Fire: The Collapse
Page 1
Fire
Book One of the Elements of the Undead Series
by
William Esmont
eBook Edition 1.1 April 2011
Copyright © 2011 by William Esmont
All rights reserved.
www.williamesmont.com
Also by William Esmont:
The Patriot Paradox
Self Arrest
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Getting a raw story out of my head and onto paper is only the first step in a months-long process before it becomes a story worth reading. Countless people are involved in the process, and they all deserve a mention. First, I’d like to thank my wife Robin. She puts up with the countless hours I spend hunched over my laptop, writing and researching, the endless discussions of characters and plot, cover designs, and most of all, the periodic bouts of self-doubt inherent in such an endeavor. Next, I’d like to thank my beta readers: Chris Merhige, Mark Jaggers, Don Query, and Dan Moore – you guys are lifesavers! You were gracious enough to read my mostly-finished manuscript and provide brutally honest feedback. It’s a better book because of you. Next up is Glendon Haddix of Streetlight Graphics. Glendon came up with the cover design of Fire, as well as the interior layout of the print version. He’s a master at taking a sparse description and turning it into something that leaps from the virtual bookshelves, grabs potential readers by the neck and screams, “Read me, damn it!” Thanks, Glendon! And last but not least, my editor, Lynn O’Dell. Lynn, from “Red Adept Editing Services,” took my self-edited manuscript, complete with changes from my beta readers and sanded off the rough edges, swapped chapters around, and generally made it a better book. Thank you, Lynn!
A note about the geography: Although the story is mostly set in Tucson, Arizona, I did take some creative liberties with the geography to make it work for the story. For those of you familiar with the Tucson area, Scorpion Canyon is indeed Sabino Canyon. If you’ve never been there, you should pay it a visit. It’s beautiful.
The Undoing
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
William Butler Yeats, The Second Coming
One
Megan Pritchard stretched and yawned. She was only two hours into the graveyard shift, and she had already served three customers. The first had been a laid-back, beer-drinking trucker, the second, a German who reeked of tequila and had trouble keeping it up, and the last, a wild-eyed, fifty-something man who smelled like a dirty ashtray and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Number four, another trucker, was in the bathroom washing up. She sighed and ran her hand across the bed, smoothing the comforter. The toilet flushed.
Any second now.
She arranged herself in a seductive pose, angling her leg to show a hint of pubic hair and squeezing her breasts together like her roommate Heather had taught her. The door opened, and a bear of a man strode in wearing only a stupid grin and a faded black cowboy hat.
“You ready to play, baby?” he drawled. West Texas.
Megan smiled and beckoned with her right index finger. She looked at his crotch. “I’m not sure I can handle you, Ray.”
He blushed at the lie. In truth, she was disappointed in what he brought to the bedroom. At six-foot-three and two hundred and sixty pounds, she figured he’d be packing something more than the tiny sausage poking from the nest of gray hair between his legs. Whatever. I get paid either way.
Ray stepped toward the bed, but she held up her palm. “Hold on, big boy. We need to settle up first.”
His smile faltered for a heartbeat, then was replaced by a boyish flash of uncertainty. He recovered quickly. “Right. Of course.” He picked up his pants from the wooden footstool beside the bathroom and dug out his wallet. Counting out a thick stack of twenties, he placed them on the bedside dresser and took a step back.
Megan scooped up the cash and inspected it, rubbing each bill between her thumb and forefinger to verify its authenticity. She raised an eyebrow as she realized there was an extra hundred dollar bill on top of the pile. “What’s this?”
Ray leered. “A little incentive...”
The bills went into the lockbox bolted to the headboard. She winked. “We’re all set.”
At a hair under five-foot-seven, Megan had the bright-eyed, girl-next-door look that turned men into drooling school boys. She had her mother’s genes to thank for her figure and her father’s for her lustrous black hair, her perky, upturned nose and luminous gray eyes.
She waved him to the fake French-baroque dresser beside her bed, and pulled open the top drawer, revealing a kaleidoscope-colored collection of condoms.
“Take your pick.”
He scratched his chin in thought, and then chose one. Magnum. Of course.
Megan always kept a healthy supply of the king-sized condoms on hand. It was all about the ego; she had learned that early on. And if that’s what got him off, who was she to complain?
She held out her hand. “I’ll take care of that.”
Ray surrendered the package. With an expert touch, she tore open the wrapper and slid the rubber between her teeth and lips. A few seconds later, he was wrapped and ready to go.
She gave him a few quick strokes and pulled him onto the bed. Gazing into his eyes, she asked, “Where do you want me?”
“Let’s start out regular and see how things go.”
“Sure.” She drew him in. This one’s going to be quick, she thought. Hoped.
Top.
Bottom.
Behind.
Top. Again.
Pop!
Another two hundred dollars in her bank account. Easy as pie.
He rolled off and collapsed beside her with a contented smile plastered across his fleshy face.
“Better?” she asked.
Ray grunted and started to check his watch, but she caught his arm and gave his knuckles a kiss, distracting him. Her room, like all the others in the brothel, was a clock-free cocoon, engineered to support an ancient fantasy. With no way to tell time, customers tended to be far more willing to pay for more when it ran out.
He was playing with himself, rubbing against her leg.
What’s this?
She glanced at the digital timer tucked out of Ray’s direct line of sight beside the bed. He had three minutes left in his twenty-minute session. A second round wasn’t out of the question, but it required more cash, something she suspected he didn’t have.
“Let’s cuddle,” she said, resting her head on his chest. His chest hairs tickled her ear.
“Come on, sweetheart. What do you think the extra hundred was for?”
Megan batted her eyelashes at him, put her hand on his, and mirrored his stroking motion.
Gotta run down the clock, she thought.
“If you had a little more money...”
Ray cast his eyes away, mumbling something under his breath. She moved to get up from the bed. He touched her elbow, a desperate, but tender, gesture. “I’m all tapped out...”
Despite her better judgment, Megan felt a twinge of pity. He seemed like a wannabe high roller, the kind of guy that hit it big every once in a while, but was never able to keep it going.
She softened. “I’ll tell you what, we only have a few minutes left…”
“Really?” He perked up.
“How about I...” She nudged his hand aside and took its place. Slow at first, then she picked up the pace as his time grew short.
Ray closed his eyes.
“Don’t stop...” She counted in her head: Five, Four, Three. He finished at Two.
He exhaled, long and slow. “You’re amazing, baby, you know that?”
Megan pecked him on the forehead. “I do.” She scooted to the edge of the bed and dangled her feet over, searching for her slippers. “It’s time to go now, big guy.” She gave his belly a playful pat.
Ray let out a groan of protest, but hoisted himself up and joined her. He gathered his clothes and dressed quickly before slinking out of the room and back to whatever life he led outside.
Megan fell back on the bed and lay staring at the ceiling, counting the peaks in the acoustic popcorn finish. She only had a few minutes to clean the room and prepare for the next lineup.
As she was about to get up, a stabbing pain blossomed deep within her gut. She winced, and her eyes teared up. Trying in vain to hold back the inevitable, her hand flew to her mouth.
She barely made it to the bathroom before the contents of her stomach erupted from her mouth in a hot torrent, splattering the rim of the toilet with the half-digested remains of the burrito she had eaten hours earlier. The nausea rolled through her like a raging tsunami; hot waves of uncontrollable agony drained her energy, leaving her whimpering on the floor like a young child.
And then it was gone. Her stomach stopped heaving, her vision cleared, and she felt human again. It was as if the sickness had happened to someone else.
Megan got to her feet and stared down at the toilet in disgust. She pulled a towel from under the sink and wiped her mouth. The room stunk. Rolling out a handful of toilet paper, she wiped down the edges of the toilet, then flushed the sopping paper and floating clumps of half-digested food to oblivion.
Her throat burned, and her diaphragm ached from all of the heaving. She went to the sink, washed her hands, and rinsed her mouth, gargling afterward with a shot of peppermint Scope to banish the vile aftertaste. It didn’t work. She gargled another shot. That’s better.
She turned on the bathroom fan to suck out the smell of puke, and then padded back into the bedroom.
The house doorbell chimed.
Damn it. Already?
With a tired sigh, Megan stripped the cum-soaked sheets from the bed and stuffed them in the hamper, preparing the room for her next client.
Two