Last Call

by Lloyd Behm II

  “Fine,” Diindiisi said. “Although I really want buffalo meat for dinner tonight. The rarer the better.”

  Her pregnancy cravings hadn’t been too bad. I’d been able to find most of the strange stuff at Stumpy’s Market, though I wasn’t above conspiring with Tatsuo and Golden Circle when it came to the really esoteric things.

  The first thing I noticed was the porch. It was huge, and familiar. The real estate agent, a brittle woman with hair the color of dried blood—no I hadn’t told her that—was waiting with the key.

  “Now this house was built in 1944,” she said, starting her spiel, “but it was updated by the last owner to modern standards. They also added two bedrooms and converted most of the garage to an office.”

  I had a momentary vision of sitting at a table in the kitchen, eating Frosted Flakes. I knew I wanted this house, but the final decision was Diindiisi’s.

  “That’s interesting,” she said, placing a hand on her stomach. “They’re kicking.”

  We knew by now that one bundle of joy was going to be two. All the doctors we saw swore Diindiisi was in great shape for a first pregnancy in someone her age.

  “This means something,” I said, doing my best Weird Al doing Richard Dreyfuss imitation.

  “It means we’re buying the house,” Diindiisi said.

  I leaned down, placing my head near her stomach. “You hear that, kids? We’re home.”

  # # # # #

  Author’s Afterward

  This is the book that nearly broke my brain. I’m more than comfortable writing male characters of a certain age and skill set, as the saying goes. However, getting inside the head of a one-hundred-and-forty-year-old Native American woman and writing from her point of view? Yeah, I’d rather go back to Iraq, thank you very much.

  I grew up in Waco long before the current renaissance driven by a home repair show. The biggest thing to happen in Waco was the 1953 tornado—most studies I’ve seen say it delayed the growth of the town by fifty years or more. Like most families, mine lost a member—William ‘Billy’ Betros. When I dedicated this to him, I didn’t realize he was going to play a central role. I’d like to think I’ve caught him pretty well, and I’d like to think he stayed down in that basement to try to get the other kid out.

  I lifted most of the description of the tornado and what it did to the Sun Pool from an interview I found online of Thomas Tooker—he was one of the six in the Sun Pool that day, and one of the four survivors.

  Beyond that, I owe a debt of thanks to the usual folks—Dan, Doug, and Brandy, for looking through these things first, and Chris, for taking a risk and letting me write for him.

  Lloyd A. Behm II

  4 August 2019

  Brenham, Texas

  * * * * *

  About the Author

  Born and raised in Texas, Lloyd A. Behm, II, has done a bit of everything—five years as a civilian contractor in Iraq, volunteer fireman, warehouseman, mortician’s assistant, newspaper opinion columnist, tech support, logistics coordinator, poet, and he has even driven a bus both stateside and abroad. A two-time graduate of Southwest Texas State University, much to the chagrin of both the Anthropology and History Departments, he now spend his days writing, painting miniatures, and watching his two cats perform kitty parkour.

  Keep up to date with the latest from Lloyd and join the mailing list at:

  https://dragonsskulltavern.wordpress.com/

  * * * * *

  The following is an

  Excerpt from Book One of The Fallen World:

  This Fallen World

  ___________________

  Christopher Woods

  Available Now from Blood Moon Press

  eBook, Audio, and Paperback

  Excerpt from “This Fallen World:”

  He placed a coin in front of me. I looked at it in surprise. It was a solid gold coin from the Old World. Probably worth ten thousand scripts now.

  “This is a down payment,” Hale said. “You find her, you get another. Return her to me unharmed, you get three.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you, Agent,” he said softly.

  I nodded.

  He passed me a folder, and I opened it to see a picture of a pretty young red-haired woman. She appeared to be late teens or early twenties and that could be bad. This fallen world is hard on young beautiful people.

  Warlords could swoop in with their troops and steal people at will. They were Warlords because the held the weapons or tech that gave them control over those around them.

  There had been incidents for years. I had a great disdain for the term, Warlord. They were the ones who had found some advantage and abused it, for the most part.

  There were a few good men, such as Wilderman, who held the reigns of fourteen city blocks. He provided protection to those who lived in his domain. He taxed his people but he also provided true protection.

  Miles to the East, there was Joanna Kathrop. She held sixteen blocks and ruled with an iron fist. She had found a cache of weapons and provisions in her area several decades back. Her cadre of loyal soldiers backed her and she established her rule of that area.

  There were others, both good and bad. The majority of them were bad. They ran single and double blocks. The Warlord that controlled the area where the Strike Zone was located wasn’t the worst, but he was far from the best.

  I turned the page and found the sector that Hale and his daughter had lived.

  “You were under Yamato?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said, “he took down the Bishop a decade ago.”

  “Yamato’s always been fair,” I said. “Did you take this to him?”

  “He couldn’t help me,” he said. “She was traveling across the city.”

  “What the hell was she doin’ travelin’?” I asked. “Was she in a caravan?”

  The Caravans were the only semi-safe way to travel the city. You paid for your ticket, and the Caravans paid their tax to run through the Zones.

  “She was going to the new College, set up by Kathrop, in a small Caravan run by a man named Drekk. He claims she never showed up for the last leg of the trip.”

  “Drekk,” I spat the word out. “I’ve heard of Drekk. If you want to travel anywhere, you have to use the Accredited Caravans. You can’t use people like Drekk.”

  His face fell. “We didn’t know about this until it was too late. We aren’t rich people, Mister Kade.”

  I looked down at the coin still in my hand, and looked back to him with one eyebrow raised.

  “The life savings of both my family and the family of Seran Yoto, her fiancée.”

  “Poor would not be what I would call this, Hale,” I said. “There are people right in this room who won’t see this much wealth in ten lifetimes. You dwell inside the Scraper. You have running water and electricity. Don’t ever try to pass yourself off as the poor. It’s insulting.”

  He nodded.

  “Who set up the Caravan?”

  “I set it up through a man in the Scraper. His name is Denton. He owns a supply store on the bottom floor.”

  “Ok,” I said. “That’s where I’ll need to start. I’ll be there first thing in the morning.”

  “But the Caravans don’t run at night.”

  “Some people, it’s safer to leave alone, Hale. When you get back to the Scraper, tomorrow, I’ll have some answers for you.”

  “How will you cross three zones tonight?”

  “I’ll walk, Hale,” I said. “Corporate Agents can take care of themselves.”

  “You haven’t been an Agent for twenty years.”

  “You’re right, there.” I said, “I’m something else, now. I’ll see you tomorrow night at your Scraper.”

  I stood and walked away from the booth. Jared was beside the bar, talking to several suits.

  “Yo, Jared,” I said. “I’m on a job for a few days. Ya can fill the table if ya need to.”

  “Be careful, Matt,” he said. “Last
time Jenny took a week to get you patched up.”

  “I’ll try, buddy.”

  I had a feeling about this one. Things looked bad for Maddy Hale. Drekk wasn’t known to be trustworthy.

  Life can be dangerous in this Fallen World.

  * * * * *

  Get “This Fallen World” now at: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07KHLG54J.

  Find out more about Christopher Woods and “This Fallen World” at:

  https://chriskennedypublishing.com/imprints-authors/christopher-woods/.

  * * * * *

  The following is an

  Excerpt from Book One of The Devil’s Gunman:

  The Devil’s Gunman

  ___________________

  Philip S. Bolger

  Now Available from Blood Moon Press

  eBook, Audio, and Paperback

  Excerpt from “The Devil’s Gunman:”

  I eased the door open and braced for gunfire or a fireball.

  I got neither. I swept the entryway with my rifle’s sights. Nothing more offensive than some high school photos glared back at me, and I didn’t hear anything running down the hallway or readying a weapon. There were no shouts from police or federal agents, either.

  What I did hear, from the living room, was incessant chatter underscored by the occasional interjection of a laugh track. The chatter was accompanied by the soft peripheral glow of my television. Whoever had broken into my house was watching a sitcom.

  “I’m unarmed,” a man’s voice rang out. “So put down the rifle, and let’s have a talk.”

  “The fuck we will,” I shouted back. “You broke into my home!”

  I moved down the hallway, keeping my rifle on the opening to the living room.

  “That’s part of what we have to talk about,” the voice said. I peered around the corner and saw a young Caucasian man. His pale features and dyed blue hair did little to mask the malicious smirk on his face. He was dressed in an oxford shirt and slacks with a skinny tie, as though he couldn’t figure out if he wanted to look like he’d just joined a band or an investment firm. He wore a silver tie clip with a red blood drop on it.

  I stood there with my rifle sights on his head.

  “I’m here as a messenger,” he said and flashed his teeth. I saw pointed incisors. That was enough for me. “This is peaceful, Nicholas. No need to be violent.”

  I lowered the rifle. I didn’t like the prick’s condescending tone; he sounded like he enjoyed the sound of his own voice. Those types were always eager to give up information.

  “Okay, let’s talk. Who’s the message from?” I asked.

  “I hold the honored post of Emissary of the Lyndale Coven,” he said politely, examining his nails. “We’ve taken a professional interest in you, and Coven leadership sent me.”

  “Oh yeah?” I asked. “What for?”

  “To dictate the terms of your surrender,” he said, locking eyes with me. His hands twitched, then curled slightly. I imagined him leaping off the couch and knocking me down. I fought the urge to bring the rifle to bear, keeping it at the low ready.

  “Thought your kind needed an invite,” I said.

  The man snarled.

  “We both know who built this house. I have a standing invite. The coven master says that the Duke no longer wants you, so you’re fair game. Our agreement, which I have right here, has the details.”

  He pulled a no-shit scroll out of his suit jacket and put it down on my coffee table. I glanced at it. The Lyndale Coven seemed to be under the impression that I belonged to them. I read the word “slave” once, and that was enough for me to decide I wasn’t interested.

  “No dice,” I said.

  “These terms are much more charitable than those the Coven Master wanted,” he said, warning in his voice. “Oath breakers aren’t normally given this kind of clemency.”

  I didn’t have much idea what he meant about oath breakers, but I wasn’t going to play ball with this pompous fuck.

  “Not charitable enough,” I said. “Why do you guys want me? Running out of blood from young clubgoers and runaways?”

  The young vampire smiled again, flashing his teeth with what I’m sure he thought was menace.

  “It’ll certainly improve our coven’s standings with the Duke if we prove we can clean up his loose ends. I’m sure you’ll make an excellent blood thrall. We’ll be taking a pint of blood every month, as—”

  I raised the rifle and sighted in on his head. He sighed, and rolled his eyes.

  “Look, you primitive ape, guns won’t—”

  I fired three times, the rounds earth-shatteringly loud in such a tight place. He screamed in pain and terror as the holy rifle’s bullets tore through him, the wounds leaving bright blue caverns of light.

  His screaming echoed in my head, so I kept shooting. I fired the rest of the magazine until there was nothing left but a corpse, riddled with holes and glowing softly, and me, standing there in my gunpowder-fueled catharsis.

  I dropped the mag and slapped in a fresh one, savoring the sound of the bolt sliding forward and knowing that if the emissary had any friends, they too, would be introduced to the kinetic light of St. Joseph.

  “Anyone else here? I got more.”

  * * * * *

  Get “The Devil’s Gunman” now at: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07N1QF4MD.

  Find out more about Philip S. Bolger and “The Devil’s Gunman” at:

  https://chriskennedypublishing.com/philip-s-bolger/.

  * * * * *

  The following is an

  Excerpt from Book One of The Darkness War:

  Psi-Mechs, Inc.

  ___________________

  Eric S. Brown

  Available Now from Blood Moon Press

  eBook and Paperback

  Excerpt from “Psi-Mechs, Inc.:”

  Ringer reached the bottom of the stairs and came straight at him. “Mr. Dubin?” Ringer asked.

  Frank rose to his feet, offering his hand. “Ah, Detective Ringer, I must say it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  Ringer didn’t accept his proffered hand. Instead, he stared at Frank with appraising eyes.

  “I’m told you’re with the Feds. If this is about the Hangman killer case…” Ringer said.

  Frank quickly shook his head. “No, nothing like that, Detective. I merely need a few moments of your time.”

  “You picked a bad night for it, Mr. Dubin,” Ringer told him. “It’s a full moon out there this evening, and the crazies are coming out of the woodwork.”

  “Crazies?” Frank asked.

  “I just locked up a guy who thinks he’s a werewolf.” Ringer sighed. “We get a couple of them every year.”

  “And is he?” Frank asked with a grin.

  Ringer gave Frank a careful look as he said, “What do you mean is he? Of course not. There’s no such thing as werewolves, Mr. Dubin.”

  “Anything’s possible, Detective Ringer.” Frank smirked.

  “Look, I really don’t have time for this.” Ringer shook his head. “Either get on with what you’ve come to see me about, or go back to wherever you came from. I’ve got enough on my hands tonight without you.”

  “Is there somewhere a touch more private we could talk?” Frank asked.

  “Yeah, sure,” Ringer answered reluctantly. “This way.”

  Ringer led Frank into a nearby office and shut the door behind them. He walked around the room’s desk and plopped into the chair there.

  “Have a seat,” Ringer instructed him, gesturing at the chair in front of the desk.

  Frank took it. He stared across the desk at Ringer.

  “Well?” Ringer urged.

  “Detective Ringer, I work for an organization that has reason to believe you have the capacity to be much more than the mere street detective you are now,” Frank started.

  “Hold on a sec.” Ringer leaned forward where he sat. “You’re here to offer me a job?”

  “Something like that.” Frank grinned. />
  “I’m not interested,” Ringer said gruffly and started to get up. Frank’s next words knocked him off his feet, causing him to collapse back into his chair as if he’d been gut-punched.

  “We know about your power, Detective Ringer.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ringer said, though it was clear he was lying.

  “There’s no reason to be ashamed of your abilities, Detective,” Frank assured him, “and what the two of us are about to discuss will never leave this room.”

  “I think it’s time you left now, Mr. Dubin,” Ringer growled.

  “Far from it,” Frank said. “We’re just getting started, Detective Ringer.”

  Ringer sprung from his seat and started for the office’s door. “You can either show yourself out, or I can have one of the officers out there help you back to the street.”

  Frank left his own seat and moved to block Ringer’s path. “I have a gift myself, Detective Ringer.”

  Shaking his head, Ringer started to shove Frank aside. Frank took him by the arm.

  “My gift is that I can sense the powers of people like yourself, Detective,” Frank told him. “You can’t deny your power to me. I can see it in my mind, glowing like a bright, shining star in an otherwise dark void.”

  “You’re crazy,” Ringer snapped, shaking free of Frank’s hold.