Thinking of this massive toll, Quinton wrinkled his nose, glared down at the revolving turntable. The Shadelands’ story was unquestionably bull, and a good deal too convenient: Ben Shadeland, rising movie composer, is up the creek without a paddle. He’s late on his deadline for the new Lee Stanley picture—a movie called House of Skin that Quinton couldn’t wait to see—and he’s losing his wife and son to a good-looking young stud who happens to fly airplanes. Everybody involved goes to the same island, where no one can witness anything should something unpleasant take place. Then Ben, his son, and the woman he just happens to now be engaged to, are the only survivors of whatever happens on that island.
Quinton’s nostrils flared thinking about it. It was bull. All of it. Ben Shadeland’s amnesia story was pure fantasy. And Claire’s fantastic tale about Ryan Brady going postal and killing everyone?
The biggest, smelliest mound of bull he’d ever inhaled.
Caleb Moss was gesturing vaguely in Quinton’s direction, his words too low to be intelligible. Quinton turned the record player down to near inaudibility and said, “What’s the matter, pal?”
“Coming…he’s coming…he’s…”
Now what the hell was this?
Not bothering with the turntable any longer, Quinton hurried over to where Moss was now slumped over the couch back, his body shuddering as if in the grips of some sort of seizure.
For the first time, Quinton began to worry.
For one thing, there was no medical help on the island. Hell, there was no help on the island. There was only Quinton Early and Caleb Moss, and the nearest doctor was back on the mainland, eighty miles away in Petaluma. They might as well be on another planet. And forget calling anybody. Their cell phones might as well be paperweights here on the Sorrows. Their helicopter ride back to California wouldn’t arrive for another three days. If something happened to one of them between now and then, they were on their own.
Caleb’s convulsions worsened, the jerks and spasms first growing more pronounced, and soon becoming violent.
Quinton feverishly scanned his memory for what little first aid he knew…
Check the patient’s airway. He grabbed hold of Moss’s shoulders, made to flip the man over onto his back, but it was like trying to wrangle a bucking horse. Man, Quinton thought, this was even harder than corralling his own two-year-old daughter when she didn’t want a diaper change.
Moss’s body twisted, writhed.
“Dammit, come on,” Quinton breathed.
He finally got a good grasp on Moss’s shoulders, and careful not to let his partner’s head crack against the floor, he eased Moss down as well as he could. Moss’s feet drummed, his hands flopping about like he was doing some trendy new dance. One knee shot up, nailed Quinton in the ribs. A flailing wrist gave him a smart whap in the nose. Quinton’s eyes began to water.
Quinton wrestled Moss’s arms down, but his partner’s body was like an enormous pressurized fire hose made intractable by the flow of water pulsing through it.
“Calm down, damn you!” Quinton yelled. From across the room, it seemed like the record player had been cranked up again, and now the music was anything but beautiful. Far from it, the song had become grating and unpleasant. Dissonant and perhaps even mocking. And how the hell was Quinton supposed to check Moss’s airway for obstructions when he couldn’t even get close enough to the man’s face to see his airway?
“I said,” Quinton muttered, “calm…the hell…down.”
Moss’s hips lifted off the floor, bucking Quinton into the air like some inexperienced cowboy, the motion taking him so by surprise that he damn near smashed down on Moss before he could catch himself. His arms free, Moss resumed his weird chaotic dance moves and promptly whipped Quinton across the mouth, busting Quinton’s bottom lip wide open.
Jerking his head to the side and spitting out a stream of bright red blood, Quinton crawled grimly forward until he sat astraddle Moss’s midsection. Then, hating himself for it but not knowing any other way to help his partner, he gripped the jagging arms and lifted them above Moss’s head until they were pinned against the floor.
And what the hell was up with that record player? Quinton hadn’t touched it since racing over here to help Moss, but now the thing was blaring as though Quinton had cranked it up full blast. And not only was the volume twice as loud as it had been earlier, now it was repeating the same song—“Forest of the Faun.” Quinton was no vinyl aficionado—he’d been born during the era of the cassette tape and had graduated to compact discs by his eighth birthday—but he’d never heard of a record player with a repeat track mode. And even if such a player existed, this machine looked old enough to have been made when his grandma was a little girl.
Bloody lips pressed together, Quinton wrapped one huge hand around both of Moss’s wrists to bind them together. Then, pinning the man down with his superior weight, he reached toward Moss’s mouth with his free hand.
Moss’s teeth clicked and snapped, almost as if he were eager to eat some of Quinton’s fingers. Moss’s body writhed beneath him, the power surging beneath Quinton’s big frame terrible in its vitality. What in God’s name was wrong with Moss? The man had no irregular medical history, at least not that Quinton knew of. Was it something Moss had never told him about? Or a condition of which Moss had been previously unaware?
Whichever the case, this was bad. Really, really bad. Maybe even dying bad if Quinton didn’t locate the source of the problem fast.
Terrified he’d lose his fingers but knowing Moss could choke on his own tongue if he didn’t act, Quinton reached toward Moss’s snapping jaws. He’d just about gotten hold of his partner’s cleft chin when Moss’s big brown eyes snapped wide, his body arching in a long, trembling convulsion. Despite Quinton’s girth, he felt himself lifted two feet off the ground as Moss’s hips rose.
Then both men landed with a bone-jarring thump.
It hurt Quinton’s testicles something fierce, but despite the sickly ache issuing from his groin, he was transfixed by the sight of Moss’s face.
Moss’s eyes were wide open. They were glazed with a look of utmost terror.
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Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
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Exorcist Road
Copyright © 2014 by Jonathan Janz
ISBN: 978-1-61922-590-9
Edited by Don D’Auria
Cover by Angela Waters
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: September 2014
www.samhainpublishing.com
Exorcist Road Page 13
