by D. C. Gomez
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright © D. C. Gomez (2019)
Other Books by D. C. Gomez
Death's Intern
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Plague Unleashed
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Forbidden War
Chapter One
Chpater Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chpater Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chpater 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
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
D. C. online:
Acknowledgments
About D. C. Gomez
Copyright © D. C. Gomez (2019)
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-7321369-9-1
Published by Gomez Expeditions
Request to publish work from this book should be sent to:
[email protected]
Other Books by
D. C. Gomez
Urban Fantasy:
The Origins of Constantine- an Intern Diary Novella
From Eugene with Love- an Intern Diary Novella
Young Adult:
Another World
Women’s Literature:
The Cat Lady Special
And a children’s series - Charlie’s Fable
Charlie, what’s your talent? - Book 1
Charlie, dare to dream! – Book 2
DEATH’S INTERN
By D. C. Gomez
CHAPTER 1
Friday night, and I was living the dream. Yeah, right! I had cleaned the same three tables at least fifty times in the last three hours at Abuelita’s. Abuelita’s was a small—OK, more like a hole-in-the-wall—Tex-Mex restaurant in Texarkana, Texas. Of all the places I had ever dreamed of living and had moved to, staying there was beyond me. To make things even more confusing, Texarkana had a twin city, Texarkana, Arkansas. I guess the founders were not very creative with the name selection, but who was I to judge? Compare to most major cities, Texarkana was a tiny dot on the map. For the locals, it was the largest city within sixty miles in any direction. It was by accident that I found it. Located on the northeast tip of Texas, it was in the middle of everything and near nowhere.
I was sure my godmother would love this. I promised myself I would never follow her footsteps of wandering like a nomad. Now here I was, in my fifth town in less than six months. The good news was that I had managed to stay here the longest, a whole three months. I was probably brain dead since I had moved to Texas in the middle of summer. With the temperatures hitting over ninety degrees and with over ninety percent humidity, I was surprised I hadn’t melted. My curiosity in learning everything about the King of Ragtime was now extinguished. I was sure I understood why Mr. Joplin left. Why didn’t I just read Wikipedia? According to the calendar, fall was six days away, and the weather was still suffocating.
“Isis, are you listening to me?” Oops. I had blanked out Abuelita’s voice from the kitchen.
Abuelita had named the place after herself. More accurately, she had used her nickname. In her words, the only thing she was after her husband and daughter died was a grandmother. She embraced it and became a grandmother to the world. Her place was open to everyone, and a wide diversity of people patronized the place. Abuelita was probably in her late sixties, and tall, around five eleven, with a solid body. I was a couple of inches shorter, and it was odd to have a woman taller than me in this area. She was still strong and beautiful, with her silver hair. That shiny silver hair was the only indication of her age. She was blessed with the genes that aged in slow motion, like most Latinas.
“I’m sorry, Abuelita. I was distracted.” I sucked at lying, so no need to even try.
“With what? We haven’t had a soul in hours. Not even our regulars came in. Start getting the place ready for tomorrow. No need to waste time. Might as well close early today.”
I was speechless. In the three months I had been working there, Abuelita had never closed early. Granted, it was already 9:00 p.m., and we normally closed at 11:00 p.m. So it wasn’t that early, but without customers, the cleanup was done. Closing usually took us at least an hour. I was not planning to argue with Abuelita. She was a very eccentric woman. I was sure she and my godmother would have bonded instantly. I really needed to call her. She was the only family I had.
The dining area of Abuelita’s had three tables, with four chairs each. Two of the tables were by the large window at the front of the restaurant. The register area doubled as a bar, with six stools on the dinning side. I took a chair by the window with a stack of forks, knifes, and spoons. I was not in any hurry. There were plenty of silverware wrapped in napkins already, since nobody had come in. Abuelita’s fac
ed Highway 82, past Walmart and the other Mexican restaurant heading toward Nash. Normally I saw the high school kids driving around. Tonight even the highway was a ghost area. A bit creepy for my taste.
It was probably a blessing it was empty, because Angelito was missing. Angelito was Abuelita’s grandson and the other staff member on weekends with me. The only thing angelic about that boy was his name. He went through more girls than most people went through underwear. In his mind he was a ladies’ man, and unfortunately for the ladies, he was hot. At twenty-one he was over six feet tall and maybe around 180 pounds, with a great complexion and incredible hazel eyes. The one great thing about Angelito was that he lived with his grandmother. He was a spoiled boy, but he adored his grandma. If Abuelita had told him she needed him, he would have changed his plans for her.
I could have passed for his older sister. Angelito and Abuelita were of Mexican descent but looked European. I could have passed for anything, from Italian to even Middle Eastern. My parents died when I was little, and my Gipsy godmother wasn’t sure of their nationalities. I could be anything, with my long, thick black hair and mocha complexion that could place me anywhere in the world. For most of my life, I was described as exotic. I guess it was a better way of saying outcast. It didn’t help that my parents named me Isis. Isis Black was my full name. In the age of terrorists, I had the worst name on the planet.
At times I wondered what kind of parents I had who would trust their only daughter to a woman like my godmother. Don’t get me wrong; my godmother was a beautiful woman with an incredible caring soul. She was also a little rebel with a complete disregard for authority. Maybe my subconscious was rebelling at my upbringing when I joined the military. I was sure my godmother would have been proud if I had joined a band or run away with the circus. I kind of did both by joining the Eighty-Second Airborne’s band.
Oh, there it was again—that same weird Mustang. That was the fifth time that it had driven by tonight. Hard to miss a greenish-yellowish car. It almost looked sickish. Why would anyone buy a car like that? Instead of tinted windows, the car had almost a mirrorlike quality. Of course, I could hear its engines roaring from inside.
Around ten o’clock, just on cue, Bob showed up. Bob was a veteran. He was also homeless, as far as I knew. He had served in the first Gulf War. We joked that we had served in the same sandpit just decades apart. Bob was in his late forties, with sandy blond hair and deep-green eyes. In his younger days, he had probably been very handsome. Now he rarely smiled, and most of the time, he was paranoid. Bob was also the one person I called a friend. My war stories made sense to him.
I ran behind the bar to the big window between the dining area and the kitchen. “Abuelita, Bob is here. May I take my break now?”
“Of course, Isis. We’re still empty. Here’s Bob’s plate. At least I can count on Bob.” Abuelita handed me a large plate of carnitas with rice and beans for Bob. According to Abuelita, Bob was a creature of habit. For the last three years, he had been coming in exactly at ten o’clock. Bob ate the same pork meal every Friday night and said very little.
Bob did odd jobs around the restaurant for Abuelita. He once stopped a few kids from robbing Abuelita. Ever since, Bob was the unofficial night guard of the place. He made sure Abuelita locked up in peace. In return Abuelita made sure he had a hot meal each night.
I took Bob his plate and brought quesadillas for myself. Unlike Bob, I would change my mind about dinner at least five times before ordering. Lucky for me, Abuelita’s quesadillas were the best in town. It was pretty hard to mess up tortillas and cheese. I loved Abuelita’s food, since she had a special menu for non–meat eaters.
“Hi, Bob. Are you ready for dinner?”
Bob was looking around the place with concern. I followed his gaze but couldn’t see anything wrong. I took a seat on the picnic bench Abuelita had outside. After several long minutes, Bob joined me.
“Isis, any trouble tonight?” Bob sounded worried.
“It’s been a cemetery around here all day,” I replied between mouthfuls of food. How could I be hungry? I hadn’t done a single thing all day.
“Don’t joke about those things. Death walks the night.” Bob was intense at times, but tonight it was even more dramatic. Death walks the night. Was Bob drunk? OK, according to Bob, he had quit drinking years ago. But that was just odd.
“Bob, it was just a figure of speech. Nobody came in all night, including death.” I was aiming for funny and clever.
Bob didn’t even blink. “Isis, make sure you go directly home tonight. It’s not right tonight.” Bob was staring at me with those piercing sea-green eyes.
“It’s going to be hard to clear my busy schedule, but for you, I’ll do it.”
I think he missed the sarcasm in my voice, because he visibly relaxed and started eating his food.
“Oh yeah, Angelito didn’t come in today.” Bob arched an eyebrow at me. I swallowed quickly and proceeded to explain before Bob decided to go full assault squad in search of Angelito. “Nothing major. Abuelita said he has a new girlfriend. He met her this week, I guess.”
“Have you ever wondered where he finds all those girls? Texarkana has fewer than a hundred thousand people when you combine the Texas and Arkansas sides. Most people are either related by blood or marriage. How is he not dead from messing with the wrong family?”
Wow. That was the longest speech Bob had ever said all at once. Angelito’s wild life must have really been puzzling Bob for him to say that much. I was nice and didn’t point out how he had used death to describe Angelito’s potential future. I didn’t need another lecture.
“According to him, he doesn’t lie, and he doesn’t make any promises he can’t keep, so nobody is ever mad at him. I’m twenty-five, and I haven’t met a twenty-one-year-old boy who didn’t lie about himself.” I didn’t have the best track record with men my age, so I was probably not a great judge of character.
“You sound a little jaded there.” Bob was very talkative today. I didn’t think Bob was that good at reading people. Or maybe I just needed to work on not being so transparent.
“Thank you, Captain Obvious.” I added a glare for good measured.
“Anytime, Grasshopper.” Bob actually smiled at me. Maybe my dad was a little like Bob—focused but not taking himself too seriously. Bob was suffering from terrible spells of PTSD, so he couldn’t hold down a job. PTSD was the new term the government was using to describe what most returning vets were going through, posttraumatic stress disorder. According to Bob, it was hard to take yourself too seriously when you were struggling.
Bob finished his food and started to look around the place. At that same moment, the pale Mustang drove by. I was staring east on 82 after it when Bob turned to face me.
“What’s wrong?” He had that worried tone again.
“Oh, nothing. Just been seeing a car driving around here tonight.” I started yawning. Slow nights were painful. At the end of the day, you ended up tired and with nothing to show for it.
“Anything suspicious about it?” Now Bob was in full paranoid mode.
“Nothing really. Just an odd color. OK, we’re closing early, so I need to hurry.” I left with the empty plates before Bob could ask me more questions.
I walked directly to the kitchen with the plates. The kitchen area was immaculate. Abuelita ran a tight ship, and tonight she was ready to go. I washed the plates and forks while Abuelita finished putting pots away.
“OK, Isis, you can take off.” Abuelita didn’t even turn around when she said it. I was ready for bed but didn’t want to sound too excited. “Are you sure? I can help you lock up.” I was really praying she would say no, but I would stay if she needed me.
“I’m good, child. Besides, Bob is doing his rounds. I’m sure I’ll be OK.” She smiled when she said that. Bob was very efficient.
“Thank you, Abuelita. Good night.” I dried my hands and gave her a kiss on the cheek on my way out.
“Good night, Isis,”
she said as I ran out of the door
“Good night, Bob,” I yelled at the night. There were no buildings near the little restaurant, so I knew sound would travel.
My minivan was parked in its usual place, the farthest spot from the restaurant. Abuelita liked her paying customers to have front-row parking.
The minivan was old and beaten up, and it used to be midnight blue. Now it was just a faded blue. My godmother had given it to me, and I nicknamed it the Whale. I wasn’t complaining; the Whale saved me on gas, and I could pack my whole life in it. On top of that, it was paid for. I opened the door and was blasted by the heat that was still trapped inside. How could it be in the high eighties in September?
This night I was ready to go home to my small apartment on Summerhill Road. It was a seven-minute drive using the service roads next to 30, Highway 30, but I was exhausted all of a sudden.
CHAPTER 2
Did I mention that everything I owned fit in the Whale? That included everything in my one-bedroom apartment. It wasn’t in one of the fancy complexes in town, but for $400 a month, I wasn’t complaining. Compared to my last apartment in Washington Heights in New York, this was luxury.
I owned a small futon that doubled as my bed and sofa. A wicker table sat in the middle with my books and sheet music. The bedroom was actually my studio, where my sax hung out. Most of my clothes were in plastic storage containers from Walmart. The bathroom was next to the bedroom. A small hallway with appliances made the kitchen area. It was a good thing I didn’t cook much, because there was barely any room in the kitchen to walk around. I loved cooking, but it’s too much trouble to cook just for one person.
Most of my stuff came from Walmart. I probably had an obsession for the super center—or, more accurately, I couldn’t afford any other place. I spent way too much time wandering the store buying things I didn’t need, like more books. The apartment had no curtains, or even pictures on the wall. I never bothered with that stuff. I was never in one place long enough to settle. I had piles of books all over the apartment; they were neat and organized. I just refused to buy a bookshelf. Those things were hard to move. On the positive side, everything was paid for, and I had no debt. Keeps things simple when you need to move in a hurry.
