What harm would it do? he thought.
McFall looked her in the eye, still in his seat at the patio table.
"Not wearing a fucking mask now," he said, a cackle of laughter breaking from his bone-dry lips. "This is me, now. The real fucking me. And it's about time you met the real Eddie McFall." There were a few things he needed to say to her, a few home truths that she needed to hear. Things that he needed to get off his chest before he gave up the proverbial ghost. The guys at the taxi rank had always said he'd been too soft on her, and he was beginning to see their point. He let her away with murder.
"Listen love," he croaked, every word like a dagger to his throat, "If you had got off your fat, lazy arse and got yourself a job, instead of moaning at me," he paused to cough more blood into yet another tissue, "well then, maybe maybe I could have worked less hours."
The dead thing looked back at him, still huffy. Still pouting. Still fucking ugly.
"And that's another thing," he said. "Always fucking complaining about no sex. No sex?! Fucking look at you, love," he laughed as if the boys at the rank were behind him, cheering him on. "You're no Pammy Anderson, are -?"
His last word was lost as he felt a sharp stab to his chest, as if his heart had taken a turn for the worse. He had always meant to get his cholesterol checked out - too many hours spent sitting on his hole in a taxi cab, shovelling Chinese down his gob. His body shivered, an ice-cold wheeze raging through him like a cold river. He felt like he was dying; he knew he was dying.
McFall reached for the revolver, finding that his hands were no longer doing what his mind told them to do. Instead, they lay on the table. Useless, sleeping on the fucking job. His breathing intensified, his lungs almost collapsing with the lack of support from his weakening heart. He felt himself slipping away, even though he didn't want to slip away. He still had things that needed to be said. And he sure as hell didn't want to end up as one of those
His head hit the table like a dropped melon. The skin across his forehead cracked, but no blood flowed from the wound. His eyes closed, a last act of dignity in a world where anything even resembling dignity was rare as hen's teeth.
But two hours passed.
And then his eyes flicked back open again.
Acknowledgments
I'd like to thank everyone who has supported my writing over the last couple of years.
I'm particularly grateful for the ongoing support and encouragement of Ryan Fitzsimmons, Gardner Goldsmith, David Moody, Mai Coney, John McMahon, Hannah and Andy Nutter, Tariq Sarwar, James Melzer, Dr Pus, Patty Smith and everyone at Snowbooks.
Finally, I'd like to thank Rebecca and Dita for their love, patience and belief in what I do.
About the Author
Belfast born, Wayne Simmons has been loitering with intent around the horror genre for some years. Having scribbled reviews and interviews for a variety of zines, Wayne was delighted to release his debut horror novel, Drop Dead Gorgeous in November 2008 (Permuted Press). The book was received well by both fans of the genre and reviewers alike.
Flu is Wayne's second horror novel.
In what little spare time he has left, Wayne enjoys running, getting tattooed and listening to all manner of unseemly screeches on his BOOM-BOOM Box.
Visit Wayne online at waynesimmons.org
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Flu Page 25
