Archive for September, 2011

Running Red, by Keri Knutson

Posted: September 21, 2011 by Shaina in Keri Knutson, Vampires
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Running Red, by Keri Knutson

Running Red, by Keri Knutson

 Running Red, by Keri Knutson
Available at Amazon

Description:

Jesse Stone has been running the night roads for 150 years, preying on humanity for survival, but he still feels an ache from the empty place where his soul was torn away. Other vampires – an ex-SS soldier, a fanatical tent preacher, an Aztec biker – have been gathering an army for an assault on humanity.

Now Jesse must lead a rag-tag band of humans against the others, in a last-ditch attempt to find redemption…

Excerpt:

It didn’t take Jesse long to cover the few miles that separated the citadel from the camp. The moon was moving toward a new phase, nearly full now, and it seemed almost daylight to him. He longed for the bike, feeling small and vulnerable without it. He would just have to be fast enough on his own.

As he neared the ridge that edged the small canyon, a new scent was carried to him through the still air. It was slightly acrid, sweet and smoky underneath. Familiar. There was no other smell on Earth quite like it. He slowed down and unslung the rifle as he moved closer. The sound from the canyon was like the crackling of paper, punctuated by an occasional shout. He lowered himself to the ground and crawled to the edge, the rifle ready in his right hand.

The fire was larger, more alive, and the smoke from it billowed an ugly black. Men still ringed the small inferno, but the Harleys were in an ordered line at the mouth of the canyon and there was no gear littered around.

A jumbled mound lay to the right side of the blaze. There were men on either side of the mound — a beefy shirtless man who was not human and a lean James Dean wannabe in full leathers — and as Jesse watched, they leaned down and heaved another body onto the fire. They had fed and they would be moving. He quickly counted the figures that ringed the fire, squinted and counted again. There were eleven men down below. Two were missing. One of the missing was Tesca.

Jesse pulled back and looked around him quickly, a burst of fear squeezing his heart. He scanned the shadows that lurked in the rocks around him, but could sense no movement. He was out of time and he knew it. He chose a target and lifted the rifle to his shoulder. Had he been a different man, he might have said a prayer. He pulled the trigger.

A split second later the shirtless biker’s head exploded in a flower of red and he slumped onto the pile of bodies before him. Jesse worked the lever and fired again, catching a tall thin man with a ponytail in the right temple. As he fell forward the others broke and began to move, hitting the ground in a chorus of yells, scrambling toward the bikes on the far edge of the fire.

“No immortality,” Jesse whispered and pulled the trigger again. He heard the rumble of engines and couldn’t get another clean shot. He pulled back and waited, adjusting his vision to the cool darkness that surrounded him. He rolled on his back and scanned the area, hearing the roar behind him fade slightly as they circled up from the canyon. He got to his feet and began to move. He heard a rustle from the rocks to his left and spun, rifle at his waist, finger already squeezing the trigger. The muzzle flared and the dark figure before him staggered, but kept coming. Jesse pulled the lever, but there wasn’t enough time, and he felt the breath leave his body as his back hit the ground. His teeth snapped together as the biker rammed his head back into the dirt.

He shoved up with the rifle and then released it, bringing his right hand up, feeling the knife slide into his palm. He slashed wildly, feeling slick blood spatter his face, but the snarling man on top of him didn’t let go. Jesse struggled, a part of his mind hearing the sound of the engines growing in the distance. He gave a desperate yell and shoved up hard, feeling the give as the knife bit, the jar as it was stopped by bone. The man let go abruptly and rolled on his back, hands clawing at the hilt of the knife that protruded from his thick neck. Jesse got to his feet and pulled out the Colt. He fired once, and then reached down to retrieve the knife, wiping it on the man’s tattered shirt and quickly replacing it against his forearm. He picked up the Winchester from the ground and turned to look behind him. The roar was growing, angry bees swarming from a ruined hive, and he could make out the glowing movement of distant headlights.

“Follow me, you sons of bitches,” Jesse said. And then he began to run.

~~~

The distant crack of the rifle made Gracie jump, and the one that followed a few seconds later seemed to echo too long. She gripped the shotgun tighter and scanned the area that lay beyond the circle of rock. Another shot, and she jumped again in spite of herself.

She could see Ben pressed against the ledge across from her, the outline of the rifle in his hands as he steadied himself. She turned her head to where Mal waited across from her, and saw the pale flash as he turned toward her, one hand outstretched. She turned back toward the direction where Jesse had disappeared, and focused into the distance as another shot rang out.

Her vision blurred, and she closed her eyes until she heard the distant rumble growing out of the darkness.

They were coming.

~~~

Jesse ran hard, dodging the rocks and dips in his path, boots kicking up dust and sand. The roar behind him grew until it was a solid wall, and he could see the headlights cutting through the darkness on either side of him. Eight, he thought, there should be eight and Tesca. Tesca. Where the hell was Tesca?

He looked up and saw the circle in the distance. The citadel. Not much farther, he thought, not much…..

The first bullet hit him high in the right shoulder and he lurched forward but kept moving, each step bringing him closer. He could hear shouts above the engines, sharp reports as the more of the bikers opened fire again. He ignored the dull pain that coursed through his body, radiating from the wound, kept his head down and saw the bits of rock and sand that flew up as more bullets rained around him. Another jolt of  agonizing pain flashed and his left leg buckled. He went down, and just as quickly scrambled up, still moving forward as the first answering shots came from in front of him. He looked up and knew he was almost there, could see the muzzle flares. A flash of pain again, white-hot behind his eyes, and everything went black.

~~~

Gracie saw the flash of lights in the distance, bobbing crazily as the bikes navigated over the rough terrain, heard the growl of engines grow. She looked toward Mal, and saw him raise his rifle to his shoulder. She re-focused her attention on the approaching riders.

She scanned for Jesse, knowing he had to be out there somewhere. She finally made out the lone, running figure passing in and out of the headlights and her heart caught. She heard the distant pop of gunfire, saw the brief flares as weapons discharged. He wasn’t running fast enough.

Ben fired first, and one of the Harleys reared like a frightened horse, headlight pointing skyward for a moment before the bike fell and spun away in the dust. The other riders split out momentarily reformed into a rough semi-circle, gaining speed. Mal’s rifle cracked and the rider farthest out on the left side fell, his Harley choking to a stop.

The bikers must have realized where the gunfire was coming from, because bullets began to hit the stones that ringed the circle, chipping off bits of rock and sending them through the air. Gracie didn’t duck back, even when a bullet hit the spire a few feet from her head, sending a sharp chip whizzing past her cheek, nicking the skin and sending a line of hot blood down her face. She kept her eyes on Jesse, willing him to move.

She saw him go down on one knee, and get back up, and she leaned toward him, trying to pull him forward through sheer force of will. He began to close the distance, maybe thirty yards now, and she thought he would make it, had to make it, when he stopped abruptly and pitched forward onto the sandy ground. He didn’t get back up this time. Another bullet went by her, and she felt its passing, heard the whine. This time she ducked around the spire and crouched low on the edge of the rocks, her back against the sandstone. She raised the shotgun and held it ready, waiting for the rest of them to close around the circle.

Running Red, by Keri Knutson
Available at Amazon

Dead of Winter, by Brian Moreland

Posted: September 14, 2011 by Shaina in Brian Moreland, Occult, Western, Zombies
Tags: , , , ,
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Dead of Winter, by Bryan Moreland

Dead of Winter, by Bryan Moreland

Dead of Winter, by Brian Moreland
Available at Amazon 

 Description:

A predator stalks the frozen woods.

At a fort deep in the Ontario wilderness in 1870, a ghastly predator is attacking colonists and spreading a gruesome plague—his victims turn into ravenous cannibals with an unending hunger for human flesh. Inspector Tom Hatcher has faced a madman before, when he tracked down Montreal’s infamous Cannery Cannibal. But can even he stop the slaughter this time?

In Montreal exorcist Father Xavier visits an asylum where the Cannery Cannibal is imprisoned. But the killer who murdered thirteen women is more than just a madman who craves human meat. He is possessed by a shape-shifting demon. Inspector Hatcher and Father Xavier must unravel a mystery that has spanned centuries and confront a predator that has turned the frozen woods into a killing ground where evil has come to feed.

Excerpt:

Part One

Predators and Prey

December 15, 1870

Manitou Outpost

Ontario, Canada

It was the endless snowstorms that ushered in their doom. Each day and night the white tempests whirled around the fort, harrowing the log houses with winter lashings. At the center of the compound, the three-story lodge house creaked and moaned. Father Jacques Baptiste chanted in Latin and threw holy water on the barricaded front door. Above the threshold, a crucifix hung upside down. No matter how much the Jesuit priest prayed, the Devil would not release its grip on this godforsaken fort.

Something scraped against the wood outside. Father Jacques peered through the slats of a boarded window. Tree branches clawed violently at the stockade walls. The front gate stood open, exposing them to the savage wilderness. It also provided the only path of escape. If by chance they made it out the gate, which way would they go?

The priest considered their options. Beyond the fort’s perimeter, the dark waters of Makade Lake knocked plates of ice against the shore. Crossing the frozen lake would be a dead man’s walk. Last week, two of the trappers fell through the ice. The only way out was through the woods.

Father Jacques shuddered at the thought of leaving the fort. The trappers had fortified the outpost to keep the evil out. They hadn’t counted on the savagery attacking them from within. He prayed for the souls of the men, women, and children lost in the past few weeks. Last autumn, the French-speaking colony had been twenty strong. Now, in midwinter, they were down to four survivors and not a crumb of food to split among them. How much longer before the beasts within completely took them over?

“Forgive us, oh Lord, for our fall from grace.” Father Jacques sipped the holy water. It burned his throat and stomach like whiskey. “Cast out these evils that prey upon us.”

Behind him, the sound of boots approached from the darkness. The priest spun with his lantern, lighting up the gaunt face of a bearded man. Master Pierre Lamothe, the fort’s chief factor, wore a deerskin parka with a bushy fur hood. His eyes were bloodshot. He wheezed.

The priest took a step back. “Are you still with us, Pierre?”

The sick man nodded. “Just dizzy, Father. I’m so damned hungry.”

Father Jacques knew the pains of hunger. Each passing day it pulled his flesh tighter against his ribcage. “We’ll find something to eat soon, I promise. Here, take another sip.” He offered the bottle of holy water.

Pierre took a swig and winced. Seconds later he stumbled back, rubbing his eyes.

“The burning will pass.” Father Jacques grabbed his wrist. “Remember our plan?”

“Yes… check on the horses.”

“We must hurry. Now may be our only chance.” They removed the barricade from the door. A long staircase led down from the second floor to the snow-covered ground. “Bless me, Father.” Pierre raised his shotgun and stepped out into the blizzard. He all but disappeared in the white squall. The only parts visible were his hood and the outline of his shoulders. Father Jacques nervously watched the fort grounds. At the surrounding cabins, wind howled through shattered windows and broken doors. When Pierre reappeared at the stables, the priest released his breath.

Please let the horses still be alive.

The chief factor pulled a horse out. The poor animal was so thin its hide sunk into its ribs. As Pierre threw a saddle on its back, he raised two fingers, signaling that a second horse was still inside the stable.

Father Jacques closed the door and clasped his hands. “Thank you, oh Lord.”

Someone tugged at his cassock. He looked down to see a small, French-Indian girl. Pierre’s daughter Zoé had tousled black hair and large brown eyes that had kept their innocence despite the horrors they’d witnessed these past few weeks. The girl held a tattered Indian doll to her chest. “I’m afraid, Père.”

Father Jacques touched her head and gave the most comforting smile he could conjure. “Don’t worry, Zoé, the angels will protect us. Here, you need to bundle up.” He fastened her fur parka, pulled the hood over her head.

“I want Mama to go with us.”

“I’m sorry, Zoé, but she’s too sick. She would die out there. You, your papa, and I are going to ride out to the nearest fort. Then we’ll send help back for your mother.”

The girl frowned. “Noël says you’re lying!”

Father Jacques glanced down at the Indian doll. One green eye stared back. The other eye was a ragged hole. Since Zoé had stopped eating two weeks ago, she suffered from dementia. She spent most of her days whispering to her doll. Father Jacques wanted to rip its head off. He squeezed his fist. “Noël is just afraid like the rest of us. Now, pray for forgiveness for speaking to me in that manner.”

“Sorry, Père.” Zoé crossed herself and bowed.

“Now, drink.” He gave the girl the last of the holy water. She drank it and winced as if it were castor oil.

Outside, the horses whinnied. A shotgun fired.

Father Jacques dashed to the window. He searched the fort grounds. A saddled horse ran in circles. Where was Pierre?

Behind the wall of whirling snow, more shots were fired. Then came a scream. Pierre stumbled out of the mist. Blood spouted from the stump of his shoulder. He was missing an arm.

Peering out the boarded window, Father Jacques screamed at the sight of blood gushing from Pierre’s shoulder. As the wounded man stumbled up the front steps to the lodge house, the white mist rolled in from behind and swallowed Pierre. His scream was cut short.

“Papa!” Zoé ran toward the barricaded door. “Let Papa in!”

“No, move away from the door.” Father Jacques grabbed her hand and backed away.

Outside, the storm wailed. Snow blew in through the cracks of the boarded windows. Footfalls charged up the staircase like thundering hooves. Something rammed against the front door. The hinges buckled.

Zoé shrieked.

“Back to the cellar!” The priest pulled the girl through the dark corridors of the lodge house. Behind them, the front door crashed open. Terror stabbed Father Jacques’ chest with icy pinpricks at the shattering of windows and splintering of wood. Growls echoed throughout the lodge.

They’re inside!

Zoé released a high-pitched shriek.

“Stay quiet, girl.” The priest led her down the cellar stairs. The swinging lantern slashed the darkness with a pendulum blade of light. Scratches and streaks of crystallized blood glistened on the steps and walls like a gallery of agonies marking the descent to hell.

They ran into the dark cellar. Father Jacques brought down an iron bar across the door and shoved crates against it. He took the child’s face in his hands. “Hide, quick.”

The girl crawled inside a nook stuffed with fur pelts. She hugged her doll to her chest. Father Jacques pulled a deerskin blanket down over the nook so Zoé was fully hidden. “Don’t come out no matter what you hear.”

A raspy voice whispered, “Father…”

The priest aimed his lantern at a row of beds. The storage cellar had been converted into a makeshift hospital. In three beds lay twisted corpses. In the closest bed, an Ojibwa woman was lying beneath the quilts. Wenonah Lamothe, Pierre’s native wife. She was too delirious to know that her husband was dead. Her skeletal head rolled back and forth on the pillow. Teeth chattering, she coughed clouds of frosty air. Her long, black hair now had streaks of white. Her skin, normally reddish brown, had turned fish-belly pale, with white scabs and ghastly blue veins. She looked to the priest, her bloodshot eyes pleading him. “Help me, Father.”

“I’m sorry, Wenonah.” God had failed her. Failed them all.

The Jesuit picked up a silver cross with a daggered tip. “I cast out all spirits of Satan.”

The woman tied to the bedposts growled like a wolfhound.

Father Jacques stood at the foot of Wenonah’s bed. Her thrashing body smacked the headboard against the wall. She laughed and moaned, blue tongue licking her lips. She kicked off her quilts, thrusting her hips upward, spreading her bony legs for him. Remaining steadfast in his prayers, the priest raised the holy dagger over the Ojibwa woman’s chest.

Wenonah glared with fiery eyes.

Zoé yelled, “Mama!”

“Stay hidden, child.” Father Jacques stumbled back as a wave of emotions coursed through him. Anger. Fury. Rage.

Hunger.

His stomach ached for something meaty. Raw and bloody. He sniffed the air, his keen sense homing in on the nook where the girl was hidden. Beyond the scent of animal furs, Father Jacques inhaled the salty aroma of blood pumping through a heart.

Eat the girl! growled a voice inside the Jesuit’s head. Eat the lamb’s sweet meat.

“No. No. No.” He slammed the cross-dagger into a post. “I am a disciple of God. He gives me strength! Lead me not into temptation, oh Lord.” The wave of hunger passed. He chanted faster.

Shrieks echoed from beyond the cellar door. Feet stomped down the stairs. The doorknob rattled. Nails scraped the door, clawing to get in.

Father Jacques backed away, praying the barricade would hold. Even if it did, without food and water they couldn’t last another day in the cellar. We have to escape.

He went to the back wall, climbed up a stack of crates. With a crowbar, he tore planks off a tiny window. Snow blew inward, stinging his face. The mist had cleared. He could see the stables and the open front gate. The square portal was too small for Father Jacques, but not the girl. Tears welled in the priest’s eyes as he realized his last hope had come down to the fate of a nine-year-old girl. “Come, child, now!”

She climbed out from her hiding place, hugging the doll to her chest.

The priest kneeled, taking Zoé’s hands. “There’s still a horse in the stables. I need you to ride out to Fort Pendleton.” He pulled a small diary from his coat pocket. “Give this to Brother Andre.” He stuffed the journal into a trapper’s fur-skinned pack along with her doll.

“No, I’m not leaving…” She started to cry.

“You must, Zoé! We won’t survive down here another day.” He pulled the pack onto her back, fastening the straps around her waist.

“But what about you, Père?”

“You’ll have to go on your own.”

From the bed Wenonah rasped, “Zoé, wait…” Her wrist stretched one of the ropes. “Come here, my child.”

“Mama.”

“No, Zoé!” Father Jacques grabbed the girl just short of her mother’s gnarled fingernails. “Don’t touch her.” He carried Zoé to the back wall. She sobbed and jerked in his arms, reaching for her mother.

He stood her on a crate and shook her. “Listen, child! We need you to be strong. Go now, or you’ll never see your mother again.”

“But I’m afraid to go out there.”

“Remember the story about the lost children who came upon an angel?”

She nodded, sniffling.

“There are angels in the woods, and they will protect you, but they are leaving now, so you must hurry.”

The beasts wailed inside the cellar’s stairwell. An axe blade chopped through the door, cracking it.

The girl screamed and ran up the crates.

Father Jacques helped her out the window. She dropped down to the snowy ground.

“Hurry, Zoé!” He watched her run across the snowfield.

The axe blade smashed through the door. Dozens of white fingers tore at the hole. The priest held up a cross. “God is my savior!”

Another growl issued, this one from inside the cellar. He circled, searching the shadows until he spotted broken ropes at Wenonah’s bed. She now moved in the darkness just beyond the lantern glow. Her bones made popping sounds. The last stage of the change.

The priest stepped toward the row of beds. He barely made out the woman’s spindly shape hunched over, feeding off the flesh of a dead man. The crunching and tearing sickened Father Jacques and at the same time beckoned him to join Wenonah in the feast.

No, stay righteous! The Jesuit coughed. He stumbled to his altar and opened his holy book. The words blurred. His vision spiraled. Inside his stomach, the hunger grew, cold and burning, clinging his flesh to bone, filling him with a hollow emptiness, then turning—Yes!—spreading through him with a sweet rapture known only to saints and angels. “I am a shepherd of death…”

The cellar door crashed open.

Father Jacques raised his arms and smiled as he turned to face the ravenous horde.

 Dead of Winter, by Brian Moreland
Available at Amazon 

Being Human, by Patricia Lynne

Posted: September 8, 2011 by Shaina in Patricia Lynne, Vampires
1
Being Human, by Patricia Lynne

Being Human, by Patricia Lynne

Being Human, by Patricia Lynne
Available at:
Amazon, Smashwords

Description:   For Tommy, there is only one thing he needs to do: survive.

Only surviving isn’t that easy. The hunt for blood can be tricky when humans know to fear the night. Desire sits on the edge of his mind, urging him to become the monster humans think he is. Vampire Forces, a special branch of police, is determined to turn every vampire to ash. Tommy included.

The only human Tommy can trust is his twin brother. A bond connects them, and with Danny’s help, Tommy starts to understand the human world he struggles to survive in. He’ll learn what friendships means and feel the sting of betrayal, find that sometimes the worst monsters are very human, and come to understand that family means more than blood.

Tommy just wants to survive and he knows what he needs to do. But with the number of humans that mean more to him than a meal growing, he’ll learn there’s more to life than simple survival. He’ll discover being human doesn’t mean being a human.

Excerpt:

 

Part One: Brothers

It is said vampires forget their human lives. As soon as they are turned, the memories start fading. One theory is because of need. The need to sate the hunger and thirst overtakes their senses. It consumes their thoughts and washes every little bit of humanity away until they no longer remember their human life. Another theory is that their mind changes too much. They no longer know how to think, move, talk or feel like a human. The final theory is that they simply let it go. They aren’t human anymore, so what’s the point of remembering?

Maybe it’s a combination of the three.

What I do know is that vampires forget being human. I forgot being human. Can’t even remember the biggest details. Did I get along with my parents or was I a bad seed? Was I good in school? Did I enjoy sports? Did I have lots of friends? Or maybe even a girlfriend?

I don’t know any more or care. Why should I? That human life is behind me, forgotten with the first taste of blood.

Guess the first theory is accurate. Wake up in the evening with thirst burning in my throat and lay down at dawn with it simmering in my stomach. Sometimes I feel like a junkie, always looking for my next hit, my next meal – a victim, according to humans.

There are some things from my human life that matter a lot. Events, places and one human in particular I can’t forget. I know these things because they happened after I was turned.

The first thing that came to me, when I woke in a small clearing in the woods, was the darkness. It was dark, but at the same time… not. I could see everything, every tiny detail was clear as if illuminated by light. But there was no light, not even moonlight. I stumbled around the small clearing, disoriented as the world bombarded me with sensations.

A gentle breeze howled in my ears and felt like talons ripping across my cheeks. The world beneath me felt unstable, as if it slowly rotated. When I reached to touch the ground, the grass beneath my fingers felt uneven and sharp, biting into my skin. I jerked my hand away, drawing a breath, and the smells hit me like a hammer. Dirt, grass, rocks, trees and animals that were no longer there. Hundreds of scents hung in the air; my nose twitching as it took every scent in and my mind distinguished everything.

As I stood in this familiar – yet alien – world, I felt my memories start to fade away. What had happened in the clearing was the first to disappear. I didn’t try to hold onto it. Just a dream, I told myself. That couldn’t have happened to me. I needed to get home before I was grounded.

Maybe I had been a bad seed.

The journey home felt like it took forever, but in reality, took a matter of minutes. I stopped often. First because my new sight had me stumbling, but, as I grew accustomed to it, my stops became ones of confusion. Where was I going? The answer was home, but I grasped for a reason why. Did I need something there? A drink? Could it be that simple? After all, my throat burned as if I had swallowed a mouthful of hot coals. A need to quench that fire burned in my mind, driving me forward.

When I reached home, only a sliver of human denial persisted. It’s a bad dream, get a glass of water and go to bed, it whispered. But a much more insistent part of me screamed, Get inside and satisfy your thirst!

Welcomed home, my parents fussed over me. My mother sighed I needed to get to bed and my father scowled and scolded me for being irresponsible. Why had I disappeared without telling them where I was going? Didn’t I know vampires were waiting in the shadows to feed on the unsuspecting?

Humans knew that vampires existed. It had been an accident, an unintentional slip on the old vampire’s part. Tired of existing, she sat outside to wait for the sun. The rays washed over her and her body burst into flame while a tourist bus witnessed the event. The tourist company called the news stations, a few reporters investigated and found all that remained of the vampire – a pile of ashes. The ashes were sent to some scientists for testing. The scientists discovered the ashes used to be human, but there was something not quite right – not quite human – about them. Then a video taken by one of tourists surfaced on the Internet, next national news and it became open season on vampires.

After that, any vampire discovered was caught, bound and left to greet the morning sun. Or set on fire. Anything to make the vampire burn until nothing remained but a pile of ash. Scientists gathered the ashes to study and figure out how to best destroy a vampire. It was, of course, an approved genocide. Who would protest the killing of a creature so evil?

Now comes the part in the story where I’m expected to say everything turned out okay. My family was horrified I had been turned, but accepted me as a vampire and we hid it well.

That’s not what happened. What happened was I hid in my room, huddled in the corner, as the overwhelming vampiric instinct washed away the last remnants of my human life. There was only one thought and it consumed me: Hunger.

The hunger devoured every thought, dominating my mind with its heat. It drove me out of my room and into the dark hallway. Rhythms echoed in my ears, sounding like a drum set that beat just for me. Maybe the rhythm was instinct, telling me what to do and where to go. At the time, all that mattered was the overwhelming hunger and how I knew exactly what would quench it.

When I opened the door to the room that contained the loudest rhythms, it didn’t make a sound.

The next few moments were the best of my new vampire life. Blood and heat, life slipping into death, all flowing into me like a river I couldn’t get enough of. I wasn’t aware of who I was feeding on, only that I was quenching the hunger and need. It was the most blissful thing I could do. No longer did I care about the humans who had been my parents. They meant only one thing to me now: sustenance.

With my fangs deep in the human’s neck, something came to me. A warm hand touched my shoulder and a rhythm behind me beckoned. I abandoned the dead woman in my arms, letting her fall to the beige carpet next to the lifeless male. Both were already forgotten as I turned to face the human behind me.

The rhythm halted and the noises stopped. Not a single creak or chirp was heard. Every breath stopped as the world paused. This human…

He looked just like me!

I wasn’t sure how I knew that. The human memory of what I looked like had faded away, but I felt deep down, where my heart lay, I looked like him. Dark brown hair, fair skin, rosy cheeks and eyes as blue as the sky. He was skinny too, sinewy and lanky. His voice would be mine as well; we were identical. Or used to be.

He looked like a healthy human boy and I knew that I didn’t. My skin had to be pale with a permanent sheen of death on it. Where my eyes still that blue?

A tormented look shone in his blue eyes. His fingers grazed my cheek like he was afraid I wasn’t real. Then he whispered one word and everything changed.

My brother said my name.

A weight slammed into me, crushing me with ugly realization. The humans behind me were more than blood. They had been my parents and I had murdered them. Worse than that, I had been planning murdering my brother as well. The thought ripped through me like a tornado. My eyes twitched and my throat tightened like I was going to cry. Tears never came; my eyes stayed dry and I whispered, “Danny, what have I done?”

 

Being Human, by Patricia Lynne
Available at:
Amazon, Smashwords

Fleshbags, by Gerald Dean Rice

Posted: September 1, 2011 by Shaina in Gerald Rice, Occult, Zombies
0
Fleshbags, by Gerald Dean Rice

Fleshbags, by Gerald Dean Rice

Fleshbags, by Gerald Dean Rice
Available at:
Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Noble

Description: Even before the explosion in the industrial area on the south side of the city they started showing up. There was something wrong with them. Anybody could see it. They leaked from every orifice and their stomachs were translucent bags showing rotting internal organs. But the ones the police had shot and killed were worse. Aggressive, fast, cannibalistic. The people still trapped in the south side of the city will fight, run, hide, and many will die. Can a young father get to his daughter? Can a husband and wife save a neighbor? Can a nurse make it home? Can an ex-con get out of the city? Can a cop keep control?

Includes the short story “The Dead Child”.

Excerpt:

Sentinel needed to get out of this town. He’d gotten roped in by his sister to come see their mother and like a dummy he’d let them guilt him into staying. Moms had been dying—dead now—and one look from her and he knew he was stuck. She’d lasted seven months, but once he was free it wasn’t easy to escape.

He’d had to give up his job in California and was barely able to make ends meet with the piece of job he’d gotten at Walt’s Electronics. Sent had quickly grown to hate Walt almost as much as his mother.

He flushed the toilet and went to flush his hands, examining his face in the mirror. His eyes were two lumps of charcoal in a dark bronze face. The slash through his eyebrow was the only distinguishing mark in an otherwise forgettable face. A couple new grays in his goatee, but he could feel the bags under his eyes shrinking by the second. He’d gotten another job in California and as soon as his ride was ready he’d hit the road.

This time he wouldn’t be back. Even if all of them were dying.

Sent preferred not to think of the years of abuse he’d suffered at the hands of his mother (and his part-time, heroine-addict father when he decided to hang around) and chose not to now. He supposed as a direct result of his own childhood was why he hadn’t elected to have children of his own in his twenty-eight years. California was the cure for what ailed him.

He grabbed a couple paper towels and wiped and patted until his hands were mostly dry. He stepped out of the restroom and went up front. The old guy behind the computer was gone. Hopefully, he was checking with the mechanics to see how much longer it would take. Sent took a seat in the waiting area in front of one of the computer terminals. Maybe he’d check his email again or something to kill some time.

When Internet Explorer came up blank for the third time he stood and started roaming around. The door leading to where the mechanics were was to his left and he walked over to take a peek through the little window.

“What the—”

He stared at several bodies all across the shop floor. One of them had been pinned beneath a car still on the hydraulic lift and it looked like the woman just a few feet away from the door had been hollowed out with a giant ice cream scoop. The old man was face down against a big toolbox on the wall.

Sent whipped out his cell and dialed 9-1-1. The phone gave a weird beeping sound and disconnected. He looked at it and in place of signal bars was the red circle with a diagonal slash. He was outtie. Somebody cruised through with a machete or something and he wasn’t waiting around to shake his hand.

Before he could get to the front door he heard a loud bump coming from that direction. Sent froze. Could whoever it was be back to mop up? The only two ways out that he’d seen were the front door and the bay doors to the shop. He turned around and quickly headed back.

The door creaked open and he stepped through. It smelled awful in here. Like medicine and… and… he didn’t know what. Sent gently closed the door, looking all around for would-be attackers. There was a row of buttons by the bay doors that must have raised and closed them. He tiptoed over, but thought twice before pushing any of them.

What if they were waiting outside?

He needed something to defend himself.

There was a giant wrench propped up on the wall next to the body of the woman who’d been eviscerated. She had a huge gash along the side of her head, but instead of blood there was only clear stuff going down her neck, matting down her hair on the side. Sent stalked over and grabbed it with both hands.

And she grabbed his wrist.

Sent leapt back with a high-pitched girlscream, the wrench plunking to the floor. She opened her eyes and looked at him, putting her hands beneath herself to stand. He realized now would have been the perfect time to have that wrench.

She came toward him and he backed up.

“Listen, lady, let me call 9-1-1 for you. You need to just sit down, okay?”

She didn’t. In fact, she held out her arms, reaching for him. Sent saw a table of tools out of the corner of his eye and reached over and grabbed something. The pouch-like thing in his hand read ‘air wedge’. He threw it at her and it flopped harmlessly against her head.

The woman bared her grayish teeth and water-thin drool poured out. Sentinel almost tripped over a bar of some kind. He got his feet under him and scooped up the bar.

“Look, ma’am. Ma’am! I don’t wanna do this. Please don’t make me do this!” But she didn’t stop. He took a swing at her arm and she almost ripped the bar out of his hands. “Ma’am, I’m for real this time. Don’t make me do it!”

He realized she was about to call his bluff. Sent half-heartedly swung and clanged the bar off the side of her head. She canted to the side, but turned to him and started coming on again. She was wearing a button up sweater. Probably somebody’s mom. This wasn’t right.

“Ma’am,” Sent said, figuratively and literally backed up against a wall. He squared up like he was waiting on a pitch and when she was in the right spot turned his hips into the swing, the tip of the bar clanging off her jaw. Her head almost spun completely around and she hit the floor.

Sent stood over her a moment, waiting for her to move again, praying she didn’t. When he realized she was down for good he let the bar slip from his hands, clanging onto the floor. He made fists to keep his hands from shaking, but realized it was his whole body quivering.

It had been in her eyes. Despite her standing up and coming at him, despite the teeth, despite the big ass hole where her guts should have been he could tell she hadn’t wanted to do what she was doing. She’d been afraid, confused, lost. The word ‘horrified’ came to mind and just as he realized he’d never seen that particular look on anyone’s face before, he was certain that was exactly what the host of emotions in her eyes melded into. And Sentinel had had to put her down.

If he could avoid it, he wouldn’t do it again. Maybe she was a lone crazy. He looked at the bar next to her body. Better to not need it. Sent picked it up once his hands had steadied. And spotted someone standing ten feet away out of the corner of his eye.

He jumped and brought the bar up in front of him, looking at a man in navy overalls. His nametag read ‘Brad’. That same clear fluid ran down his chin like he had a mouth full of it, but it streamed from his nose and the corners of his eyes. He was tall and sinewy, but looked like he had a beer gut.

He was just standing there with a look on his face like he just woke up. Sent didn’t want to do it. But he couldn’t risk trying to get outside and another one waiting for him. He hefted the bar and caught movement from the corner of his eye.

The old man from behind the counter was getting up. Another guy in blue overalls was standing next to him. His nametag read ‘Chad’. The clear fluid poured from his mouth, nose, ears and eyes. Chad was heavy, but he looked like he was eight months pregnant.

Brad was still just looking at him. The old man (who had a little pooch he hadn’t had before) looked confused as well. But Chad had that look in his eyes. The same as the woman on the floor had. He started forward.

Sentinel backed away. Maybe he could beat the three of them with this wrench, maybe he couldn’t. The fact something had happened in here and then weirdo potbelly people (and one belly-less woman) who oozed out of every hole were suddenly walking around meant there was a lot more going on than he cared to find out about.

He ran for the bay doors.

Chad followed him around a hydraulic lift and Brad followed. Sent leapt over the rising body of another man in blue coveralls and hit a button between the doors. They started to lift, but he could tell if it wasn’t going to be fast enough. Sentinel kicked the man down who was trying to stand, grabbed a rolling toolbox, and shoved it into Chad. There was a thick popping sound and a second later it was like a faucet turned on in his pants. Chad looked stunned and Sentinel rammed him with the toolbox again, knocking him over.

He thought about doing the same to Brad, but the door was high enough to slip under. He kicked the one on the floor down again and dived for the rising door. Two naked middle-aged people were at the front door. They turned his way and raised their arms in unison. Their stomachs were gone, but the woman had a loop of black entrail still twined up to something inside her and dragging on the ground between her legs.

Sentinel ran the other way.

Fleshbags, by Gerald Dean Rice
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