingers time and again as I bled to make it absolutely perfect, leaving part of myself in it, as if a sacrifice was demanded as a means to this particular end. I carefully tapped the slug into a brass casing, already set with gunpowder and primer in place.

While Pa slept fitfully upstairs, I retrieved his rifle from the hiding place he didn’t know I knew about, and made for the cellar. Before opening the door, I racked my bullet into the chamber. I descended the stairs carefully and quietly, so as not to disturb Gramma.

Who is that?” she grunted, her words slurred, as if she weren’t accustomed to using the language, instead recalling it from distant memory.

It’s me, Gramma,” I said quietly, keeping myself in the shadows, hoping she wouldn’t see the rifle or, at the very least, not know what it was. “Just come down to tell you we’re making dinner. It’ll be here soon.”

You’re a good boy, Henry,” she said, her voice taking on a timbre and tone that I’d not heard in ages, sounding much like it did before she got so bad. Through my tears, I knew it was a trick of my mind, not to be taken seriously or given any semblance of meaning. Because while I knew I was doing the right thing, there was a still, small voice inside of me that thought I was doing bad, committing evil, despite the evil I sought to put down.

You abide by family no matter what, the voice said. At the end of it, family’s all you have. This was Gramma’s voice, echoing down the years. I knew its refrain by heart, and yet it caused tears to well up in my eyes as I shouldered the rifle.

I love you, Gramma,” I said quietly, my teary eyes sighting down the barrel, my finger on the trigger. I gently squeezed the trigger, just as I’d been taught.

The shot rang huge in my ears as the rifle’s recoil slammed it into my shoulder, instantly numb and deaf. Gramma slumped against the wall of the cellar, legs askew with no inclination toward modesty, the right side of her head blown to vapor, and I watched the last dim light leave her cataract-clouded eyes. A voice from the doorway above broke the silence.

You did good, son,” Pa said, his voice calm, without a trace of judgment or sorrow.

I watched our house burn from the rear window of the van as we drove away, into the cold light of a new day, the road stretched out in front of us.

Somewhere out there, I knew, Ma waited for us.

Okay look, I know I said I’d write, and the cold fact is that I didn’t.

I’m sorry.

There were the holidays, then my car took its final dive and that had to be dealt with and, you know, life sorta got in the way. In the midst of everything, I found I was being psycho-stalked on another social media platform, while getting nasty notes through WordPress, and that sort of thing…well…it hurt a bit, particularly since it was coming from people I know. Yes, they were hiding behind fake names and other faces, but really, it was idiotically simple to track it to them. Anyway, I’m not popping in to fan the flames of anger in the fragile minds of bitter trolls, so it ends here. Onward and upward.

The happy news is that Unworthy is selling. People are buying it, and while it hasn’t immediately swept the planet as I’d quietly hoped, people are reading it and the feedback has been overwhelmingly positive. For that, I am profoundly appreciative, and encouraged to continue with this writing thing.

I’ve begun research and writing on a new novel; I have no idea how long it will take, but I know that I want to take my time to treat the subject matter with the appropriate respect that it deserves. A while back, I posted a short piece called The Temple, and the novel will be a continuation of that. I’m really excited about it and even have a title but I’m not ready to talk more about it at this point. Suffice it to say, the main theme is something to which my generation has had an enormous amount exposure, with which many of us are sadly, intimately familiar.

Yes, it will be another horror story, because that’s the genre I love, and the area which best suits the things I want to say. I know that not everyone likes horror, and that’s okay. I just want to say the things I think are important and hope that it connects with whoever takes the chance and reads it.

To those who have read Unworthy: Thank you. Seriously, thank you. If you liked it, if it spoke to you, do me a favor and tell someone. Write a review at the site where you bought it, even if it’s just a few lines, because it matters. It really does.

So that’s the news from here. Nothing earth-shaking, but I’m okay with that. Take good care.

See you on the dark side.

They’d been in the jungle for three weeks already, their map having proven as useless as the intel that sent them on this fool’s mission in the first place.

“Locate and engage,” was the sum total of their orders. What did that even mean? Three weeks deep, MRE’s all gone, left to forage for roots and berries like savages, which was what they were on their way to becoming. Three weeks of sweltering heat, stinging, sideways rain, bloodthirsty mosquitos and leeches, three weeks bad jokes and old complaints and bullshit stories about the tail that Barnes had scored back in the world. Three weeks and counting, to locate and engage an enemy with neither face nor soul.

There had been a trail when they’d lit out, but it had been swallowed by the jungle weeks ago. They had an old, outdated map and a compass that was given to random twitches, as though they were walking across magnets. The dense foliage ruined any chance for sighting on the horizon, the heavy cloud cover made celestial navigation impossible. All throughout their trek, the jungle furnished its own soundtrack, the nonstop buzz of the insects, shrieks and calls of monkeys and birds in the trees, and the occasional lumbering crash on the ground to keep them alert and paranoid. By way of the endless visual and aural assault, it felt as though the jungle itself were conspiring against them, as if it were a living, sentient being, and nerves were starting to wear thin.

The men continued their slog through the marshy jungle, the mud sucking hungrily at their boots, sweat cascading across foreheads and down noses, onto rifles impossible to keep dry, patches of rust seemingly springing up in a moment’s time, dirty socks pulled snug over the barrels in hopes of keeping the worst of the mud and bugs out of their weapons because at some point, they might be needed. No idea when or where, or indeed if ever, the enemy was to be located. On the plus side, the men were hungry to engage, to focus their hopelessness and frustration at this chickenshit bug hunt and put a serious hurt on something, someone, whatever, wherever, just open up and unload a whole clip into the little pricks whose fault it was that they were out here in the first goddamn place.

McFarlane had taken point for the shift, and with a start he realized that the jungle had fallen totally, completely, stone silent. Rare indeed are the times in which this happens, and those are times in which no one is happy at the absence of sound. It takes something big, very big, or something bad, something very, very bad to shut down the complex network of shrieks and buzzes, mating calls and challenges, from bug to mammal to bird, to reach across the vast gulf of species and shake them into non-communication. McFarlane raised his fist, the silent signal to the others to halt in their tracks and quietly draw their weapons. Eyes open wide, McFarlane quietly walked a tight circle, scanning the jungle from floor to canopy, looking for something, anything, that warranted their attention.

Then he saw it, little more than a vague silhouette through the trees, but there it was – a straight, horizontal line, something rarely seen in nature because nature doesn’t follow the rules of geometry. Beneath the line was shadow, which indicated the possibility of something manmade, perhaps a structure, although how anyone could get in and out of this mess to find it was God’s own mystery.

“Pfft,” McFarlane whistled quietly while pointing forward, and the men instinctively fanned out behind him, advancing quietly, heel to toe through the tangled mess of roots, leaves, and mud, their training rendering them nearly silent. As they approached, form began to take shape and they could see that it was indeed a structure, built of chiseled stone, heavily and intricately carved, so much so that there wasn’t a blank space to be found. Moss covered many parts of what now came into view as a building of some sort, seeming to be maybe two stories high, with doorways and windows that appeared as blackened holes, like the missing teeth of a dangerous drunk. McFarlane signaled for the men to stay low as they approached the building; flashlights came out and were held at the ready, while curious eyes canvassed the structure for signs of activity, signs of life.

Barnes sidled up to McFarlane, whispering almost inaudibly.

“Sarge, I seen places like this before. This here’s a temple, one of them monk places. I think it’s where the targets are supposed to be hiding.” McFarlane nodded, and raised his fist again. The men went still as statues, straining their ears for any sound that would betray the occupants of the temple. His eyes played over the walls of the temple, seeing elaborate carvings of men and animals, some of the men appearing to have wings, others having more limbs than normal. While the temple looked as though it had been in this place since the dawn of time, the carvings were distinctly out of place for this part of the world. Hell, McFarlane thought to himself, there’s no place on earth where this would make sense. Bullet holes sporadically pockmarked the walls of the structure, a mute reminder for the team to be on their guard as they investigated. Bullet holes meant battle, which ratcheted the tension up several notches.

After several minutes of absolute stillness, they proceeded forward, their boots stepping onto heavy stones of the temple’s courtyard. As if triggered by their footfalls, the men became aware of an odor coming from the temple, a stench of decay that was more than just the mustiness of mildew and exposure to the elements. No strangers to carnage, they all knew the smell of death, and Death had visited this place, on a grand scale.

Tentatively poking their heads into the doorways, the men switched on their flashlights and listened intently for any sounds coming from within the darkened temple. Hearing none, they shined their lights inside and, with audible gasps, the combat-hardened team bore witness to that which they could scarcely comprehend.

There hadn’t been a battle here; this was an outright slaughter. The enemy had indeed been here, the shredded remains of their uniforms testified to that. For all the gore and viscera, there was little to the inside of this temple that appeared to be human until, McFarlane realized, this mess, this horror, was that of humans turned inside out, pulled apart and flung about like ragdolls, their blood and entrails painting elaborate designs on the walls and the ceiling and the floor.

None of the men had ever seen anything like the savagery of the scene; surely, they collectively hoped, no human would do something like this, no human could do something like this. This was not simply the beating of an opponent or an enemy; there was a fury to what had happened here, a rage that no one would willingly call human. And yet, seeing loops and swirls of blood on the walls, the dawning realization that whoever or whoever committed this brutality, they seemed to have enjoyed themselves immensely.

“No bones,” McFarlane whispered, his eyes not believing the truth that glistened wetly in the beam of his light. “There’s no goddamn bones. What the hell does this?”

“Another thing, Sarge,” Barnes said. “Ain’t no flies, neither. All this mess oughta have all sorts of critters gorging on…this, but there aint’ nothing here.”

With a shudder, McFarlane stepped into the building, his senses on high alert. Almost imperceptibly, he could hear a droning sound, very faint, from deep within the temple. He switched off his light.

“You hear that?” he asked the men, who nodded and strained to hear. “What the hell is it?”

No one knew, and they slowly walked into the building. In the immediate darkness of the temple, McFarlane cocked his head, moving slowly in the direction of the sound he couldn’t quite identify.

It was Rafferty who put a name to the sound. “That’s human, Sarge. Sounds like people chanting somewhere in here. Well, maybe it’s people, at least.”

McFarlane nodded, and in the dark stillness, he could see a dim, flickering light coming from somewhere in the depths of the building. The men fell into line behind their leader.

As they went deeper into the building, the dim light gradually brightened, while the chanting grew louder. Turning a corner, McFarlane saw a stone staircase cut into the floor, its outline illuminated from the light below. Quietly, and with weapons at the ready, the men descended the stairs, seeking whatever lay below.

Continuing from an earlier post called Bad Day at the Trailer Park

Buddy’s El Camino tore up the road at a furious pace, matching his mood. Not content for having gotten the better over Dean, Harley, and Monster, he turned his dark attention to Wanda Jean.

“Baby,” Buddy said, an edge of violence to his voice. “Tell me again what you done to them old boys back there.”

Wanda Jean rolled her eyes, careful to look away when doing so. “Honey, I done told you half a dozen times already, ain’t nothin’ more to say about it.”

“That’s for me to say, woman. Thing is, I’m leaning toward thinkin’ maybe you done a little more for them than just serve up some nasty rock.”

“Like what, Buddy? You think I screwed ’em? Is that it?” Like it ain’t enough that I went in there, alone, got them to snort death, and made it out with my skin in place while you just sat in the car, waiting?” Wanda Jean’s voice had taken a turn, her words laced delicately with spite. She hadn’t meant to taunt Buddy, but she was enjoying the feeling.

“The hellyou mean by that?” Buddy shouted, his face reddening with anger. “You callin’ me a punk for not tending to my own affairs?”

“Shoe fits, baby,” Wanda Jean said with a laugh, wondering just how far she could push the idiot before he went completely sideways.

Without taking his eyes from the road, Buddy’s right arm shot out, his fist exploding across Wanda Jean’s face. Neither shocked nor startled, Wanda Jean turned toward the window, spat out the remains of a tooth, before turning to look at the man behind the wheel.

“Oh baby, you done that good, didn’t you?” she asked, tauntingly. “You just uncorked one on me, and I reckon you feel justified in doing it, don’t you?”

“That weren’t my fault, missy. You made me do that, made me lose my temper, and I had to teach you a lesson. You learned, didn’t you?”

“That I did, sugar. I learned more than you think,” Wanda Jean cooed softly. “I learned what turns a man into a boy, I learned what sets you off, and I learned that you think it’s okay to put hands on a woman if you think she provokes you.”

“You listen to me now, bitch, and you listen good,” Buddy snarled, white knuckling the steering wheel. “What you just got was a warning, and it was about a six on the Buddy scale. You don’t never wanna see me take it to a ten.”

“Reckon I don’t, baby,” Wanda said quietly. “Now I know you’re a stone cold, natural born badass, and I done learned my place.”

Buddy laughed, the tension easing from his face, from his voice. “Ain’t that better? Now we understand each other.”

“Here’s what I want you to understand, Buddy. Them old boys back in the trailer? You’re right, I did more than give them that bad batch. Before that, I let them have me, all at once. And it was good, baby, so goddamn good. Better than you could ever be, that’s for damn sure.”

“You filthy-”

“ENOUGH,” Wanda Jean shouted, loud enough to hurt Buddy’s ears, loud enough to rattle the windows of the beat up car. Wanda leaned in close to Buddy, a sharp fingernail pressed against the side of his neck, blood pumping furiously through the artery beneath it. “You keep driving, and maybe I’ll let your sorry ass live. Maybe.”

Fear and rage fought for room on Buddy’s face. No woman had ever spoken to him like this, and damn if it was going to start now. “You ever raise your voice against me again, Wanda Jean, and I swear to you, there’s gonna be Hell to pay.” The menace of his words was betrayed by a tremor in his voice, a signal to both that while Buddy’s heart still believed he was in control, his brain knew better and just couldn’t give up the fight.

Wanda Jean put her hand at the back of Buddy’s neck and leaned in close, whispering in his ear. “Loverboy, you got but one last chance to say something decent. Just one.”

“You goddamn–”

Wanda Jean’s hand shoved Buddy’s head forward violently, his skull shattering the windshield. Stunned, Buddy’s hands gripped the steering wheel and threw a hard left. The car’s tires chirped against the asphalt in a desperate attempt to keep contact with the road, the rear of the vehicle swinging out and clipping a telephone pole, sending the car into a sidelong roll, over and over, down into a ditch filled with reeking sewage, where it settled on its roof.

Buddy never wore a seat belt, because he said that no man would ever tell him how to live his life. The crash had tossed Buddy around the cabin of the car like a rag doll while Wanda Jean, safely buckled in, laughed and laughed as his body rolled and rolled, bones breaking and joints snapping, cartilage tearing and flesh torn asunder.

When the El Camino finally came to a rest, Buddy’s breathing was wet and ragged, one lung collapsed and the other perforated by broken ribs as his body lay crumpled against the roof of the car.. Wanda Jean giggled to herself, upside down and suspended by the seat belt, giddy over what she had created. Even as he lay dying, Buddy attempted to talk.

“What…bitch…I kill you…who…are you?”

“Who, me? Lemme put it this way, genius: it weren’t no accident you found me at that titty bar, Buddy. Fact is, I was looking for something new, someone new, because I have work to do. I thought you might have been the one to stand by my side, but it looks like I was wrong, wrong, wrong.” She punctuated her words with pokes to Buddy’s chest, each causing him to shriek with fear and pain.

“Goddamn…bitch…” Buddy sputtered, blood bubbling at his lips.

“Even now, you just can’t let shit go, can you?” Wanda Jean rolled her eyes in disbelief. With the slash of a fingernail, she cut through her seat belt, her hands unbelievably fast, catching herself before she fell to the roof of the overturned vehicle.

“Aw shit Buddy, you done turtled your car!” she exclaimed, as she slithered out of the ruined car.  The smell of gasoline was strong; the tank had ruptured and fuel was dribbling out. Wanda Jean looked at the growing puddle of gas, cleared her throat, and spat at Buddy, who had by now also smelled the gas. Despite the angry protests of his ruined body, he was trying to claw his way out of the El Camino.

Wanda Jean stood and watched his pathetic struggle, still giggling at his pain. She’d put up with so much from this clown; the verbal abuse, the threats of violence, the leers from his degenerate friends, the hostility of his mother, living in that goddamn trailer, because she thought that he could be the one to stand at her side when she took her rightful place in the world.

“Not this time, shitheel.” Wanda Jean pulled a cigarette from its battered pack, struck a match on her zipper, and inhaled deeply. Nothing as satisfying as a smoke to help with life’s little troubles. One more inhalation took the cigarette nearly down to the filter, which she tossed absentmindedly at the puddle of gas.

The butt landed and almost went out; then, an almost inaudible foomp signaled ignition, as flames raced toward the tank. The sudden increase in heat panicked Buddy, whose screams  were those of terror, rather than simple pain and fear. The car erupted suddenly, cloaking Buddy in an envelope of fire, his screams silenced forever by the flames consuming his clothes, his skin, his muscle. Even as he burned, he tried desperately to pull himself out of the car, his pain sensors now completely shut down as his body went into full panic survival mode.

Wanda watched with mild interest, having seen such things before, so many times before. By and by, Buddy stopped trying, and once it was clear that he wouldn’t be coming back, she reached down and snapped off a couple of his fingers, and stuffed them in the pocket of her Levi’s jacket. She loved her barbeque.

Wanda Jean climbed up the embankment and onto the highway. She bent at the waist and fluffed her auburn hair, then stood quickly, throwing her hair back. After a quick adjustment with her bra (one of them had popped out in the crash), and she began walking, backward, her thumb raised, just a pretty girl in need of a ride.

bigstock_story_2226743Okay, I finally have a bit of news to share on the book front. My novel, Revival, is at the final draft stage. It is at this point that I would upload it to the e-book aggregator and let them have at it. Except I’ve decided against going that route. Let me explain. No, there’s not enough time.

Let me sum up.

I gave the manuscript to a trusted colleague for review, and the feedback I received far surpassed any expectations I held, so much so that I am now going to take the admittedly more difficult track, which is to find a literary agent who will shop the manuscript around to various publishers. Yes, this way takes patience and perseverance, two things which, historically, I have in short supply. I am, however, held aloft on a cloud of positivity which, again, is a rather precious commodity for me. but this is how we grow, or so I’m told.

Seriously, his review of my work is something I want to frame and hang on my wall, it’s that amazing and if all goes well, he’ll get cover blurbs if I have anything to do with it. After reading it, I just sat there for a while in a daze, amazed at how well things are going of late. I guess I spent enough time waiting for something to happen and am finally ready to actually take charge of this life.

However, getting the story published the traditional way will allow me an inroad to organizations that electronic self-publishing will not, and will give me that most desired thing, treasured by all writers: legitimacy. There is nothing wrong with e-publishing; many have done it, and some have done well. To my mind, at this point in my life, I want to be able to walk into a bookstore and see Revival on a shelf, to pick it up and pretend to be engrossed in it, to tell some innocent shopper that they might want to check it out and walk away giggling. Because I’m that mature.

So yes, there will likely be rejection letters, because that’s how things work. If I am to try to make a life of writing, however, I have to do it this way, if only to say that I tried.

So…Revival will not be available this summer for Kindle, Nook, iBooks or any other platform. It’s written and done, and now comes the hard part: shifting out of creative mode and into marketing mode. Wish me well, it’s going to be tough. But if it pays off, it will be awesome.