Gerald Dean Rice's Blog, page 66
February 8, 2013
#Dethm8, Act II, ep II
Arlene surveyed the damage. A lot of people had died, but not enough. Todd had managed to kill several of the bikers, it was a pity he had not been able to get them all. Maybe it would have avoided the necessity to kill everyone now. But as she watched them all working together, bonding, it became apparent the rest of the patrons were complicit. Mr. Behrendt sweeping up broken glass with a baldheaded biker with a long, brown goatee. Sherry nailing tables onto a window opening with two others. Even Dr. Forbes who’d been suffering from dementia had come out of it enough to help treat the wounded; at this moment, he was setting the broken upper arm of one of the bikers. Whatever force outside that was trying to get inside, the rest of them surely would meet their deaths if left to their own devices. If anything, Arlene would be doing them a mercy.
It had been difficult to get near what remained of the kitchen. The walls bulged out, scorch marks lined their edges. The majority of the dead were concentrated inside. Including Gladys, the poor old woman had never wakened. Shame, but Arlene wouldn’t waste any tears. One of the bikers had stumbled out of the kitchen, mumbling something about the ‘cooked old woman’ who’d still been alive before barely being able to get control of himself again. Arlene didn’t know why, but she was particularly relieved to know Gladys was dead. There was something about her—something about her and Dusty as a matter of fact—that worried Arlene. Not that she was afraid of them. No, she knew she was smart enough to handle anything that could be thrown at her. But whatever it was about the two of them made Arlene apprehensive. That maybe they could make things difficult. Or at least one of them. She turned and looked at Dusty.
The sooner Arlene killed her, the better. As a matter of fact, she figured on getting herself a knife from the kitchen now to take care of that problem.
Arlene finished with bandaging Mr. Jones’s arm. It was nice and neat, just like she’d learned in her candystriping days. He moaned something she didn’t care to understand and she rose, pushing his hands away. Arlene made a straight line toward the kitchen, stopping in front of one of the bikers, blocking the way. He had been ushering people along who wandered his way, trying to take a look inside. Mostly everyone was still in shock to some degree and it was only natural they wanted to see who had been hurt.
“Move along,” he said to Arlene, barely looking at her. He had flat, past-shock eyes. Like he had seen his fill of whatever was inside and then been force-fed seconds.
“I need some more bandages for Mr. Jones,” she said, batting her eyes at him. He didn’t notice and that stung. Men always noticed her, no matter what. But this man seemed on autopilot. Hesitantly, she raised a hand and rested it on his arm. The shock between them was immediate. She felt his heart quicken, hers too, as they quickly began matching pace. She could feel a portion of herself coursing through him, infiltrating every fiber of his being.
Arlene had him.
“I need to get in the kitchen to get bandages for Mr. Jones,” she repeated. He stepped aside, his eyes locked on her. Now he noticed. Now he could see. Good boy. She smiled and walked behind the tattered counter and through the double doors, which had strangely remained intact.
The kitchen was carnage. The grill itself was bent in the middle like a giant pair of hands had picked it up and folded it in the middle and then dropped it. Those same hands might have picked up the entire kitchen and dropped it. Everything wore a coat of foam, no doubt from being sprayed with the fire extinguisher. There were several charred bodies on the floor. Arlene couldn’t tell how many, they weren’t all whole. There was a torso a few feet from the grill and by its length she guessed it was Todd. The head was turned to the side, the mouth peeled back, white teeth bared in a horrible smile. The burnt, greasy smell in here was even stronger than outside of the kitchen and for the first time she realized some of that grease was human. Two men came into the kitchen carrying a makeshift gurney.
“Yeah, sister,” the shorter one said, “it’s that bad.”
She realized she must have looked as green as she felt and struggled to keep her legs from buckling. She tried to slow her breathing, but it was like her lungs were starving for oxygen. It was all she could do to keep from hyperventilating.
I need to get out of this room, she thought, forcing her feet into motion. Arlene went to where the utensil drawer had been, but it had been blown out of the cabinet.
“It’s a wonder this building is even still standing,” the taller one said. Arlene looked around for anything else she might be able to use to kill Dusty.
Finally, she spotted a pair of knives that were stuck in the far wall. Arlene tried to yank one free but it was really stuck in there.
“I need a break,” one of the two men said. He stood, turned and looked at Arlene. “Hey, cutie,” he said, “what are you doing over there?”
“I, uh, I need this knife.” Arlene twirled her fingers in her hair, looking at him with big doe eyes, trying to hold back the wave of desperation. The man gave her a half smile and sauntered over. He wrapped a meaty fist around the handle of one of the knives, gave it a yank, and pulled it free. He rested the knife in his palms, like a gift being presented. Arlene thanked him and took it, quickly turning to go.
“Not so fast, cutie pie.” That big palm rested on her shoulder, turning her roughly. “We’re gonna be in this for who knows how much longer. It might help to be a little friendly with each other.” Arlene cast an eye over her shoulder at him. She reached up, wrapping her hand around one of those big, meaty fingers. Whatever it was that coursed through her surged into him and bounced back. They both snatched their hands away from each other in pain. Feedback. Apparently, it didn’t work with everybody.
They looked at each other, but said nothing. The man opened his mouth to put his finger in, but seemed to think better of it and dropped the hand to his side. He let Arlene pass as she headed for the kitchen’s rear exit. But on her way out she heard something over where the cooler was, where they were storing the bodies. The electricity still worked and she heard it, whatever it was, over the electric, guttural hum. Her curiosity got the better of her and she turned, heading in that direction. The closer she got, the more she realized what it was. Chewing sounds. Somebody or something was eating in there. But her first thought wasn’t cannibalism. There was food in there after all, albeit frozen. Maybe someone was just that hungry for all she knew. It would be awhile before they had anything cooked to eat. If anybody got out of here alive, that was.
The door was slightly ajar and Arlene placed her hand on it, pulling gently. The door squealed open and she peered into the dark. She couldn’t make out anything, but someone was definitely eating. She was tempted to flick the light switch, but the light was probably still out and she didn’t want to tip whoever it was that she was there.
The person stood and she could make out a silhouette in the dark. Arlene pulled back, but the figure blurred past, shoving her aside and disappearing into Fred’s office.
“You okay?” someone asked. It was one of the men who had been carrying remains on the gurney, the one who hadn’t propositioned her. Panic caught up to her as she realized how close she’d come to dying. When she’d been watching the figure in the dark, it was like she’d been numbed to the danger. Perhaps he would have reached out and snapped her neck had the two men not been a few steps away.
Arlene pointed. “Someone… someone’s in Fred’s office.”
They must have read the look of terror in her eyes, dropped the gurney and ran up to her, one of them pulling a gun out of his belt.
“Where?” the man asked, but it was obvious. There was only the short hallway leading to the small private employee washroom, a janitor’s closet where their lockers also were, Fred’s office, and the rear exit. His door was closed and Fred never closed his door.
The shorter biker had a grim look on his face, looked over his shoulder at the taller man, then ahead again. Something big thumped the floor and they all jumped.
“Go get somebody,” the shorter biker said. The taller one turned to go, but the short one grabbed him by his jacket sleeve. He looked at Arlene. “You, honey.”
Arlene nodded and ran through the kitchen, negotiating the obstacle course of human bits and broken kitchen equipment. She pushed through the double doors and planted her hands on the counter.
“I need somebody,” she said. No one noticed at first and she raised her voice. “I need somebody! There’s something in Fred’s office!” A few heads popped up from whatever they’d been doing. Then people tapped shoulders, getting other people’s attention.
“What’s in my office?” Fred asked. His head was wrapped in a bandage made from his strips of his stained chef’s jacket. Arlene shook his head.
Then one of the two bikers screamed.
About five people rushed forward, but halted when several gunshots went off. They looked at each other until the man screamed again, this time long and agonizing. He seemed to be trying to say something, but was in so much agony was unable to fully form the words.
“Eees, od, stoooo—” he yelled.
By the time the small crowd had rushed through the kitchen and into the tiny hall, dragging Arlene with them the whole way, it was over. The tall man lay on his back, his throat sliced all the way to the vertebra, eyes wide and blank, the shorter one half in Fred’s office, one of his boots steadily drumming on the floor.
Two men cautiously moved forward, stepping over the first man and playing peek-a-boo at the door until they saw nothing that alarmed them. Or at least, nothing about to kill them.
“Oh my Christ,” one of them said, looking down at the shorter man on the floor. “What… what happened to his face?”
The other man responded by throwing up on the body at his feet.
February 7, 2013
Online Banking Alert #SCAM
This was an interesting email to receive this morning. Especially, considering I don’t have an account with Bank of America.
Online Banking Alert
You are receiving this notification to help you manage your account.
During our regularly account maintenance and verification procedures,
we have detected a slight error in your account information.
We require you to confirm and verify your account information by clicking the link below:
If your account information is not confirmed and verified within a certain period of time,
then your ability to access your account would become restricted.
Security Checkpoint: This email includes a Security Checkpoint. The information in this section lets you know this is an authentic communication from Bank of America.
Bank of America, N.A. Member FDIC. Equal Housing Lender 
© 2013 Bank of America Corporation. All rights reserved.
February 6, 2013
More #craigslist Junk #amNOTwriting
EDITING OPPURTUNITY
I’m Getting a romance/tragedy/drama novel published but need it to be edited for free! It would benefit you because you could put it on your resume and get some practice.
Email me if interested! xxx@yahoo.com
it’s NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
Compensation: no pay
The Walking Dead Returns This #Sunday #amwatching
February 4, 2013
Ten Ways to Get Ready for The Walking Dead’s Return Sunday Night
Finally! The Walking Dead returns this Sun., Feb. 10 at 9/8c. Looking for ways to distract yourself until the awaited hour? Here are ten things to do to get ready for Episode 9, “The Suicide King.”1. Catch up with The Walking Dead Seasons 2 and 3 marathons starting this Saturday at 10AM/9c with the Season 2 Premiere, “What Lies Ahead.”
2. Watch a sneak peek video from Episode 9 and check out a 60-second trailer for Season 3.
3. Check out two sneak peek photos from Episode 9.
4. Bookmark The Walking Dead Story Sync, the live, interactive, two-screen experience for your smartphone, tablet or Internet Browser during the premiere broadcast.
5. Turn yourself into a zombie via the Dead Yourself App for Facebook and iPhone. (Afterwards, share the photo with friends.)
Continue reading “Ten Ways to Get Ready for The Walking Dead’s Return Sunday Night” »
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February 5, 2013
#interview with @JimmyPudge
Razorline Press got to speak with Jimmy Pudge, author of titles like Bad Billy and Ice Cream Man. His current work, Corn Bred, a 99¢ title available on Kindle is about a man who discovers he has a split personality that wants to kill his fiancée after she suggests he go to therapy for his blackouts. It’s been getting great reviews (me included) and anyone who likes fast-paced horror should download a copy posthaste.
Born in 1979 in the backwoods of South Georgia to a truck driver and a father he never knew, Jimmy served several prison sentences because he refused to give in to the federal laws that impose independent spirits’ rights to be entrepreneurs. An expert in the art of pruno, shank construction, and paper dart blow guns, Jimmy briefly served as a leader in his dorm room before being released early for good behavior.
RP: Thanks for talking with me, Jimmy. Big fan.
JP: Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner, Gerald. It’s been a crazy weekend of drinking and I’m just sobering up.
RP: Uh, that’s quite all right. How long have you been writing?
JP: I started writing in the mid to late 90’s, but I didn’t start trying to get published until around 1999. I had many, many rejections.
RP: Me too. I stopped collecting them after a while. I love your straightforward, nonstop style. There are absolutely no lulls in your writing. Where does that come from?
JP: I’ve never really enjoyed books where the writer spends such a great deal of time describing things. I could care less about what types of furniture are in the living room. I try to be as minimalistic as possible when describing things. This makes the dialogue flow better. Some readers, I’ve noticed, absolutely hate this stripped down style. They prefer lots of description. So you have fans of both schools. I also try my best to use emotions to form character development. It’s hard to explain, but I want a character’s laughter in the wrong places or expression of hatred to develop the character instead of going into great lengths about how the character feels and why he/she feels. Corn Bred was a bit of an exception to this rule, but I needed the reader to understand how the personality developed.
RP: What and who are your inspirations?
JP: I’m inspired by those I interact with on a daily basis. I’ll go to Wal-Mart and just listen to people, hear what they’re saying, make mental notes about the way they say something. A lot of people hate the excessive profanity you find in my books, but it’s true to the way the people in my environment act and talk. I believe in realism when it comes to dialogue. Some people will say, “Shit, you’re stereotyping.” But that’s not true at all. That really is the way people where I live talk.
RP: Who do you read?
JP: I started off reading a lot of Harlequin titles. I wasn’t like most writers. I haven’t read since I was a child. My love of reading didn’t take off until about the mid-90’s. The library I got these books from was small, so there was a very narrow selection. After reading the romances, I graduated to Louis L’Amour and Zane Grey westerns, and then went into horror, reading Stephen King, Dean Koontz, etc…I’ve got to admit, I wasn’t blown away with anything until I started reading John D. McDonald’s Travis McGee books and found Peter Rabe. Now, I mostly stay away from popular authors. I check out indie writers and I read older fiction. I never read when I write because I like to try to keep as much of my voice as possible. I also try to read all genres.
RP: What was the genesis for your latest work, Corn Bred? How long did it take you to write?
JP: One of my favorite horror stories has always been Robert Louis Stevenson’s “The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.” There’s something about that story and the split personality disorder that makes a sad, emotional study of the human condition and good versus evil, and I thought “Corn Bred” would be a good homage to Stevenson. I wanted a man who was a good guy, a pushover, and someone who was unable to confront anything that seemed like a threat. I wanted to give him an alter ego, a complete opposite, someone evil and psychotic. I didn’t want the protagonist to know about his other personality. That made it even more upsetting when he discovers he is the one who kidnaps the woman he loves and now he has to figure out how to find her and save her . . . from himself. Thinking of the plot took about two weeks. Writing it took another two weeks.
RP: The first story I read of yours was Bit** Gone Crazy in the Attic. The title alone had me hooked and I knew I had no choice but to read this story. Do you have a secret as to how you come up with your titles?
JP: Bitch Gone Crazy in the Attic was written for an anthology and was quickly turned down. I can’t blame them for turning it down; the other stories in it are so far away from what I was doing with “Bitch” that it would make no sense being mixed in with the rest. I chose the title because I thought it was funny as hell. I had recently broken up from a controlling bitch, so the title character is loosely based on the bitch I dated. She inspired the title Bitch Gone Crazy in the Attic. When I choose a title, I just think about something that makes me laugh. I was working on a book about a private eye named Johnny Sausage who was also an ex-porn star. He’s also an asshole. Now, private eyes are referred to as dicks, assholes are referred to as dicks, and male porn stars make money with their dicks. I also noticed no other title in fiction that was called “The Dick,” so I immediately chose that name. I now see why there are no other books called “The Dick.” This title hasn’t sold for shit. I guess no one likes buying books with “Dick” in the title.
RP: Who designs your covers? They’re very eye-catching.
JP: Thanks, Gerald! I design them, man. I usually buy a stock photo for about $5 and then go to a photo editing website and add the title and play around with colors.
RP: Have you ever collaborated with another author?
JP: No, I’ve never worked with another author before on a manuscript.
RP: Your website! You have to get that updated so people can get an inside view to that brain of yours. Are you updating it?
JP: Man, I forgot all about the website until you mentioned it. I’ll have to update it soon.
RP: What’s your view on the whole eBook versus printed book debate?
JP: I can tell you for a fact you would never have read anything I wrote if it wasn’t for eBooks. It’s a wonderful invention that gives readers the option to find titles that are different, that are not written necessarily for mainstream success. Indie authors have flourished, so this makes it more difficult for established authors to put out shit like they have in the past. Price is also a benefit for the readers. Indie writers sell titles for cheap, many just as good as anything you’ll buy from Random House, Penguin, etc…Printed authors will give you a completely different take on the issue. E-books are cutting into their sales. There is a lot more competition, so the pressure is on for them to produce high quality fiction. With that said, there is a handicap for e-book Indie authors. If you’re in romance or action, the sky is the limit. But if you’re in a much smaller genre like horror, for example, then you may find yourself at a plateau when it comes to sales. If this is the case and you don’t have money to go to conventions and interact with fans (like me, I’m one broke motherfucker), then you may need to find a small press that does have the money to make these conventions and represent your work. So, I’m not against traditional publication by any means.
RP: What are your tips on creating an engaging story?
JP: It’s very important to have a hook as soon as possible. I try to make my first paragraph grip the reader. In Corn Bred, for example, the first thing I mention are the protagonist’s bloody hands. It’s my hope that the reader will want to know why these hands are bloody. I also try my best to limit description. In my opinion, the more you describe, the more you bore the reader. No need to explain the layout of a yard in anything over a paragraph.
RP: Do you have anything in the works you’d like to talk about?
JP: Devil Inside is slated to come out next month. Serial killer Junior Boyd’s remains lie inside a box in an old country church. When Mama convinces two criminals to break in and rob the church, they release his soul and the carnage begins again. Now there’s only one hope to stop Boyd, and that hope lies in the criminally insane serial killer Big Country. This time, it’s going to take a killer to catch a killer.
I’ll self-publish this one in late February I imagine. I’ve also written a novella called Run Teddy Bear, Run, which I’m currently seeking publication for. Run Teddy Bear, Run is about a serial killer who used to terrorize a summer camp in the 80s and early 90s. The camp went out of business, and the killer retired. Now, years later, the camp is reopening and the killer has decided to come out of retirement. Unfortunately for the Teddy Bear Killer, killing campers ain’t what it used to be. The hunter is about to become the hunted.
RP: Thanks for taking the time to speak with me today, Jimmy. I’m looking forward to cracking open Devil Inside when you release it.
February 4, 2013
@jimmypudge #interview Tomorrow!
I had the opportunity to pick the brain of author @jimmypudge and the interview will be up tomorrow night. Stop back to learn about this #horror author you should be reading.
I reviewed his title, Corn Bred, recently and we get into that as well as some promising new stuff.
February 3, 2013
What do YOU Like?
I’m looking through my keywords to see the most popular searches to try to develop an idea of what will come after Dethm8 and it seems like people really like horror and monsters. Should I have a character survive for a sequel or a spinoff? Should the monster survive? Should he win? I guess I’m also crafting my ending too (but trust me, I know where I’m going with this). Ah well, we’ll see. Don’t forget, new episode this Friday.
February 1, 2013
My Most Embarrassing Injury
It just popped into my head. I had to have been 10 years old or so. I was like any other boy with an older brother, I wanted to go everywhere he went.
We’d been out riding our bikes all day long and when we finally got back to our block I decided to gun it down the sidewalk, pedaling as fast as I could, past my house, until I was about a dozen houses from the end of the block when I started coasting.
I stood on the pedals, letting the breeze blow cool me down. I saw several of my neighbors outside, said hello to some as I passed, and turned my gaze to my feet.
I shouldn’t have done that.
One square of concrete was slightly lower than the two it was between and I guess the small jolt was all it took. My rear foot dropped down on the brake, stopping the bike instantly, and throwing me into the air.
I was still holding onto the handlebars.
I flipped, hitting my head on the front tire, and landing on my back, knocking the wind out of me.
I remember groaning and looking up to see the bike standing on its front tire (I was still holding onto the handlebars) just before the whole mess came crashing down on me.
Did I say my neighbors were outside?
I’d wiped out right in front of a house with a porchful of people, one of whom was a girl I had a crush on, and they stared a long moment at me (or maybe it was my mind still in slo-mo). Eventually, the grandmother came over and scraped my bike off me and helped me to my feet.
I leaned heavily on her as she walked me and my bike home, all her grandkids in tow (including the girl I liked). I was a little scraped up, a little shaken up, but otherwise fine.
Alphasmart Alpha Smart 2000 Word #Processing #amwriting
I wrote this about my Neo wordprocessor when I got it back in 2010. (Sorry if it reads too much like a commercial.)
I can already see how this is benefitting my writing and I just got it a week ago.
My Neo is just as portable as any notebook and I write a whole lot faster with it. I can skip around to different files as I see fit and it has a spell checker too. It has no internet, no email, no instant messaging.
I couldn’t have asked for anything better.
Finally, my distractions (mostly) have been eliminated. Before when I wrote on my laptop it was too easy to pop over and see if I’d gotten a message and before I knew it I’d spent all my time not writing.
It’s convenient everywhere! In my car, on the couch, in the cafeteria. I’m so glad I chanced across this and I can’t say enough about it.
January 31, 2013
Dethm8, Act II, ep 1
Act II
Bernard held the plastic Subway sandwich bag around his wrist like a weight. His wife had left him with a kiss this morning and said to him, “I made you Subway for lunch.” Deborah was always cute like that, making sure he had something for lunch even if she didn’t have time to cook it. But now, Bernard’s guilt weighed heavily on him.
Who was this person? How did he know? Bernard could only wonder. But the file sent to his email this morning had left no doubt. He knew. Bernard had read the email twice and had opened the attachments and stared at them openly minutes on end. The pictures, handwritten notes, evidence that would have branded him a horrible human being to everyone, most importantly Deborah. Even though it’d been years ago, well before he’d even known Deborah, she would leave if she found out. Bernard didn’t know if there was a statute of limitations, but he would be ostracized even if he didn’t go to prison. He was being blackmailed and there was nothing he could do go along with it. Bernard didn’t know if he should be thankful or frightened that the blackmailer hadn’t asked for money. He was already stretched thin with the secret payments he was already making for his mishap on top of everything he paid for that Deborah knew about.
The blackmailer wanted to meet Bernard. He hoped it wouldn’t involve gay stuff, whatever he had to do.
But now, here he was, standing outside his blackmailer’s door. Bernard had passed a man who’d seemed lost as he’d walked down the block. He’d parked two blocks away and hadn’t given the person too much thought. He’d wondered if this was his blackmailer or if this was some person who just so happened to be walking by. Bernard had disguised himself, putting on some of his wife’s makeup and penciling in a mustache, hoping he wouldn’t be recognized even though he had never been in this part of the city. As he raised his hand to knock on the door the man he had passed on the street walked up behind him staying back five feet or so.
“You him?” the man asked Bernard. He didn’t know how to answer the question, considering he was a ‘him’.
“Uh, no. I’m not sure who you—”
“Cut the crap,” the man said. “I got an email this morning to be at this address at this time. Are you him?”
The sudden notion of camaraderie flooded Bernard. It hadn’t crossed his mind that there could be more than one blackmailee. But Bernard wasn’t in the mood yet to confess his darkest secret to a complete stranger.
“Maybe,” he said. “What of it?”
“Then maybe I should kill you now.” The man stared at him with suddenly dark eyes, a complete departure from his almost jovial expression a moment before.
“I’m not the guy,” Bernard said. “I guess he’s inside. I was about to go in.” The other man was much bigger than him, the threat of his imposing size sinking in.
Bernard knocked. The door swung inward a little and he took a subconscious step backward. The other man stepped in front of him, a gun in his hand.
“I’ll handle this,” the man said. “You just stay behind me. Don’t get lost.” The man eased into the front room of the house like a seasoned professional. To Bernard that meant either criminal or cop. He didn’t know which to be more afraid of. But he followed the man as he checked every doorway, peeked through every window until they made it to the back room of the house.
“There’s no basement, no upstairs,” the man said. “This is the only place left.
After you.” He let Bernard in front of him and now Bernard was really afraid. Could he have been the person who led him to this place? It was a really roundabout way to kill someone if that was his plan. If the man was on the up-and-up that meant he didn’t know who was on the other side of the door, either. But he was the one with a gun and how he moved through the house told Bernard this was a man who knew how to use his weapon.
He opened the door. Two men were inside. One sitting, one standing. The two looked back at Bernard like they’d been waiting on him. Considering what he been through to get here, he supposed they had.
“Come in,” the seated man said. “Both of you.”
The big man behind Bernard brushed him aside, aiming the gun at the man in the chair.
“Alright, motherfucker. Give it up. I’ll put a hole in you right now.”
The man continued staring at them as if the big man had said nothing at all. Bernard was sweating, he was completely out of his element. He didn’t know what to do, so he put his hands up to the level of his shoulders, letting everyone in the room know he was not about to try anything.
“Anthony,” the man in the chair began, “please go get us something to drink.”
The big man swiveled the gun over to Anthony aiming dead center at is chest.
“Don’t move, Anthony.”
“My name is Skip,” the man in the chair said. He didn’t look like a Skip. “I can assure you we are both snared in the same web as the two of you. I’m sure none of us wants to be in this room, in this house, under the circumstances. Anthony, tell these gentleman what you did. Anthony straightened. He looked like he was in his early twenties, but his eyes were haunted.
“I killed a man,” Anthony said. “And I let my father go to prison for it.”
The man lowered his gun after a long pause.
“How do I know you’re not lying?”
“Anthony, show these men your file.” Anthony very slowly turned away from them, making sure his hands were visible. The big man raised his gun halfway, prepared to fire if necessary, but he let Anthony turn to pick up a manila folder behind him.
The boy handed it over and Bernard took it. He opened it and quickly began reading. From what Bernard was able to scan, the file was definitive proof that the boy had murdered a Clifton Poindexter, whoever that was. The file was as meticulous as the one Bernard had received in his email.
There was no doubt in his mind that whoever had made this had also made his as well.
“I think this is real,” Bernard said to the man with the gun.
“How do I know you’re real?” the man said to Bernard. “How do I know you’re not all in on this together?”
Skip looked directly at the man with a gun.
“You know, don’t you? You’ve known ever since you walked into this house. Really, what is that gun for?”
Bernard look between the two man, wondering at the communication going on between them that was on spoken the big man let the gun down slowly insect.
“I can’t… I can’t let anybody find out.”
“And no one will,” Skip said. “So long as you do everything you are told to do, no one will. A few minutes passed with no one really doing anything.
Finally, Bernard asked, “So what are we supposed to be doing now?”
The man in the chair turned to Anthony again.
“The files.”
The boy scooped up a big stack of manila folders from the floor and set them in the man’s lap. Anthony left the room and Skip began to sift through them, pulling out two. He handed one to Bernard and one to the man with the gun.
“I don’t know what the end purpose of all this is,” the man said. “All I know is this is what we are supposed to be doing.”
Bernard speed read through his file, his eyes widening with each paragraph. It made no sense. Who was this woman and why was she so important? The file didn’t say anything about killing her, just finding her. But it suggested hurting certain people if necessary to get what they needed. He looked over the man with a gun and saw similar expression on his face.
“What the hell?” Bernard asked.
The man shrugged. “But if this is what we have to do to get out of this I’m all in.
Bernard looked at the man in the chair. “So what’s your part in all this?”
“Mine is already done,” the man said. “I’ve had a bit longer to consider my role in this and I’m glad I’m finally done. Anthony?”
The boy slipped between Bernard and the man with the gun, a syringe in his hand. Skip rolled up his sleeve and Anthony swabbed his arm before tying one of those rubber things around it. He thumped the bend of Skip’s arm before slipping the needle into a vein and injecting the contents.
Skip watched until Anthony pulled it out. Bernard turned to the other man who had an equally confused expression. Skip’s head slumped onto his chest and Anthony felt for a pulse. He shook his head before straightening.
“We have to get started immediately,” Anthony said. “I have to call 9-1-1.”
“Whoa-whoa-whoa,” the man with the gun said. “What for? He’s just sleeping off whatever you gave him, right?”
Anthony turned slowly and looked at him.
“Are you—you’re kidding me—he’s dead? The man took a big step out of the room, eyeing the needle in Anthony’s hand. “What—you euthanized him like a stray cat?”
“His turn in the plan was finished,” Anthony said. “It was what had to happen.”
The man aimed his gun at Anthony again.
“If you think you’re gonna use me up and throw me away like some pop can, you’re mistaken.” The big man thumbed the hammer back.
“If we don’t obey the plan to the letter, it will be disastrous for us all. The blackmail was just to get us all here, but the consequence for disobedience is far worse.”
“Like a needle in the arm?” Bernard asked.
“Worse.”
Bernard didn’t want to know and didn’t ask. Anthony had a look in his eyes that said something dire if Bernard and the other man weren’t on board with what he’d read in his file. For some reason, the boy seemed far more dangerous than the man with the gun.
“All right,” Bernard said. “I’m in.” He looked at the man with the gun. “You?”
His long pause was as nerve-racking as anything else. Finally, he nodded. “Yeah. I guess I have to.”
Anthony’s face changed from grim sociopath, to a bright-faced twenty-something.
“Great!” he said. “You guys know my name. Introductions?” He sounded downright cheery considering he’d just murdered a man with cold precision—even though that man had wanted to die.
“I’m Guthrie,” Bernard said. It was his wife’s maiden name. He looked at the man with the gun.
“Rocco.” Bernard said nothing as the other man stuffed the gun back in his jacket, but ‘Rocco’ didn’t sound like a real name. He smiled and held out a hand for Bernard to shake, then Anthony. “Let’s get started.”
