With Beth sobbing uncontrollably on his shoulder, Jack looked over at Roger. “How ya feeling Rodney?”
Roger grinned in spite of the pain at the back of his head and numbness in his left leg. “I think I’m gonna pull through, Mr. Jenson.”
“Kid’s got brass ones, don’t he, Jack?” Rex said, then hung Roger’s chart back on the bed and left the room.
At the same time Rex was leaving the room, two Arizona State Troopers were cautiously approaching an overturned car matching the description of the hit and run vehicle from the previous night. The sun was already beating down on the desert. The cool sixty-five degree overnight temp was now closing in on eighty.
“Michigan plates. That has to be the car,” the first officer to reach the Charger announced.
“You think he got out of there, Ted?”
When Ted made his way around to the side of the car, he stopped in his tracks, making an odd grunting sound.
“What the hell?” Ellis Wilkes, Ted’s partner had come around and they both stared in disbelief.
A white running shoe lay next to the car. A brown blanket of something started at the shoe and continued inside the car. They both squatted, hands on the butt of their guns as they did. The entire inside of the car was carpeted with what looked like brown freeze-dried spaghetti, if there was such a thing as brown spaghetti.
“Whad’ya reckon?” Ellis asked Ted.
“Got me.”
Ted took out his night-stick and poked it into the mass inside the car. The brown crust fell in on itself and both officers fell back on their asses in shock. They sprang up and backed away from the car with their weapons drawn. Both officers peered into the car with incredulous disbelief. The dried brown crust was gone leaving nothing but the skeletal remains of what was just hours ago a dying Scott Randall.
“Son of a bitch,” Ted uttered as he crept back to the broken Charger.
“What the hell is that stuff, Ted?”
Gently stirring the brown material with his stick, Ted looked back at Ellis and said, “Looks like dried up worms.”
“Worms? How’d they git out here?”
“Hell if I know, but that’s what they look like.”
“Well that can’t be the car from last night, the hit and run was only nine hours ago, give or take,” Ellis said keeping a safe distance from the horror in that car.
“I guess they were hungry worms,” Ted replied then flicked some in his partners direction and laughed a nervous laugh.
Ellis scrambled back further and said they best call it in.
“Okie-dokie,” Ted said. He stood and followed Ellis back to the cruiser.
Two hours later, Thomas Andrews answered the phone in his office, “Sarah you better have Scott on the phone.”
“I’m sorry, am I speaking to Thomas Andrews?” The voice wasn’t Sarah’s and it sounded muffled and far away.
“Yes, and who am I speaking to?”
“My name is Patty Freeman. I’m with the Arizona State Police.” She paused, waiting for a response, when there was none she continued. “Mr. Andrews, are you still there?”
“Yes, what can I do for you?”
“Sir, do you own a red Dodge Charger, license plate CST VP?”
“Yes, was it stolen? ”Let me talk to Scott. Is he there with you?”
“No sir, it wasn’t stolen that we know of. It was involved in a hit and run last night. The driver of the vehicle appears to have lost control and was killed in a single vehicle accident.”
After another long silence, “Sir, are you still there?”
“Scott’s dead?”
Patty went on to tell Thomas all the details that she could. They hadn’t identified the driver yet. Next of kin would have to be notified. She got his insurance information. The rest of the details were lost on Thomas. He seemed to have shut down.
When she finished Thomas hung up the phone, stood up, walked out of his office, down the hall and across the same lobby where he and Scott had stood just days before. With no expression, he told Sarah he was leaving for the day. She exchanged a worried glance at Jane the other C.S. and T receptionist. The elevator door opened and Thomas left without any explanation.
He needed some air; instead of going to the basement to get his car he went down to the main lobby of the building. He felt flushed, Scott may be dead and his car was a write-off. He didn’t think he had enough insurance on the car, shit he should have taken twenty for it last month when he had the chance.
Thomas exited onto the sidewalk in front of the building. It was hot and humid, the sky was clear and the sun was blinding. Then the smell hit him. What was that smell?
Before he could go back inside to the parking garage, Thomas heard something he was in no mood to hear. Not that he was ever in the mood to hear it.
“Can you spare some change, friend?”
He turned and was face to face with the source of the offending odor. A filthy homeless man stood grinning his toothless grin directly between Thomas and the door to get back inside.
“Jesus Christ, when is this city going to clear you people off the streets?” Thomas waved his hand in front of his face in an attempt to fan the smell away. “Get the fuck away from me.”
“Shame what Scottie did to your car, huh?”
Thomas felt his heart pound in his chest, the hair on the back of his neck stood up, starting a quiver down the length of his spine. He took his cell from his breast pocket, “I’m calling the cops, now you better fuck off before they get here.”
The bum just cocked his finger, pointed it at Thomas, clicked his tongue, and said, “Okie-dokie.”
About the Author
Mick Ridgewell lives with his wife, Lynn, son, Cory, daughter, Lauren, and Savannah, their rescued greyhound, in Southern Ontario, where he is currently working on his next novel.
Look for Mick Ridgewell on Facebook or follow him on Twitter @mickridgewell
Only one priest can battle the ultimate evil!
Evil Eternal
© 2012 Hunter Shea
An evil as ancient as time itself has arisen and taken root in New York City. Father Michael, the mysterious undead defender of the Church, answers the call to action from the Vatican, while Cain, a malevolent wraith that feeds on fear and blood, has taken the life and form of the city's mayor and readies a demonic army to ignite the apocalypse.
With an unlikely ally, Father Michael will prepare for the grim confrontation as he grapples with his sworn duty to God and the shreds of humanity left beating in his immortal heart. The time is ripe for Cain and the fulfillment of dark prophecies. Father Michael must battle Cain and his horde of demons in a final showdown that could very well herald the end of mankind.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Evil Eternal:
Cardinal Gianncarlo walked briskly to Pope Pius XIII’s office, his black robe billowing behind him. The sound of his quick and heavy footsteps echoed across the vast, marbled hallway. The day was bright and filled with promise, in stark contrast to the roiling cloud that had descended upon his fluttering heart.
The Cardinal was normally a stern man, authoritarian to those beneath him, unflappable in his sense of duty to the Lord. His parents, Italian citizens who had made the mistake of openly sympathizing with the Jewish plight during Word War II, had been murdered before his very eyes. At the age of seven, he had been placed in a Nazi death camp, managing to survive two years in brutal captivity until the Allied forces freed them all. He vowed to live the rest of his life in service to God and had done so with unequaled integrity and passion, earning the confidence of the leader of his blessed church.
The email from the lone priest of a small Vermont parish had turned his skin the color of spoiled milk when he had been urged by his secretary to open it just minutes before. With a knot of dread cramping his stomach, he sped off to the Pontiff’s study. Time was of the essence. Time and—
He reached the library that doubled as the Pontiff’s main office and study, a
nd with unsteady hands rapped loudly on the massive oak door. Like the architectural design of the entire Vatican Palace, the door was a study in elegant simplicity. The wizened voice of Pope Pius XIII beckoned him to enter.
“Sorry to disturb you, but something urgent just came in that I think you should see,” Cardinal Gianncarlo said with a slight stammer.
The Pope looked at the Cardinal and knew. The exact details of the message were still a mystery to him, but the outcome, of that he was sure. The Cardinal thought he detected a slight flickering of the light, the fire that had made him one of the most dynamic popes in centuries, behind his old friend’s eyes.
Pope Pius XIII unfolded the printout with trembling, liver-spotted fingers and read the extensive message. When he was finished, he looked up at his old friend. Deep lines of great sadness etched across his brow.
“So, the inevitable has come back to hound us,” the Pope said.
“As much as it pains me to say, yes.”
With a heavy sigh, the Pope slumped back in his chair.
“How long has it been since the last appearance? Twenty, thirty years?”
“Nothing since Jonestown. Well over two decades of praying the evil was finally gone forever,” the Cardinal answered.
“What has no life can never die, my friend. I had hoped to have passed on to our Father’s arms before this office was faced with such a situation, but we both well know life is never quite what we plan it to be. I’m an old man now. Do I have the strength to go through this again?”
The Pope shrugged, the weight of time and responsibility bearing down on his brittle, sagging shoulders. He had served the office of pope for over thirty years, no small feat. He recalled his days as a young man, fresh from the seminary in his first parish in Bergamo, Italy. That young man would never have even dreamed to be what he would one day become. And no one could have guessed the true secrets that lay in store for his discovery when he ascended to the papacy.
“Would you like me to get Father Michael?”
Cardinal Gianncarlo had to resist the urge to pull him close, offering comfort for a man who had dedicated his life to bringing peace and comfort to millions. They were different men the last time, when the beast within Jim Jones was sent to hell, but not before so much had been lost; terrible choices forced to be made, too many lives lost. It had changed them, added years and unbearable pain to their souls.
The old Pope shook his head.
“That is my duty. At my age, it will surely be my final call. Let the burden of the nightmares rest with me. I only ask that you sit and pray.”
The Cardinal settled into a plush leather chair and the Pope offered his hand across the large, neatly arranged desk. In silence, the two men prayed while life outside his windows carried on, ignorant to the dark shadows gathering at the earth’s edge.
The Nightcrawler
Mick Ridgewell
Wherever you run…he’s waiting for you!
Scott Randall is a corporate VP on top of the world. To celebrate a massive new deal, he’s going to drive from Detroit to LA. But before he leaves, he makes a bad mistake. He cruelly dismisses a homeless panhandler on the street. Along the road, he swears he sees the panhandler again. Then again. And again. Soon he sees the man—who calls himself the Nightcrawler—even in his dreams. No matter how frantically he tries, Scott can’t escape his relentless pursuer. He thought he was going to LA. But the Nightcrawler has a very different destination in mind.
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
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The Nightcrawler
Copyright © 2012 by Mick Ridgewell
ISBN: 978-1-60928-912-6
Edited by Don D’Auria
Cover by Kanaxa
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: May 2012
www.samhainpublishing.com
The Nightcrawler Page 26
