Shutterbug backed away, gripping the shotgun. He couldn’t see Austin. It was so dark, and he didn’t know where to look, and—
“You’ve really disappointed me,” Austin said, his voice no more than a whisper.
A sharp click sounded as Austin readied his revolver. Hollow thumps rippled from April’s grave as Shutterbug passed by. He was going to unravel. He knew it. Right there in the cemetery, he was going to unravel.
No.
Jumping through the French doors in his kitchen, Shutterbug hadn’t received a single cut. Not bad, when he considered the fate of the FBI agent. He hadn’t been wounded in his war with the A-Squad, either, and that was equally amazing in light of the firepower he had faced.
But there was only so much he could stand. Gone-to-seed jocks invading his house. Cops bullying him at his store. FBI agents smiling at him. Shelly Desmond stealing his money. Her pyromaniac boyfriend torching his house.
Barely escaping through the damn French doors.
Twelve hundred bucks worth of doors broken, then burned. Running all the way to the camera shop, just so he could get his old man’s service revolver and the van he used for business.
The FBI agent was dead; Shutterbug had watched her basic black outfit ignite. She was toast. But, driving around in the van, Shutterbug had realized that his other enemies still lived. And all of them were within striking distance.
He had gone to Steve Austin’s house, determined to silence him for good, only to find Austin leaving via his rattletrap Dodge.
So Shutterbug followed Austin to the mortuary. Cut him down, and he wasn’t so nervous anymore. And then he heard those morons yelling at each other over in the cemetery. He slaughtered three of them and felt that he had dropped a hundred pounds of worry.
And now Austin had eliminated the fourth.
But Shutterbug had eliminated Austin.
This was impossib—
An icy squeal rose from April’s grave—sharp fingernails scoring smooth metal.
“I’m Steve Austin, and I’m coming for you. I’m The Six Million Dollar Man. And I’m Ozzy Austin.” Austin laughed. “I’m Oz…I am The Great & Powerful Oz. Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.”
The shotgun was slippery with Shutterbug’s sweat. He wasn’t a shotgun kind of fellow. He knew that. Just as he knew that this was impossible, unreal, like a dream.
Austin chasing him down, an avenging invisible man.
Something trapped in April’s coffin, trying to get out, when he knew that April was dead.
But last night, on the road, April had nearly run him down.
Impossible. This wasn’t a dream, it was a—Shutterbug dropped the shotgun. His fingers scrabbled into his shirt pocket. The old 16mm movie was still there.
Austin had said that the movie was April’s nightmare.
“If you just leave me alone….” Shutterbug said.
He couldn’t think of anything else to say. He dropped the movie into April’s grave, heard it ring against the metal casket, and then he turned and ran into the night.
He ran like a frightened boy in a ghost story.
As fast as his feet could carry him.
He kept running.
11:59 P.M.
Steve Austin pushed Bat Bautista’s corpse out of the way and leaned against the bloodstained tombstone.
He was finished. He couldn’t take another step. He wasn’t The Six Million Dollar Man, after all. Blood leaked from his shoulder, not transmission fluid, and he had lost a lot of it. The blood that was left in him seemed to be pounding in his temples, and he couldn’t stand the racket. And while Shutterbug’s slugs hadn’t penetrated his Kevlar vest, they had busted him up pretty thoroughly. Every time he moved, one of a couple dozen fishhooks caught in his ribs ripped at his insides.
At least that was the way it felt. Certainly several ribs were broken. If Todd Gould hadn’t come right to him, practically running into his revolver…. That had been lucky. Still, the trip from the mortuary to the cemetery hadn’t done him any good. Broken ribs could cut like knives. He knew full well the damage they could do.
But he had gone ahead anyway.
He was past that now. Thank God. He was just going to sit here for a while. He wasn’t a superhero. He wasn’t The Six Million Dollar Man.
But he was The Great and Powerful Oz. A great and powerful humbug. A ghost. He had to laugh at that. “Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.”
Marvis Hanks dropping his shotgun and running into the night.
That was funny.
And that was that. The end of his career as a humbug. Steve Austin only wanted to sit here and rest. The night would pass soon enough. When they found him tomorrow, they would look at his driver’s license and see that his name was Steve Austin. Just some guy with a brain locked in his skull that had never worked quite right.
Thought patterns running on a scale outside acceptable parameters.
That was him, all right.
They’ll find me, he told himself. And then Ernest Kellogg can drag my body through the mud, tumble me into a grave, and stand there in his yellow boots watching Royce Lewis shovel mud in my face.
Steve’s pulse slowed. He wasn’t sweating anymore.
The bloodstained tombstone didn’t make a half-bad bed.
If only it was warmer.
Steve wished that the tombstone was warmer. He wished the drums in his head would stop pounding. The graveyard wasn’t a bad place, really. Take away the drums, warm up the tombstone, and it would be fine. It was empty, for one thing. And it was green. The flowers that sprouted from the grass were plastic and ugly, but the stone monuments were beautiful.
Steve could see across the road, to the drive-in. The silhouettes of the dying pines that rimmed the theatre pressed into view above the cemetery fence. He knew he was looking at the crowns of the trees, but he stuck with the illusion that persisted in his imagination, that these were young trees, green, reaching for the heavens.
The trees. The grass. The stone flowers. This was so like the place he had always wanted to visit—the meadow in his dreams.
If only his head would stop pounding. If only the tombstone was warmer.
He sucked a deep breath and smelled the minty fragrance of the eucalyptus grove a few hundred feet away.
And then he knew very suddenly that it wasn’t the grove that he was smelling, because something sat at his side.
A paw made of twigs scratched his right arm. Homer Price licked Steve’s face with a tongue as rough as eucalyptus bark.
Homer barked, the sound of boards clapping together. Ran to the open grave. Whimpered at the precipice like Rin Tin Tin, like Lassie.
Steve realized that the pounding wasn’t in his head.
It was in April’s coffin.
* * *
He slid through the mud, his ribs on fire, tasting his own blood as it streamed inside him.
The coffin lid shuddered. Anguished thumps cascaded through the air.
Steve whispered, “If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up.” His left arm wouldn’t work, but his right arm worked just fine as long as he didn’t bang his ribs with his elbow. He reached out, fingers clearing gritty soil, and the cold water that pooled in the bottom of the grave felt good in his boots.
He opened the coffin.
April was there.
He said, “If this is a dream….”
Her hands were bound, thumbs black and bloody from pounding the lid. He took a knife from his pocket and sliced the ropes. In the dim light he saw that her forehead was bruised, as well.
She had pounded the coffin with her skull.
His fingers caressed her bruises.
Something was wrong. Her hair was short. His fingers traveled the length of her eyebrows. He moved closer. Green eyes found gray eyes in the darkness.
“April,” he said, suddenly pulling away. “April?”
Her fingers covered his lips. He tried to say something else,
but she gently pinched his mouth closed. And when her fingers moved away, it was only to peel the duct tape from her mouth.
She did not scream.
His voice trembled. “A-April?”
And now her lips were on his. And when her lips pulled away, she whispered, “Shhhh…be quiet. Shhh.”
She pulled him to her breast in the cold hole that was the last bed April Destino had ever known. She held him close. He fell asleep in her arms. And he dreamed.
THE END
Cemetery Dance Publications
Be sure to visit CemeteryDance.com for more information about all of our great horror and suspense eBooks, along with our collectible signed Limited Edition hardcovers and our awarding magazine.
Our authors include Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Ray Bradbury, PetemStraub, William Peter Blatty, Justin Cronin, Frank Darabont, Mick Garris, Joe R. Lansdale, Norman Partridge, Richard Laymon, Michael Slade, Graham Masterton, Douglas Clegg, Jack Ketchum, William F. Nolan, Nancy A. Collins, Al Sarrantonio, John Skipp, and many others.
www.CemeteryDance.com
Table of Contents
Title_Page
Copyright
Dedication
ONE
ONE_Quote
ONE_1203AM
ONE_112AM
ONE_131AM
ONE_138AM
ONE_142AM
ONE_151AM
ONE_215AM
ONE_249AM
ONE_255AM
ONE_317AM
ONE_323AM
ONE_326AM
ONE_331AM
ONE_433AM
TWO
TWO_Quote
TWO_606PM
TWO_715AM
TWO_746AM
TWO_813AM
TWO_828AM
TWO_945AM
TWO_1057AM
TWO_1115AM
THREE
THREE_Quote
THREE_728PM
THREE_813PM
THREE_831PM
THREE_942PM
THREE_955PM
FOUR
FOUR_Quote
FOUR_1039PM
FOUR_1130PM
FOUR_1138PM
FOUR_1144PM
FOUR_1147PM
FOUR_1159
Cemetery_Dance_Publications
Table of Contents
Title_Page
Copyright
Dedication
ONE
ONE_Quote
ONE_1203AM
ONE_112AM
ONE_131AM
ONE_138AM
ONE_142AM
ONE_151AM
ONE_215AM
ONE_249AM
ONE_255AM
ONE_317AM
ONE_323AM
ONE_326AM
ONE_331AM
ONE_433AM
TWO
TWO_Quote
TWO_606PM
TWO_715AM
TWO_746AM
TWO_813AM
TWO_828AM
TWO_945AM
TWO_1057AM
TWO_1115AM
THREE
THREE_Quote
THREE_728PM
THREE_813PM
THREE_831PM
THREE_942PM
THREE_955PM
FOUR
FOUR_Quote
FOUR_1039PM
FOUR_1130PM
FOUR_1138PM
FOUR_1144PM
FOUR_1147PM
FOUR_1159
Cemetery_Dance_Publications
Slippin' Into Darkness Page 23
