Hunt or Be Hunted
By
Rachel Lynne


Ray Henderson accepted his beer from the bartender and rolled his eyes at the tour guide’s spiel. What kind of moron bought that load of bull shit? He smirked as his gaze fell on Chrissie’s enthralled face. Apparently, morons like his wife, and, judging by the enthusiastic crowd, she wasn’t alone in her obsession with all things paranormal.

Ray shook his head. He was surrounded by a bunch of losers. What a great way to spend Halloween. He tuned out the tour guide and examined the bar. With its rough brick walls and scarred floors, the Crescent River Brewing Company delivered on the historic and slightly creepy atmosphere conducive to ghost tours. He took a sip of beer and grimaced. Too bad they couldn’t claim the same with their microbrews; though in fairness he hated even the regular stuff so one imbued with the essence of rosemary was probably not destined to change his opinion.

Chrissie caught his gaze and grinned, her face glowing with happiness. So much for trying to convince her that the tour was lame and they should go home. It was going to be a long night. Ray sighed and looked around for an empty seat. Judging by the capacity crowd, he was the only one who felt the beer left a lot to be desired and ghost hunting was a crock of crap. The joint was a sea of crazy costumes. The raucous crowd seemed to have been celebrating all day; in hindsight, taking a haunted pub tour on Halloween night was not such a great idea.

Ray shoved his way through the throng as a woman dressed like a happy hooker vacated a bar stool. He planted himself in front of the big screen and tried to tune out the bat shit crazy chatter of the ghost obsessed group.

Chrissie could take the tour without him. He snorted and took another swig of the swill masquerading as beer. Damn tour had cost him sixty big ones. She should be grateful he’d forked over the blunt because God knew he could have found a better way to spend his hard earned money.

The sweater he’d seen at Marc Jacobs flashed in his mind. He would look great in pumpkin colored cashmere; chic and successful. Not everyone could afford cashmere, especially from Marc Jacobs, and wearing something like that would surely get him noticed. He should be manager of the WFI telecom store. Hadn’t he gone to college? An associate degree from Savannah Business University should have counted for something.

He gritted his teeth. Damn Chrissie and her whining. He should have told her to get a job if she wanted to go on the damn tour. It wasn’t like he didn’t provide for her. Hell, she had a roof over her head, food on the table, and enough bus fare to get to the store once a week. She should be grateful.

He blinked as a bevy of camera flashes blinded him. Ah, what the hell … he turned to see a cluster of nut jobs, his wife prominent among them, madly snapping pictures of something behind him. He scowled at Chrissie and opened his mouth, but the tour guide’s words halted the rebuke forming on his lips.

“The area behind the bar has been the site of frequent visitations. Many of our servers and bar staff have experienced cold spots and several have reported items disappearing. One staff member, closing the bar for the night, saw a shadowy outline of a man smoking a pipe. When she moved closer to investigate, the shadow emitted a piercing scream and rushed toward her before evaporating.” The guide’s lips twisted into a faint smile. “I’m sorry to say that server gave notice that night and left the employ of Crescent River.”

Oohs, ahs, and nervous laughter erupted from the crowd. Chrissie sidled closer to Ray and squeezed his hand.

Ray snorted. “Ya’ll believe that and I’ve got ocean front property in Iowa with your name on it.” The guide and several tour members scowled at him. Ray sneered. Bunch of idiots and gullible fools.

He shook off his wife’s hand and tried to turn back toward the TV, but Chrissie grabbed his elbow and tugged. “Come on, Ray. They’re gonna take us upstairs!”
“Go on. I’m gonna watch the game.”

Chrissie’s lip trembled and tears welled in her big blue eyes. “But, you promised! It’s my birthday present …” Her voice rose with her distress, drawing the gaze of two well-dressed men sitting close by.

Ray gritted his teeth and slid off of the stool. He could have cared less about disappointing Chrissie, but the reproach he saw in the eyes of the business men – he couldn’t risk marring his public image. You never could tell who was watching or how they might be useful someday.

He joined the throng of ghost hunters, staying well to the back, but the guide’s words still reached his ears. “Crescent River Brewing Company is located in what used to be the City Hotel. The first place to offer rented rooms in Savannah, it also functioned as the city’s post office, bank, and bar.” The thin young man adjusted his Confederate cap and grinned. “A lot of interesting characters have called this place home, which explains the lively paranormal activity we see today.” He motioned for the group to follow and walked toward the pool table area.

Ray smirked and wondered what ‘activity’ would be produced for their benefit. From what he’d heard, the brewing company tour rarely failed to deliver thrills. A woman shrieked. Ray made his way to the front of the line in time to see a cue ball rolling back and forth across the green felt, apparently of its own volition.

“As you can imagine, the City Hotel was a popular place for Savannahians to imbibe and that was often accompanied by a desire to gamble. The hotel became a hangout for professional card sharps.” Their guide nodded toward the pool table. “On several occasions, people sensitive to paranormal entities have reported a ‘heavy’ or menacing presence in this area and even regular patrons have confessed to seeing the shadowy outline of a human head and torso near the stairs. We’re in luck tonight because our spirit seems to be offering us a game of pool,” he grinned. “Anyone care to take him up on the offer?”

Ray laughed. “Come on, that’s your idea of a ghost? More like an unbalanced table.” He scowled at Chrissie. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into wasting sixty bucks on this!”

“Hey man, some of us want to be here. Why don’t you shut up?”

Ray whirled around. “Why don’t you –“ The smart ass retort died on his lips in the face of his opponent’s size. Ray gulped. The guy could play defense for the Steelers! No fool, Ray backed down and slunk to the back of the group.

He grabbed Chrissie’s arm, squeezing the soft flesh until it turned white beneath his fingers. “This is all your fault and don’t think I won’t make you pay for it.”

Tears formed in Chrissie’s eyes. She mouthed ‘I’m sorry’, and hung her head.
Ray shoved her. “Get your camera out, dumb ass. If I have to be here, I want my money’s worth."

The woman in front of them gasped and turned around, glaring at Ray.

“What are you lookin’ at?”

The woman huffed and let her friends pull her away.

Ray snorted. “That’s what I thought.”

He pushed Chrissie toward the stairs as the guide suggested they move on to explore the upper levels. Bringing up the rear, Ray was still on the steps as the guide began to point out the places of reputed spiritual phenomenon. He paused on the last step to hear another tall tale being spun for the entertainment of the gullible masses.

“The upper floors remain unfinished after a fire in … death below—“ Ray frowned. The guide’s location, combined with the din from the bar made it impossible to make out more than a few disjointed sentences. He stepped onto the landing in time to hear the remainder of the tale.

“According to legend, a woman was ‘sold’ as part of a gambling debt. The card sharp who won her saw the potential to earn extra income and prostituted her. From all accounts, he was a bastard who beat and verbally abused the poor woman.” The guide met Ray’s eyes. “One day he went too far and the woman snapped and fought back. In the struggle, the man fell from the balcony, killing him instantly. Several members of the staff have had encounters--”

Ray rolled his eyes. “Great. I shelled out my hard earned dough for the ghost of a slut—“

“Ray, please, let the man talk!” Chrissie tugged on his arm as everyone on the tour stared at Ray, open mouthed.

“What? I’m just sayin’ what everyone else is thinking. Everyone with a brain that is!” He shouldered past his wife and the cluster of ghost hunters, coming to a stop in the darkened hallway that overlooked the bar. He smirked at the guide and motioned for him to continue. “Let me guess, employees claim to see the ghost of the dead bimbo –“

“Sir, I think you should choose your words more carefully –“

“Or what?” He threw his head back and laughed. “Let me guess, the so-called lady will take offen—oomph!”

Ray gasped as something struck him in the chest, knocking him back on his heels. He opened his mouth to complain, but the air around him turned frigid, turning his breaths into visible plumes and robbing him of speech.

He squinted as a blinding ball of light filled the hall. The hair on the back of his neck rose as the light slowly glided toward him. He swallowed around the lump that formed in his throat and found his voice. “Wha …what kind of trick is this?”

The whirl of camera motors was his only answer. His mind reeled, searching for an explanation. It was all a hoax. He’d complained about the tour being a rip-off. The staff was just getting even.

Ray attempted to move away; the response was immediate, and terrifying.
The freezing air began to churn, as if gale force winds were somehow whipping through the building though nothing, not even his hair, moved. Heart pounding, Ray looked across the room for help. His jaw dropped. The tour members clearly saw what was happening; and they were busy snapping pictures!

His limbs shook. His chest rose and fell as he panted for breath. A low moan filled his ears as the strange light encircled him. He shivered as a feeling of intense hate and rage rose within the cold air swirling around him. His teeth chattered and his stomach rolled.

The moan turned into a wail and out of the frosty fog emerged the hazy outline of a woman. She glared at him and then rushed forward, her arms extended, hands curled into fists.

Ray scrambled backwards, hands raised to protect himself. The backs of his legs slammed against the wooden balcony rail. The spindles vibrated and then gave way. Arms flaying, he struggled to regain his balance as his feet encountered nothing but air.

Exultant laughter filled his ears as he plummeted through the air. Eyes wide, Ray watched as his wife leaned over the rail, the bulb from her camera’s flash lighting up the night.

The Telephone

The Telephone

I’ve worked at this diner for twenty some years and our counter phone has only worked a few times. At first, I thought it was faulty wiring. Then I figured it was coincidence. Finally I became a believer and tried to steer people away from the phone. Eventually, I learned to accept it as fate. The phone is your warning and it rang for me tonight…

I was alarmed when I pulled up to the diner to see everyone gathered outside. Thankfully, it wasn’t raining and it always rained in this God forsaken town. I parked in my usual spot and walked up, digging through my purse for keys I hadn’t used in five years.

“Betty’s not inside already?” I asked the obvious question.

A few grumbles and head shakes from the small crowd. Betty had a warm heart—she’d promptly hired every scumbag looking for a job. Oddly enough, they’d all stuck around… even me. Betty had a way of making us feel wanted and useful, I guess.

“She probably just forgot to unlock the door.” I finally worked the lock loose and shoved the door open, holding it as they passed. Everyone knew old Betty was crazy as a loon on top of being sweet. We also knew she liked working late and frequently fell asleep at her desk.

I walked into the office and dropped my stuff into the same worn leather chair, once again bemoaning the lack of hooks or lockers. Then, I noticed Betty’s stuff spread over her ancient desk, but no Betty with it. In all the years I’d worked here, Betty had been the first one in and the last one gone. It wasn’t like her to disappear.

I took a breath and told myself not to worry. If the old lady wanted a day off, she was definitely due. Betty didn’t owe us an explanation or a warning after all. I held the place together thinking she’d stop in anytime. When the busy lunch rush rolled around and she still hadn’t showed or called, I got worried.

When I decided to call her, I stared at the phone on the counter. The ugly, bright red phone I’d laughed at a few years ago. Betty had caught me cracking jokes and lectured me on the significance of that phone. I’d called her crazy until the first time it’d happened for me. My line of vision shifted through the glass and across the street.

The Corner Diner was located across from a rowdy bar that never served food. We were always getting drunken riffraff coming in for a bite. Danny Thompson was a notorious bully and self-proclaimed badass. He and his crew were also regulars at the diner. When his friends had dared him to pick up the red phone, he’d agreed.

Most of the time, people intending to touch the thing always chickened out before picking it up. An urban myth nicknamed it the phone of death. Dramatic, I know. Anyway, Danny had turned white as a sheet when he’d held the phone to his ear and subsequently raced out of the diner. His mad dash was stopped by a train on the other end of town.

People always called it coincidence. The townspeople said to each other, “Danny had just been too drunk to notice all the warning signs and the track was rarely used.” For awhile I agreed with them, able to reason it away until it kept happening.

I looked out the diner window to the charred remains of the gas station diagonal to us. Mr. Schaffer used to own the place and he’d been a notorious scam artist. Always overcharging for auto repairs, fuel, and—hell—even the candy bars. All his tricks had ended a couple days back when he’d accidentally grabbed the phone instead of his glass of milk.

Later that same night, the truck Mr. Schaffer was working on fell on him without killing him. He’d also been notoriously cheap about buying equipment. The truck lift collapse was easy to explain away, the faulty wiring going up in smoke and burning Mr. Schaffer to death as his gas line had exploded—not so easy. At least not for me. Not anymore.        

Turning back to the red phone, my heart raced and I prayed for Betty to answer her phone. I dialed with an odd mix of trepidation and speed, sure she’d pick up and laugh about forgetting work. By the time her answering machine kicked on, my palms were sweaty. My next call to the police didn’t help. They told me to call back if she didn’t show up by tomorrow.

Didn’t matter, I was fairly certain what had happened to our crazy Betty. I pasted on a smile and ran the place like I secretly had been for a year. I laughed with the regulars and said Betty was having a spa day. It was the best I could come up with on short notice. I even lied to the staff mentioning, she had checked in and there were no problems.

The dinner rush was so hectic, I forgot about old Betty until I was locking up the doors and heading to my car. The police cruiser sitting in the parking lot didn’t bother me until the cop climbed out and scared me silly. At first, I looked around expecting a bar brawl to have drawn the officer out.

“Ms. Winters, I need to speak with you regarding Betty.”

I leaned against my car. “Did you track her down yet?”

“In a manner of speaking, but folks mentioned you saying she was having a spa day?” He stared me down under the florescent parking lights and I shuffled.

“I may have lied to keep things calm at the diner.  I didn’t want people to worry. Please tell me she’s safe.” One thing I’d learned from my experiences with the cops—honesty with a reason was better than avoidance, but best change the subject real fast.

“Afraid not. We’re going to need you to identify the body. She listed you as next of kin.”

I nodded. “I’ll follow you.”

The whole way I forced my grip to lessen on the steering wheel and my dinner to stay down. Next of kin to police usually screamed suspect and I didn’t have the best history with them. My mind worked its way through being made suspect number one and then, being admitted to a psych ward in the next town over for mentioning the phone. Thankfully, I pulled in behind the cruiser before my imagination could start playing all the possible scenarios surrounding Betty’s death.

Identifying the body ended up being more gruesome than even my mind could create. Apparently Betty had been working on her rooftop garden and taken a header into a dumpster. Unfortunately, the dumpster had just been filled with construction debris from another apartment’s remodel.  She’d have been a goner either way; the sharp debris just destroyed her body and added insult to her death.

My stomach had lost its battle against the dinner revolt and a police officer passed me a soda while I answered questions. Obviously, tossing meatloaf had won me a pity card. I told them everything I knew, which wasn’t much. Betty was secretive for the most part. Hell, I was shocked to learn she’d left the diner to me. I did, however, leave out my thoughts on the stupid red diner phone.

“She scribbled some words in the dirt of the flowerbed she was working on.” The officer checked his notes, but I knew what it would say. “It rang. Any idea what she meant?”

“No idea, everyone knew she was crazy. Who knows what she meant.” Losing my dinner and seeing Betty’s decimated body had left me pale so the lie was even more convincing.

There were a few more questions, mostly variations of the same ones over and over. Did they suspect I knew more? Hell yes. Could they prove a thing? Hell no. Thank God for worthless roommates to verify my whereabouts until I’d left for work and then all the diner witnesses. Not to mention I had called the police worried about her. They brought up her last words a few more times, but I shrugged it off each time. Trick with lying to the cops—keep it short and simple, easier to remember. I signed some paperwork and an official statement, and then was finally released.

I’d made up my mind to sell the dive as soon as I’d left the police department. I didn’t want to sit around waiting for the damn death phone to ring that my time was up. I also didn’t want to watch it lure more people to it. In the past, it’d seemed to target bad guys, bullies, and drunks. Poor old Betty had been as sweet as they come though, and it bothered me.

The diner was profitable and popular; it hadn’t taken long for someone to snatch it up. Took even less time for me to cash in the check and hit the road. I wanted as far away from the place as possible and I’d made enough to head south to fun and sun. The few things I owned were stashed in the backseat and trunk of my little car.

The drive had been uneventful until I hit the mountain range. I swerved around a meandering deer, wondering if its eyes hadn’t just glowed red, when my cell phone rang. I fished it out and hit speaker, not wanting to spare a hand on the curvy, narrow roads.

“Hello?”

“So glad we reached you, been trying all day…” The new owner’s voice echoed in my car. “Someone keeps calling saying your name and then hanging up.”

“I apologize for that, probably just pranksters.” I moved into a narrow area, a recent rockslide cutting off traffic in the other lane. Wait… deer… rocks… narrow mountain road. “Which phone was ringing again?”

“That pretty red one on the counter. Someone just breathes your name and hangs up. It’s kind of chilling.”

I headed around the curve and realized there was no way to avoid the semi-truck barreling toward me or my fate. “You don’t say…”

Watch for my next short horror piece on November 18^th, here on Digital Digest. Like your chills on the cheap? Check out our ebooks available now and don’t forget to sign up to have our works delivered to your Kindle or email! Hassle free reading at its finest.

~Jennifer Feuerstein~

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Copyright © 2011 Jennifer Feuerstein

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. No portion of this work may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.

The Body Farm: Conclusion

Content Advisory: The series contains scenes of zombie horror that some may find disturbing. The series started on 22nd August.

The Body Farm

Conclusion

Eleanor sat on her haunches, her whole body trembling, trying to her catch breath. She glanced over to see Jimmy folded into two, his face in his hand, his shoulders heaving. She reached out and lightly touched his shoulder, making him look up. His face was wet with tears.

“I’ve been bitten,” Jimmy sobbed. “One of the fuckers got me.”

Seeing tears on a grown man unnerved Eleanor, but she rubbed his back, trying to offer some comfort.

None of them spoke about Kyle; the gaping hole that had suddenly appeared between and beneath them. Yet each of them wondered, ‘could they have done anything to save him? Had they made mistakes?’

Eleanor checked Jimmy’s injury. Teeth marks penetrated the flesh of his leg, a chunk of skin hanging like an open door from his calf. She tore off part of her shirt and wrapped his wound.

“It’s okay,” she said. “You’ll live. But we’ve got to keep moving. I don’t know if those things will figure out a way to get in here but I don’t plan on hanging around to find out.”

“She’s right,” said Robert. “We need to get to the roof. We’ll be able to get a better assessment of the situation from there.”

“Assessment of the situation?” Jimmy’s tone was too high. “The situation is we’re surrounded by fucking zombies. That’s the fucking situation!”

“Well we need to do something,” Robert said. “Sitting around in a pipe like a bunch of hamsters in a Rotastak isn’t exactly going to save us.”

“This isn’t helping anyone, gentlemen,” she hissed. “Let’s just move!”

In the confined space, they hunched on their hands and knees, heads lowered. Robert led the way, with Eleanor in the middle and Jimmy bringing up the rear. Being the largest of the depleted group, Robert struggled most, his shoulders almost wedging when they needed to take a turning, the vents crossing in a, ‘t’.

“I’m not feeling well,” Jimmy moaned from behind. Sweat poured from his brow.

“Just keep going, Jimmy,” said Eleanor, trying to sound more confident than she felt. She didn’t like having him crawling along behind her. They had no idea what happened to someone who had been bitten by one of the dead things and the thought of him suddenly attacking her and sinking his own teeth into her leg stayed at the front of her mind. “We can take a look at you as soon as we reach the roof,” she continued. “We’re bound to come across the vent to the outside world soon.”

She was right. Within five minutes they hit a solid silver wall. The only option was to head up the square, vertical shaft. Another grate blocked the way about six feet overhead, but beyond the metal they saw an indigo blue sky with stars that were quickly being put out, one by one.

Eleanor thanked the gods the research center was only single story. If the vent rose up several stories, they’d be fucked.

Relieved she’d thought to pocket the scalpel—it was a weapon after all—she reached into the back pocket of her pants and pulled out the slim, cool metal. She passed the scalpel to Robert, careful to slide between him and the vent, not wanted to accidently cut him in the confined space.

“Here,” she said. “Work your magic.”

Robert took the blade and squeezed himself into the cramped space, wriggling shoulders and arms to reach over his head, standing to his full height. The metal walls pressed in on every side except one and he reached up, up toward the stars, and put the scalpel to work.

The time dragged by painful slowly as Eleanor waited for Robert to loosen the screws and pop the grate. Jimmy’s presence behind her made her whole body tighten with nerves. His heavy breathing filled the tight space and his body odor had taken on the rank, stifling smell of rotting meat.

Finally, the small screws pinged to the bottom of the vent and Robert was able to push the grate out of its home. He hooked his fingers over the edge and hauled himself up and onto the roof. Within moments, his face reappeared, blocking out the sky. Eleanor wriggled herself into the vent—an easier job than Robert had because of her size—and lifted her arms up toward him. He reached down, his warm strong palms catching around both of hers, and he hauled her up.

Eleanor tumbled onto the roof, gasping in a lungful of relatively clean air. To have the new day’s fresh breeze against her face felt better than anything she could remember.

“Guys…” The weak call echoed up the vent and Eleanor and Robert shared a glance.

“Is he okay?” asked Robert under his voice.

“I don’t think so, but we can’t leave him down there.”

Robert nodded and leaned back over the shaft, reaching down to hoist Jimmy up to join them.

The three of them sat on the flat, asphalt roof. Above, the sky was beginning to lighten. Hard to believe they’d been trapped in the building all night. In the increasing light, they saw more of the dead, many of them now seeming to stumble around without purpose, a contrast to the fast, driven creatures they’d witnessed before.

“Why the change?” whispered Eleanor, not wanting to be heard.

“I don’t know,” said Robert, frowning. “Do you think the worms only have a certain life-span? Perhaps they die quickly.”

“Hmmm,” she said, her mind whirring. “The only organisms I know that have such a short life cycle are one’s who’ve spawned.”

Robert rolled his eyes, “Great.”

Jimmy’s face was white, a sheen of sweat coating his skin. “I don’t feel well,” he said again, only this time his voice was faint.

Eleanor and Robert exchanged a worried glance.

Past the stumbling dead rose the high, solid metal security gates, allowing access to and from the facility. Beyond the high, barbed wire tipped walls, beyond the locked gates, was freedom.

Jimmy twisted to all fours and vomited on the asphalt roofing, his whole body straining like a cat with a fur ball. As he sat up, he began to cry again.

“I kicked him off me,” he said. “Kyle was only a kid and he begged for my help and I just kicked him off.”

Eleanor and Robert shared another glance. Eleanor patted Jimmy’s shoulder, trying not to grimace at feel of his cold, sweat-soaked clothing. The stench coming off him now was almost unbearable, making her want to cover her face with her hand.

“It’s not your fault,” she said. “The only things to blame are those fucking things down there.”

“I should have let him go first. He’d have been faster than me. He would have got up without being bitten.”

“You don’t know that.”

“He was young. He had his whole life ahead of him. Now both of us are goners.”

“You’ll be fine,” Eleanor said. “We just need to get you some medical attention.”

Jimmy gave a sound half-way between and cry and a laugh. “I don’t think there are many medics up here.”

“We’ll figure out a way to get down. All we’ve got to do is create some kind of distraction, get the dead things away from the main gates, and then we make a run for it.”

Her comment hung over them like a cloud. They knew Jimmy wasn’t running anywhere.

The dead milled around below them, as yet unaware of the live humans above. The gates seemed so far away; an almost impossible distance.

Jimmy climbed to his feet. “I think I’ve got an idea for a distraction,” he said, his voice grating and weak. “You two take care of each other.” And with that, he broke into a run, heading to the back of the roof.

“Jimmy!” Eleanor yelled, but he’d caught them by surprise and before they’d even managed to leap to their feet, Jimmy plummeted off the edge.

Eleanor and Robert stared after him in shock.

The feasting below began, a shrieking of both rage and pleasure. As far as they could see, all of the dead ran toward the sound, fleeing from the space between the roof and freedom.

Robert seized their chance. “Go!” he yelled, pushing Eleanor toward the edge. The drop looked like a frighteningly long way, but they had no choice. Robert went first, backing off the side until he hung by his fingers, and then dropped the rest of the way as silently as possible.

“Come on,” he hissed. “I’ll catch you.”

Eleanor copied Robert’s actions, skirting backward until her feet hung over the edge. With her heart pounding, she hooked her fingers onto the edge of the flat roof. The muscles in her back and arms trembled as they took her body weight and she dangled in mid-air.

“Let go!” Robert hissed.

Eleanor took a deep breath, released her grip and dropped into his arms. Pressed against his chest, she looked up at him. Their eyes locked for the briefest of seconds before they remembered where they were.

He grabbed her hand and they took off toward the gates, Robert pulling her along.

Behind them came the sound of pounding feet, followed by more screams.

The dead were coming.

The scientists’ feet hit the ground, breath gasping in and out of their lungs. They hit the big metal gates at a run, slamming up against them. The same card pinned to their belts allowed access to and from the facility.

Eleanor swiped her card. The dead were getting closer—things with decayed faces and rotten fingers, reaching for them. She tried to swipe the gate, her fingers fumbling the card, almost dropping it. Too fast, she tried again, and the lock didn’t register.

“Hurry,” urged Robert.

“God damn it,” she swore, but tried again and the gates buzzed green.

Eleanor and Robert burst from the facility, out into the real world. They slammed the gate behind them and the barrier automatically locked, the light showing red. Bodies hit the other side like flies hitting a windshield, their groans and screeches filling the early morning. Eleanor wondered if Jimmy was among them.

Robert’s hand found Eleanor’s, their fingers entwining.

“What now?” he said, as they stood on the side of a deserted, narrow road.

“I don’t know. But whatever this thing is, I think the authorities will need my help. There are only thirty forensic entomologists in the whole of the United States and I’m one of them.”

Robert set his jaw. “I’d better do my best to make sure you don’t get killed then.”

Eleanor smiled and squeezed his hand.

For the moment, the area they were in remained quiet but they had no idea what to expect as they headed toward the city. The horrifying world they’d found themselves in contained unimaginable terrors but they’d found a new strength.

Each other.

~*~

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Marissa Farrar

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Copyright © 2011 Marissa Farrar. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. No portion of this work may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.

The Body Farm; Part Four

Content Advisory: Contains scenes of zombie horror. This series started on 22nd August.

The Body Farm

Part Four

As though the flat, white worms sensed the approaching dead, they squirmed, twisted and flipped—unraveling from the body on the slab. They slipped away from the still jerking flesh, across the table, dropping on the floor.

“Oh, shit,” swore Robert, dancing away from the worms as they slithered like a swarm of tiny snakes toward the door.

“If you’ve got any open wounds,” said Eleanor stepping away from one heading in her direction. “For God’s sake, don’t let them get near you. I’m guessing they can’t infect the living, but best we don’t take any chances.”

“Damn right,” said Jimmy, skipping out of the way of a squirming length, surprisingly fast for a man of his age.

                   

Robert growled in disgust and brought his heel down on one of the worms. The creature crushed beneath his sole, leaving a white gooey smear.

                                            

The screams and shrieks of the dead grew closer and each of the room’s inhabitants glanced uneasily at the door.

“It’s locked, right?” Kyle asked. “They can’t get in?”

Robert grimaced, “Yeah the door’s locked, but if Lenny is with them, they might be able to open it.”

“What the hell are we standing around for then?” said Jimmy.

With her still gloved hands, Eleanor went to push the corpse off the slab. The cold body jerked beneath her palms and she instinctively pulled back. She’d touched plenty of cadavers in her career, but never ones that had continued to move long after dissection. Swallowing her revulsion, she placed on hand against its shoulder and another on its hip and gave the body a shove. It slid from the table and hit the floor with a sickening thud. Even on the floor, the body continued in its strange uncoordinated spasms, its arms and legs twitching. More worms unraveled from the body as jerked on the floor.

“Help me move this,” she said, gripping the edge of the table.

The men each took a corner and, dodging the worms still squirming around their feet, they pushed the table beneath the metal grilled vent in the ceiling.

The dead rounded the corner like a swarm of rats in a sewer tunnel. A recently deceased, bloated man led the hoard. His eyes were glassy, his stomach distended like a seven months pregnant woman. With outstretch arms and fingers hooked into claws, his purpose took no guessing. Another flanked him—a woman—her hair flapping around the sides of her sunken face in coils of dirty rope. Close behind, another corpse followed, this one undistinguishable in sex. Dried skin hung from its face in flaps, white bone peeking through the decomposed flesh.

“Go! Go! Go,” Robert shouted, pushing Eleanor up on the table.

Eleanor reached up but her fingertips barely scraped the vent. “I can’t reach it!”

Robert scrambled up beside her. He placed his palms flat against the vent and shoved. The metal grill didn’t budge.

“Hurry up, Robert,” yelled Jimmy. “They’re at the door.”

Eleanor swung her head around to see at least twenty faces of the dead pressed up against the glass. Their hands clawed and battered at the door and windows, leaving smears of rotten flesh and pus across the glass. Their shrieks of fury, though muffled, filled the room.

“Find something to bash it in with,” yelled Robert.

Eleanor searched the make-up of the grill for something that might allow them access. Screws held down the cover.

She motioned with her hand to the tray of instruments she’d used to dissect the body. “Quick, pass me the scalpel.”

Kyle grabbed the instrument and handed it up to her.

The added length of the handle meant she could now reach. She fitted the blade into one of the screws and turned. The screw resisted for a moment and then gave way, winding undone.

“Find me one,” demanded Robert.

Beyond the glass, the hoards of dead things piled upon one another, crushing into the narrow space of the corridor, several bodies deep.

With Robert working as well, the screws popped from their threads, pinging to the ground, and the grate became loose in its casting.

With a high-pitched creak, the glass of the door began to split.

Robert shoved the grate out of the way. “Come on,” he motioned to Eleanor. “I’ll push you up.”

“No, you need to go first. You can pull the rest of us up. If you’re down here by yourself, we’ll never be able to pull you up.”

It was true. At six-foot-two, he outweighed Kyle by at least fifty pounds, and Jimmy was too old to pull Robert up. Eleanor would never have the upper body strength.

“Shit,” he swore, but there wasn’t time to argue. He hooked his fingers over the edge of the shaft and allowed both Eleanor and Kyle to boost him up. As soon as he was up, he leaned back down the hole and grabbed Eleanor, pulling her up with him.

The glass creaked once again.

“Hurry!” Jimmy called.

With the awkward motion of a man whose joints had seen better days, Jimmy climbed on the table.

“They’re coming!” Kyle screamed, his eyes bulging in fear.

The gap in the ceiling was only big enough for one person to reach down, so Eleanor had to sit back, allowing Robert to lean through. He grabbed Jimmy’s wiry wrist just as the glass of the door burst inward, the windows quickly following. Glass tinkled like fallen shards of ice.

Kyle shrieked, clambering at the table. Robert pulled, lifting Jimmy off the table, Jimmy’s legs dangling in mid-air. The dead swarmed in, barging past each other in their eagerness to get to them.

“Help!” screamed Kyle. “Fucking help me!”

The younger man grabbed hold of Jimmy’s leg, trying to drag him away, to clear the space.

“Hey!” Robert yelled as Jimmy was yanked back down, pulling on Robert’s arms as though he were deep sea fishing and had hooked something big. “Get the fuck off him!”

But Kyle’s terror had him in its grip and he was too far gone to pay any attention. The dead swarmed over him like ants on a candy bar.

The young man’s shrieks of panic turned to screams of pain.

Jimmy kicked and yelled even as Robert tried to pull him up, but the older man’s weight had doubled.

“One of them has got me!” the older man yelled. “Oh, shit…”

Eleanor grabbed the top of Robert’s arm and helped him pull. Together they yanked while Jimmy thrashed and yelled in their grip.

“For fuck’s sake, hold still!” Robert shouted.

“One of them has got me! One of them has fucking got me”

Eleanor pulled, trying not to hear Kyle’s horrified screams. There was nothing they could do for the boy now. The room was filled with the living dead.

Jimmy’s weight suddenly lightened and they pulled him up, all falling backward in the confines of the chute.

“Kyle!” Jimmy cried, clambering to his hands and knees and peering back down. But the boy was gone. Below them, a sea of dead arms and legs flailed, teeth gnashing. The enraged shrieks of the dead drowned out the boy’s screams—if he were even still alive to make such a sound.

They sat back. The dead things would never be able to climb up to the vent. For the moment, at least, they were safe.

~*~

The Body Farm concludes tomorrow!

Like what you've read? Marissa Farrar's short story collection, Where the Dead Live, is available to buy from Amazon for only $0.99.


If you would like to catch up on any of our posts or get a preview of the rest of this month's stories, you can purchase the eBook, Digital Digest, Volume 1, from Amazon and Barnes & Noble for only $0.99!

Marissa Farrar

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Copyright © 2011 Marissa Farrar. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. No portion of this work may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.

Conclusion to What Lola Wants

The Hag That Rides You, July 18, 2011
Fall To Pieces, August 8, 2011

Joan resisted the urge to cover her ears as her nephew emitted another whine for his pancakes. She poured a cup of coffee and sat as far from her sister-in-law and the kids as was politely possible.
Propping her chin in her hand, she stared out the window and tried to muster the mental faculties needed to write something coherent. She followed the progress of a cardinal diligently building its nest and the kernel of an idea began to form.
The familiar excitement of character discovery ran through her blood. Perhaps she should change her heroine’s occupation. Maybe make her an ornithologist. She could have her trespass onto private property in search of a rare bird and the hero could be— She blinked as her sister-in-law waved a hand in front of her face.

“Earth to Joanie …”

She shook off her musings and quirked an eyebrow. “Sorry Cyndi, I was thinking of a plot twist—never mind …”

The petite blond laughed. “Guess you were lost in one of those little books you write, huh?”

Joan cringed at her sister-in-law’s choice of words but let it slide. “Yes, I suppose so. Did you ask me something?”

“Uh huh. I was wondering where you went last night.”

Joan frowned. “Went? To bed, same as you.”

Cyndi cocked her head to one side. “Huh, I could have sworn I saw you slipping out the garden door when I got up to use the bathroom …” she shrugged. “No matter, I was half asleep.” She shoveled another bite of pancake into her son’s mouth and then turned her attention back to Joan. “So, what should we do while the boys play golf?”

“Do?” Joan’s mouth went dry at the thought of entertaining her airheaded sister-in-law and her passel of brats.

“Yeah, we’re supposed to meet Hank and Mark for dinner at six but I thought we could do something fun until then.” She giggled. “This is the first vacation we’ve had since the baby was born. I so need girl time, ya know?”

Joan bit her lip to keep from pointing out the obvious. If Cyndi continued to pop out a kid a year, her girl time days were going to be few and far between for the foreseeable future.

“Um, that sounds great but I actually had planned to work until –“she stopped short as Cyndi’s smile faded. Feeling like she’d just kicked a puppy, Joan sighed and shoved her newly found plot points to the back of her mind.

A sudden, sharp pain shot through her head, followed by a shrill ringing in her ears. She shivered and tried to shake off the noise that was rapidly rising to a scream.
Great. Not only would she be ignoring the first appearance of her muse in over a month in order to play tour guide but she’d be doing it with a migraine!

She gulped and forced the words to form on her tongue. “There’s a new playground at Forysth Park and I seem to recall the Jepson Center’s third floor is an interactive children’s museum. Would that work?”

Cyndi clapped her hands and squealed. “Oh that would be marvelous!” She looked at her squawking brood. “Won’t that be fun, angels? Auntie Joanie is going to take you on an outing! We’ll play in the park, and Mama will buy you all ice cream, and …”

The ringing in her ears subsided but the pain moved to a steady throb. Joan rose and backed away from the table. “Uh, I’ll just go grab a shower …”

Cyndi nodded and continued her mindless chatter as Joan made her escape.

****
An earth shattering wail filled the quiet restaurant. All eyes turned toward the table causing, Joan to slink down into her chair. She glared at her husband who quickly averted his gaze.

She rolled her eyes and took another gulp of wine. What the hell had Mark been thinking? The Olde Pink House was no place to take a bunch of toddlers; tired toddlers at that!

She turned in her chair and discreetly studied the other diners, wishing she could trade places with them. The day would undoubtedly go down in the record books as one of the most miserable experiences of her life and by the looks of things it was going to get far worse before it ended.

Joan pushed her glass away as a wave of dizziness rolled over her. The migraine she’d anticipated never materialized but she’d felt queer all day; an ever present throb at her temples along with chills and outbreaks of gooseflesh despite the humid Savannah weather. She’d of liked to blame it all on a virus contracted by one of the shrieking urchins occupying her house but that wouldn’t explain the growing paranoia.

She took a sip of water and casually looked over her shoulder. Her breath left in a rush of relief as her gaze took in the elegant diners; not one woman with long black hair. Thank God for one small favor!

She turned back toward the table and tried to follow the conversation bravely being continued around and over the voices of the fussy children. Uninterested in the latest tech gadget Hank’s company was developing, Joan let her mind drift. Instead of wandering through the fantasy world of her bird watching heroine, however, her wayward thoughts kept returning to the odd events of the day and the strange woman she’d kept encountering.

From the moment they’d left the townhouse, Joan had been on high alert. Her instincts and the hair standing up at the base of her skull, suggested someone was following them. She’d escorted her charges down the city streets, all the while scanning their surroundings, but she’d seen no one; apart from a woman with jet black hair and over-sized sunglasses strolling about a block behind them and, when their gazes had crossed, she’d waved and entered an art gallery; hardly suspicious.

The strange feeling dissipated and Joan had thought no more about it until they reached the park. She and Cyndi were watching the children play when a woman’s rich laughter drew her eye. A chill ran up her spine as she saw the same dark haired woman a few yards from the playground. She was lying on a blanket catching some rays while a cluster of young men sat flirting with her. The woman sat up, tipped her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose and met Joan’s gaze. The piercing pain behind her eyes returned as the woman wiggled her fingers in a half-hearted wave.

Common sense said the meetings were mere coincidence but the tightening in Joan’s gut, as well as the sudden headache, made her suggest they take the kids for ice cream.
The walk to Leopold’s was uneventful, if the constant herding of rambunctious children were discounted, and Cyndi’s constant prattle soon lulled Joan into a semi attentive state. She was sitting at the table, trying to avoid looking at the ice cream smeared faces of Cyndi’s clan, when the black haired woman came into view. She stopped to chat with a group of young men seated at the sidewalk tables. Joan frowned. There was something vaguely familiar about the woman; something about the way she stood, the cut of her hair …

“Cyndi,” Joan reached over and tapped her sister-in-law’s arm. “Does that woman look familiar to you?”

Cyndi turned and followed Joan’s gaze. She studied the woman for a minute and then shrugged and went back to wiping her children’s sticky hands. “Kind of reminds me of you when we first met, when you wore your hair long.”

Joan snorted and rolled her eyes. Her sister-in-law was nuts. She shared hair color with the woman but so did a million others. Never, not even in her twenties, had Joan been so …, so sexy or so hip.

She said as much to Cyndi and was shocked at her reply.

“What? You, not sexy?” Cyndi laughed. “I don’t know what mirror you look into but I’ve always thought, I mean, God Joan, men love you! Hank said his brother was in a constant state of jealousy when you two first got married. He said ya’ll were party animals and Mark had to beat the men off with a club.”

Shocked, Joan stared at Cyndi. “But that’s, that’s crazy! I’m … I have never given Mark a reason to be jealous. And as for partying, hell, we’re old sticks in the mud. I can’t tell you the last time we went out and I can assure you I never had a crowd of men sniffing around me!”

Cyndi shrugged. “I wasn’t around much then but I know what I saw when I was.” She grinned. “In fact, I always figured you’d poured all of that sexiness into your romances.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “Don’t tell Hank, but I bought one of your books a few months ago. It nearly burned my hands it was so hot. That whole ménage thing—wow Joan, some imagination!” She smirked. “Or is it?”

Joan’s face grew hot. This was why she hated people knowing what she wrote and probably why Mark did too. “Purely fiction Cyndi, I swear.”

She chuckled. “If you say so.”

“I do.” Joan looked at her watch and rose. “It’s close to four. We’d better go home and dress for dinner.”

Cyndi’s words stayed with Joan. Between the innuendo of her sexual experiences and the woman who seemed to be following her, Joan’s thoughts were a tangled mess. She’d tried to talk to Mark while they walked to the restaurant but he’d dismissed her concerns as nonsense; even when she’d pointed out the dark haired woman standing on the opposite side of Reynolds Square.

Perhaps it was nonsense. Savannah was a big city but the historic district wasn’t that large. It was conceivable that she’d run into the same person several times over the course of a day and, contrary to Cyndi’s opinion, the woman looked nothing like Joan; present day self or past.

She propped her chin in her palm and conceded all the day’s weirdness could be attributed to stress; she needed to get in touch with her muse and finish the damn books, then life would go back to normal, whatever that was--

“More wine, ma’am?”

Joan blinked and looked up at the waiter. “Uh …,” what had he asked her?
She shook herself and reeled in her twisted thoughts. “Umm, no, I think I’ve had enou—“

Joan’s mouth went dry as her gaze fell on the glass enclosed patio bar not fifty feet from her table. There could be no dismissing it this time. The black haired woman was following her. One, two, three, even four encounters she could ignore but five? No way was it coincidence. She shoved back her chair and stalked across the dining room, ignoring Mark’s questions.

A gang of male admirers obstructed Joan’s view but as she drew nearer the crowd parted for an instant, allowing Joan to see more of her stalker’s features. The hair on her arms rose as the woman tucked a long strand of thick hair behind her ear, revealing a finely carved profile and creamy white skin.

The straight nose, ending in a slightly tilted tip, the high cheekbone and delicately rounded chin – Joan caught a wavy glimpse of herself reflected in the patio’s glass door. Her lip trembled and shivers began to rack her body.

Feeling like the theme to the Twilight Zone would start at any moment; Joan shoved through the door and rushed toward her apparent doppelganger. Who was she? Better yet, why the hell was she—within feet of her quarry, fear slowed her pace.

Joan sidled toward the animated group, eavesdropping on their conversation.
A tall, handsome blond offered his hand. “I’m Chas Tarlmont and this is my brother Wills. What might you’re name be, gorgeous?”

The woman’s throaty laugh washed over Joan as she slipped closer, coming to stand directly behind the woman.

“How charmin’ ya’ll are, darlin’.” The somnolent drawl was as enticing as the woman herself.
“Excuse me a moment, won’t you?”

Caught off guard, Joan gasped as the woman spun around on her stiletto heels.

“Hello Joan. Finally come out to play with me?” She laughed and stuck out her hand. “I’m Lola Banks.”

I hope you enjoyed What Lola Wants. I'll be back with another twisted tale October 31st and, if you missed any of our previous posts and would like to catch up, you can purchase the Digital Digest Volumes I and II or subscribe to Digital Digest via Kindle and never miss a thing!

Rachel Lynne

Suspense … Southern Style!

Ring of Lies

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Copyright © 2011 Rachel Lynne

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. No portion of this work may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.

What Lola Wants

The Hag That Rides You, July 18, 2011
Fall To Pieces, August 8, 2011

Joan Marshall stiffened as footsteps sounded on the stairs and then onto the kitchen tiles. Bleach splashed across the counter top, instantly opening a patch of brilliant white laminate in the sea of tea, coffee, and assorted food stains that marred its surface. She scrubbed at a stubborn stain and ignored her husband’s entrance.
A hand fell onto her shoulder, squeezing gently. “I’m turning in, you coming?”
Joan shrugged off Mark’s hand and applied her sponge to the stovetop. “Yes, after I finish cleaning the kitchen, put the sheets into the dryer, and pull something from the freezer for tomorrow’s supper.”
Mark nuzzled her neck, his sigh ruffling her hair. “You have to do all of that tonight?”
She huffed. “As a matter of fact, I do. In case you’ve forgotten, your brother and his family are visiting this weekend and they arrive tomorrow night.”
“I didn’t forget, but you have all day tomorrow –“
“That’s right!” Joan slammed the sponge down and whirled to face her husband. “Joan can do it. She’s home all damn day, and it’s not like she’s working –“
“For Christ’s sake, Joan, I know you work, but –“
“But nothing!” She stormed across the kitchen and jerked the freezer door open. “For your information, I have not one, but two novels due to my editor in three weeks and it isn’t as if I get any help –“
“Oh, whatever Joan.”
She spun around as she heard him moving away. “You’re leaving?”
Mark shrugged and kept walking. “Some of us have to get up in the morning …”
Joan gasped. “Fine! I’ll do it all myself; as usual.”
“That’s right, poor Saint Joan. Always the martyr...” He walked out, his words filling the empty air behind him.

****
Joan slammed the dryer door closed, flipped off the kitchen light, and entered her bedroom. She fumbled to undress in the pitch darkness and slid into bed. She rolled to face Mark, laying her hand on his bare back. He grunted and scooted closer to the edge, his body never breaking the steady rhythm of sleep.
She sighed. Even in sleep he held onto his anger. Not that she blamed him. Joan flipped onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Why had she done it? The evening had been peaceful, if uneventful, and Mark had made it clear he wasn’t turning in early because of exhaustion. So why had she felt it necessary to pick a fight?
The arrival of Mark’s family was just an excuse. Truth be told, she was restless and had been for weeks. She’d convinced herself the pressure of having two erotic romance novels due a week apart had pushed her to the limit but she knew it went deeper than that.
Joan bit her lip. She didn’t feel romantic, let alone sexy, and trying to write romance, much less erotic romance in such a situation … she was suffering from a bad case of writer’s block and nothing she did seemed to appease her alter ego; Lola Banks, mildly successful author of erotic romance, was on strike.
She rolled over and snuggled her pillow. What she needed was a vacation or even a wild night on the town with her husband; her muse was screaming for release from the domestic rut that was the reality for the real Joan. Like that was going to happen!
She snorted and closed her eyes. A full day of housework loomed and the deadlines weren’t going away. Ms. Lola Banks would just have to put on her big girl panties and deal.
As she drifted off to sleep a shiver ran through her body. She pulled the covers up to her chin and moved closer to Mark’s warmth as a saying of her grandmother’s flashed through her mind; someone must’ve walked over her grave.

****
Joan gritted her teeth as another burst of laughter penetrated the walls of her office. She stared at the white screen of her computer and counted to ten. She dragged a hand through her hair and cranked up the volume on her mp3 but, while it drowned out the chipper sounds coming from the dining room, it contributed nothing to her efforts at putting words onto the page.

She slammed her hand onto her desk and shoved away from the desk. “Damn the stubborn bitch!”

“Cursin’ yourself?”

Joan whipped around as a hand fell onto her shoulder. She pulled off her earbuds and shook her head. “Nah, my muse.” She rolled her shoulders and massaged her neck. “Damn thing has gone on vacation or something.”

Mark nodded and replaced her hands with his. Joan sighed as his strong fingers dug into the knotted muscles of her back and shoulders. “That’s wonderful, but not gonna help me get any work done.” She rolled her chair back to the desk and placed her fingers onto the keyboard.

Mark glanced at the blank screen and sighed. “You’ve been in here all evening with nothing to show for it. Why not take a break and visit with the family? Everyone is asking about you …”

Joan stiffened but bit back a sharp retort. It wasn’t his fault or his family’s, and he had a point; she wasn’t making much progress anyway. “Ok, but just a short break.”
She switched off the desk lamp and rose from her chair. “Who knows? Maybe a glass of wine will loosen me up my muse!”

****
Joan flipped off the light and stumbled from the bathroom. She could kick herself for wasting so much time. Playing charades had been a fun way to spend the evening but it had contributed nothing to her word count, much less appeased her recalcitrant muse. Joan snorted. At the rate she was going, her fickle muse was likely to vacate the premises, permanently.

Halfway across the darkened bedroom everything began to spin. She stopped and clutched the footboard until the world righted itself and then made her way to the bed, sinking onto the mattress with exaggerated care.

Whew. One glass of wine shouldn’t have that kind of effect. She closed her eyes but the oblivion of sleep remained elusive. The silence, and her muse, beckoned her to return to her desk. She considered it for a minute, searching her mind for a good opening to the chapter she’d struggled with for a week, but nothing came to mind.
She rolled onto her side and snorted. Elvis, or in her case, Lola, had left the building.

A sharp pain suddenly shot through her head and her skin felt clammy. She gulped and forced herself to take measured breaths until the ache subsided. Her body grew heavy as sleep rose to claim her. Sinking into unconsciousness, she barely gave a thought to the sound of a door closing down the hall.

Tune in tomorrow for the conclusion to What Lola Wants and if you missed any Digital Digest posts you can purchase a copy of Digital Digest Anthology Volumes I and II or subscribe to the Digital Digest blog via Kindle and never miss a thing!

Rachel Lynne
Suspense ... Southern Style.
Ring of Lies available at The Wild Rose Press
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Copyright © 2011 Rachel Lynne

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. No portion of this work may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.