Joan looked at Roy, semi-conscious on the floor, and then turned to Tom. He was tying his shirt around his bloody arm, and she realized that he’d also been shot. The doorway was less than twenty feet away, but it might as well have been twenty miles.
Joan knew, with startling clarity, that they were all going to die.
The sound rose above the cracking of the flames, and it made Tom’s blood freeze. He recognized it from old Westerns—an Apache war cry. He chanced a look over the couch and watched Jerome pump the shotgun and aim. Tom ducked, realizing it was futile; the pellets would rip through the sofa easily. He wrapped his arms around Joan, hoping his body would shield her from the blast, and braced himself.
There was a gunshot, but not in their direction. Tom looked down the hall and saw a Stang clone do a bloody pirouette and collapse in a pile. Two more clones hopped over their fallen brother and bee-lined for Jerome.
Buoyed by the thought of living a few more seconds, Tom scanned around him for a weapon. There, in Roy’s pocket. The taser. He grasped it, checking the battery and the CO2 cartridge. It seemed functional.
Another shotgun blast. And then another. Tom peered over the couch and saw Jerome was now wrestling with a clone for the gun. He let go, shoving the clone away, and took the tomahawk from his holster, swinging it wildly and emitting another war cry.
Tom crawled around the sofa, his bleeding arm shaking badly because it was supporting most of his weight. His other hand gripped the taser, pointing it at Jerome. He got within twenty feet. Fifteen feet.
Jerome finished mauling the clone and stared impassively at Tom. He dropped the bloody ax and unslung the M-16 hanging on his back.
Tom wasn’t sure if he was within the range of the taser, but he didn’t have a choice. He aimed. Fired.
Missed.
Jerome brought the rifle around, his finger seeking the trigger. Tom knew there was nothing he could do, no place he could run. The M-16 would chew him into hamburger before he even had a chance to blink.
Then Bert came rushing through the front door, and swatted Jerome alongside the head with the step ladder. Jerome released the gun and fell to his knees. Bert raised the ladder to hit him again, but Jerome blocked the blow with his forearm. Tom dropped the taser and crawled like mad for the shotgun, lying next to the hacked-up clone. He pulled it away from the mangled body and racked a shell into the chamber.
“Bert! Duck!”
Bert ducked. Tom fired.
This time he didn’t miss.
The blast knocked Jerome backward, leaving a mist of blood where he previously stood.
“Behind you!” Bert shrieked.
Tom rolled onto his back and aimed at another Stang clone, running straight at him. He pumped, and fired, and the clone went down. Tom squinted through the smoke and saw Joan, slowly dragging Roy toward the front door. Bert ran to her, helping out. Tom went to join them, then was forced to dive to the side when the grand staircase collapsed, causing a giant wave of fire to wash over the room.
Tom smelled burning hair, realized it was his, and dropped the gun to pat it out. He searched for Joan but visibility was near zero. Tom couldn’t even see the front door.
“Joan!”
“Tom! Here!”
Tom crawled toward the voice, through the smoke, around pockets of burning floor. Soot stung his eyes, burned his throat. Was this even the right direction? The fire was roaring now, loud as a thunderstorm, and he wasn’t even sure if…
Someone touched his hand through the haze. Joan?
No. Jerome.
The man’s fingers locked around Tom’s wrist like a bear trap. Tom tried to pull back but this was his wounded arm and the motion brought agony. He pried at Jerome’s iron fingers, but they wouldn’t budge. Tom’s legs also became ridiculously hot, and he swiveled his head around and saw his pants had caught on fire. He twisted, trying to pat them out, but couldn’t reach with Jerome’s death grip on his wrist.
Tom panicked, frantically feeling the floor around him for some sort of weapon. His fingers brushed something wet. The ax. Tom cried out in pain and fury and brought the blade down on Jerome’s wrist, severing their bond. Then he sat up and tried to beat out the flames on his legs. When that didn’t work, he stretched out lengthwise and rolled for all he was worth. He kept rolling until he hit something hard—a wall or a piece of furniture—but he was still on fire, and it was getting bigger. The heat had begun to burn.
Tom felt behind him, hoping to find drapes, but instead his hand met cool glass. He noticed the faint blue light through the smoke and realized he’d bumped into the aquarium. The ax still in hand, Tom crashed it against the glass, showering himself in salt water and tropical fish. The tank was huge enough to forge a path through the fire, which Tom crawled through.
“Tom!”
Joan. And this time, Tom was sure the sound came from his left. He followed it, felt someone grab his leg, raised the ax…
It was Bert. He tugged Tom the rest of the way, through the front door, out into the cool night air. There were sirens in the distance, approaching fast.
“We have to go.” Bert helped Tom into the back seat of the Cadillac, next to Joan. Then he hopped into the driver’s seat, made sure Roy had his belt on, petted the cat in his lap, and punched the gas.
Tom turned around in the back seat, to look at the house one last time. He was surprised at how large the fire had gotten. The whole house had become an inferno. Flames had broken through the roofing, sharp fingers tearing at the night sky, blocking out the stars with black smoke.
He felt pressure on his bad arm. Joan’s hand, trying to stop the bleeding.
“How’s Roy?” Tom asked no one in particular.
“I think both legs are broken,” Bert answered. “But he’s breathing okay. How about you two?”
Joan gave Tom a squeeze. “We’ll live. But a hospital might be a good idea.”
Tom nodded. “But not in Springfield, Bert. Go east on 72 to Decatur. We don’t want to be connected to this.”
Bert glanced in the rearview, his eyes locked on Tom’s.
“What happened to Stang Senior?”
“If you wanted to be technical, I guess you could say he killed himself.”
Three big fire engines passed them on the road, racing towards the mansion. Tom closed his eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath. It was over. They had won.
“Hey.” Joan shook him lightly. “One more thing.”
“What?”
Joan moved closer. Her face was covered in soot, and one eyebrow was singed off, and she had some blood on her cheek. But her blue eyes were clear and wide and focused. Tom could feel her breath, and her hand on the back of his head. She was, no doubt, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life.
Tom didn’t know if she kissed him, or if he kissed her. But he did know that, when their lips met, every ache and pain in his body disappeared.
Tom switched off the news on TV and turned to look at his partner in the hospital bed.
“They think it was some kind of slavery operation.” Roy’s words were dulled by the pain medication. Both of his legs were in casts, and his right arm was in a sling. This was the first time in almost a full day that he was well enough to talk.
“It’s a good guess. Lots of burned bodies, but only four who had dental work. Plus a dungeon in the basement.”
Roy smiled, sleepily. “Be interesting to see what happens if they run DNA tests.”
“It sure will.”
“We cool here?”
Tom nodded. “Told the doctors it was a hunting accident. Pretty dramatic one. Campfire out of control, falling trees, shooting at a bear. If you were awake, you would have enjoyed the story.”
“Joan okay?”
“She came out of surgery after me. She’s fine.”
“Bert?”
Tom laughed. “Completely unscathed. He saved all of our lives, coming back for us.”
“I’m starting to like that g
uy. Reminds me of my little brother.”
Tom crossed his legs, wincing at the pain. The burns were only first degree, but stretched from his butt to the soles of his feet. His butt actually got the worst of it. The hospital had actually given Tom an inflatable donut. His arm wound wasn’t serious—he’d caught a few pellets and would be sore for a while, same as Joan. Roy had taken the brunt of the damage. Tom didn’t bother to tell him that his dislocated shoulder probably had nothing to do with the fall, but rather their attempt to drag him out of the burning house.
“How about the FBI?” Roy asked.
“I talked to the Special Agent in Charge in Chicago. He’s driving here tomorrow. I figure we tell him the truth. There should be enough evidence still intact at Stang’s house to back it up.”
“Five bucks says the government keeps it hush-hush.”
“I won’t take that bet.”
“Is this a private party, or can anyone attend?”
Roy and Tom smiled at Bert as he walked into the hospital room. Tom was especially pleased to see who Bert had brought with him. The face. The eyes. The beard. All perfect. He felt like he was in the presence of a celebrity. Tom extended his hand.
“Mr. Lincoln.”
“Mr. Jefferson.” Abe winked at Roy. “Mr. Hendrix.”
Roy shook his head and grinned. “Hi, Abe. How was jail?”
“Good. I made some friends, caught up on my reading, got all that free publicity. Best thing I ever did.”
Tom nodded. “I saw the morning paper. Something about Congress suppressing free speech in the Capitol Building. You’ve become a poster boy for the First Amendment.”
Abe winked. “I just landed a talent agent. We’re considering commercial work. Starting small. Coke. McDonalds. Chevrolet. I told Bernie to try and land me a porno, but he didn’t think it was good for the image.”
“What brings you out this way?” Roy asked.
“I had something to give to Bert.”
Bert beamed. “Monthly Lincoln Police Department auction. They raise money by auctioning off things they’ve confiscated. You know; stolen cars, bikes, antique lures found at a murder scene…”
“I actually thought forty bucks was kind of high,” Abe said, “but since I was there I felt obliged to buy something.”
Roy laughed. “Why, Abe, how honest of you.”
“Least I could do. If it wasn’t for you guys, I’d still be selling cars instead of making the big Hollywood bucks.”
“So you’re back in business?” Tom asked Bert.
“Actually, no. I sold the rest of my lures and bought some property in New Mexico.”
“You didn’t…”
“It’s going to take a few weeks to get my new ostrich farm up and running, but I expect all of you to visit when I do. Especially at Thanksgiving.”
Roy smiled wide. “Good for you, buddy. I’m proud of you.”
“Hey, I got you guys something. This is for you, Tom”
Bert handed him an envelope. Tom dumped the contents onto this palm. It was green, with hooks.
“A Luny Frog. Thanks, Bert.”
“You probably need to clean it. There are still some small bits of… uh… Anyway, you should clean it. This one’s for you, Roy.”
Bert took a DVD out of his pocket. The Love Bug.
“Slug bug yellow no hit backs!” Bert whacked Roy in his good arm.
“No fair,” Roy laughed. “Beating up on a cripple.”
Bert’s face became serious. “How are you doing, Roy?”
“Because I was on vacation when it happened, I only got partial disability. Gonna walk with a limp, probably for life. They say I could come back to work in a limited capacity. But pushing papers—I dunno. It ain’t for me.”
Bert stared at Roy, hard. “You know, I’m going to need a lot of help on the ranch.”
“You’re serious? Me and you, in the desert, chasing giant chickens around?”
Bert nodded. “Eating jumbo omelets.”
“Might be something to consider.”
Tom noticed that the small hospital room was becoming a bit cramped, but he felt his heart rate increase when one more person joined them.
“Oh my God, is that Abe Lincoln?”
Joan came into the room, and Abe gave her a big hug.
“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Arc.”
Joan closed the door and faced them, looking serious. “I’m glad you’re all here. We need to talk.”
Tom noted the manila folder Joan was carrying, with CLASSIFIED written on the side.
“Is that from Stang’s?”
“Yes. It’s the only file I managed to save. You all need to look at this.”
Bert opened the file and flipped through it. As he read, his face became progressively grimmer.
“Don’t keep us in suspense,” Roy said. “Spill.”
Bert held up a paper. “This first page. It’s a list of the ten clones Dr. Harold created. Me, you, Abe—the others with numbers on their heels.”
He handed it to Tom. “Yeah. These are the ten. So?”
Bert handed him the next page. Tom stared at it. The first name that stood out was Jerome Huntington, the crazy Navy SEAL Stang had working for him. Printed next to his name was “clone of GERONIMO.”
Tom scanned down the page, seeing many other famous names, some of them real doozies. And just like the first page, there were numbers next to them. Eleven through twenty.
“Let me see.” Roy took the paper and read through it. “You mean to tell me there are ten more clones of famous people running around?”
“Nine more.” Tom frowned. “Minus Geronimo.”
“Nine more?” Abe reached for the page. “Tell me one of them is Marilyn Monroe.”
“So what do we do about this, Tom?” Bert asked.
Roy nodded. “Yeah, Tom?”
Tom shook his head. “The FBI can take care of it. I’m done. I did my part. This is no longer my business.”
“There are some very bad people on this list, Tom.” Joan put a hand on his shoulder. “Who knows what they could be doing in the world?”
Tom couldn’t believe that came from Joan.
“Don’t you want to go back to living a normal life? A safe life?”
“Can anyone in the world be safe with number 17 running around?”
“Number 18 is even worse,” Bert said. “And 20 is pretty bad too.”
Tom’s shoulders slumped. “It’s not our fight.”
“You know,” Abe grabbed his lapels and rocked back on his heels. “There were a lot of people who didn’t want to stand up to King George in 1776. A lot of them said it wasn’t their fight. But a few of them did. One of them was a guy named Thomas Jefferson.”
Tom sighed. Corny as it sounded, Abe was right. Ultimately, it didn’t matter why Tom was the way he was. It might have been genetics. It might have been the way he was raised. It might have been something totally unique to him. Tom had no choice but to follow his nature, wherever his nature came from.
“Okay,” he said, standing up and taking Joan’s hand. “Who should we try to find first?”
HAUNTED
HOUSE
Are You Brave Enough?
BEYOND AFRAID…
It was an experiment in fear.
Eight people, each chosen because they lived through a terrifying experience. Survivors. They don’t scare easily. They know how to fight back.
BEYOND TRAPPED…
Each is paid a million dollars to spend one night in a house. The old Butler House, where those grisly murders occurred so many years ago. A house that is supposedly haunted.
BEYOND ENDURANCE…
They can take whatever they want with them. Religious items. Survival gear. Weapons. All they need to do is last the night.
But there is something evil in this house. Something very evil, and very real. And when the dying starts, it comes with horrifying violence and brutal finality.
There are scarier things than gho
sts.
Things that torment you slowly and delight in your screams.
Things that won’t let you get out alive.
HAUNTED HOUSE
People are just dying to leave.
Jack Kilborn, author of AFRAID, TRAPPED, and ENDURANCE, brings back some favorite characters from those earlier novels and puts them through his own unique brand of hell. One that hurts real bad. One that will scare you to death.
Are you brave enough?
This novel is for Maria
HAUNTED
HOUSE
Prologue
Roy Lewis cleared the doorway, then spun as something in the darkness lunged at him.
He fired, a double-tap at the approaching center mass, but it kept coming. Before he could flinch away the thing hit him in his outstretched Glock.
It took Roy milliseconds to process what it was, and then revulsion coursed through him.
A body bag.
Black plastic with a silver zipper. Hanging from a chain.
But something was wrong with it. The weight was… off.
Roy aimed his flashlight up at the ceiling, the tactical beam cutting through the ever-present dark of the house, and saw the rail system that had swung the bag into him. Pulleys and springs and a steel track, all automatic. Probably triggered by a motion sensor.
He reached out and gave the bag a tentative squeeze.
Foam rubber.
Not a real body. Just a goddamn Halloween prop.
Roy chewed his inner cheek, heart hammering, realizing he’d wasted two valuable bullets on a dime store scare.
Only one bullet left. Then he was out of ammo.
Roy checked his watch. Not even 4am yet. Hours to go before dawn. Might as well be days.
Breathe. Remember to breathe.
He took in air through his nostrils, tried to let it out slowly. His hands were shaking, and sweat was stinging his eyes despite the cool temperature. Roy holstered his sidearm, and drew his KA-BAR knife from his belt sheath, clutching it to his chest.
J.A. Konrath / Jack Kilborn Trilogy - Three Scary Thriller Novels (Origin, The List, Haunted House) Page 51
