Rebecca Besser's Blog, page 17

February 2, 2020

Blind Date A Book 2020 – Book #3

The material (chapter) in this post is copyrighted by the author and may not be used or copied in any way without the author’s permission.

Chapter 1

I was thirteen when I discovered the truth about 1342 Lindley Road. The place had always been there but I never paid much attention to it because I was young and dumb and had better things to do.

Now that I’m no longer around it, I still don’t like to think about it as much as I used to but then the nightmares returned. They made it hard for me to sleep; my therapist encouraged me to write this because there isn’t any other way for me to shake it off.

Like any other house, this place had its share of ups and downs, cries of sadness and moments of joy. This was the start of something both lovely and fierce but in the end they all eventually picked up and took off, never be seen or heard from again; the only traces of their presence were marked by the imprints of their furniture branded into the carpet. Memories were made, love fluctuated, children grew by the inches marked into the doorways by felt tip pens and parents aged over time whilst shaking their heads about how much this generation had changed compared to theirs.

The summer of two-thousand-thirteen was the best summer a girl like me could’ve ever asked for. My mother Larissa had taken me to the movies three times a month and my father Kyle and I would walk the trails around Lake Campbell until sundown and then take the shortcut back home depending upon the weather. I still had a month of summer vacation left before I had to drag my ass back to school and we all know how much of a toothache that was going to be.

We lived in a two-story brick-on-clapboard house with a shingled-green roof and a cobblestone patio with a steel mesh-topped patio table with metal-cushioned chairs, a firepit and one of those large propane grills that look like those hibernation chambers you see in sci-fi movies. The back yard wasn’t much to boast about so we’d have to play badminton and toss Frisbees around the patch of grass sitting across the street from the front of our house.

The day I became familiar with said house was the day when my Aunt Ruth and Uncle Bruce came down for the annual cookout with my favorite (and only) cousin Jared in tow. After we ate, we asked Dad if we could ride our bikes around until Ruth and Bruce were ready to leave; he said yes, of course. We hopped on our bikes (I had a spare one here because my parents had bought me a new one last year before summer began) and followed the gravel road hugging the right side of our house and back around while our parents who sat around the table discussing things that we didn’t care to hear or weren’t even supposed to know about.

The gravel road veered upward and led us to the top of a gently-rising slope that took us to the top of Lindley Road. Once we got there, we grinned from ear to ear and flew down the hill with our legs stuck out from the side of our bikes.

The wind whipped at our clothes and blew wayward strands of curly blonde hair across my face; we knew we were acting a bit childish for our age but we didn’t care. Back before cell phones could do everything but microwave our lunch, it was the little things in life that meant so much to us.

Jared and I had so much in common it was almost uncanny. We had the same taste in video games, TV shows and music but food was where we drew the line; he liked hamburgers and I preferred chicken. Mom always reminded me that Jared and I had been no different than the relationship she once had with her cousin Sandra, who was currently living in Oregon.

That night, a bright pink horizon sent bottle-gas blue flames of dusk flaring across the sky; the treetops loomed above us like strange cryptic steeples. Waves of pine sap filled my nostrils and rode on the same cool breeze that ruffled our clothes and skin. Once we reached the bottom of the hill, we had to push our bikes to the top and then go again; the windows from the downhill stretch of cozy houses and double-wides occupied by old retirees and middle-aged bachelors sitting on modest lawns were sparsely lit from the mixed backwash of lamp light and television screens.

After we did it three more times, we called it a night.

When we reached the top, our chest rising and falling with each breath, Jared glanced over at The Larson Place with a probing look on his face. It was a squat-green clapboard house that sat low to the ground so that the lawn could hide its façade as if it had some kind of facial deformity. A turkey-necked street lamp was fixed to the edge of the roof on the left side of the house and stared down at the end of the driveway which then dropped down at an angle toward a thick wall of dark-green pines.

“Do you know who lives there?”

“No.” I shook my head.

“Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

“Not rea–”

“Well do you or don’t you?” He chuffed.

“I don’t know.”

“I guess there’s only one way to find out.” He said, his eyes beaming with excitement.

He glanced back at the house, his face creased by a wide baleful grin.

“They’ll kill us.” I whispered.

I glanced back down the road toward my house; a tiny radiant orange light beamed across the front lawn. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but all I could hear were the crickets chirping from inside the forest and the wind whispering softly amongst the trees. A loud metallic crash rang out in my right ear and startled me so that I tightened my grip on my handlebars and felt my skin prickle with fear.

He’d lowered his bike onto the shoulder of the road that merged with the front lawn and disappeared behind the lone pine tree standing between the far left corner of the front lawn and the edge of the driveway. I scanned my surroundings, set my bike down beside of his and went after him, my face flushed with both shame and excitement. The thin wall of trees standing along the left edge of the driveway shrouded our parents from seeing us which, now that I think about it, was both good and bad in a way.

For the first time in my life, I wished that our parents would’ve called out for us but they didn’t. I’d have done it but I don’t think I’d have forgiven myself if he stopped talking to me because I’d snitched on him; he was my only cousin.

A thin sheen of sweat coated my forehead and dampened my hair and the nape of my neck. It might’ve been an ordinary house to a newcomer’s eye but there was something about it that soured on my stomach. Something glowed in the corner of my right eye, but then died before I could get a better look at it; if it’d been a passing motorist or the owner of the house then there was nothing we could say or do to talk our way out of it.

I cursed under my breath, stepped over and onto the driveway. I found him standing on the left side of the house, peering into a large window facing the end of the driveway. The glass was dotted with wayward spots of white paint and streaked with grime along the corners; flakes of white paint sprinkled the windowsill.

We saw a bare empty bedroom with outdated lime-green carpet and a small set of stairs that led past a curtain of colorful plastic beads and into the next room. Carpets of sour light poured through the windows, pooled across the floor and streaked the oak-paneled walls with cryptic shadows. The owners must’ve valued the tacky seventies interior enough to keep it there for sentimental purposes.

Jared pressed his face up against the glass, cupped his hands around his eyes like a pair of makeshift binoculars and squinted for a better look. I peered over the top of his head and found a crude symbol drawn across the wall beside of the doorway in what looked to be purple paint; it depicted a wide pathway leading toward a door sitting on the edge of a distant horizon.

It wasn’t just the weird placement of the symbol that heightened my anxiety; it looked fresh as if it’d been drawn just a few seconds ago. Why had they kept it there if they knew it would jeopardize the market value?

“Damn.” He hissed, spreading faint white clouds of steam across the glass. “These fucking beads are blocking my view.”

I’d heard him curse like that plenty of times in the past but never in front of our parents. He eased away from the window, walked to the middle of the driveway and peered across the darkened porch. A second carpet of light burst across the back yard, sending strobes of light rippling across the grass.

I took two steps away from the window and met up with him. I knew I should’ve taken the opportunity to get him away from here when it presented itself but I gave into peer pressure and my own stupid childish curiosity as well.

“I’ll try the front door.” He whispered. “Cover me.”

Just then, the goose-necked porch light gave a low hum and flickered to life. A large patch of sodium-purple light spread across the driveway and showered me like a spotlight on a police helicopter. I flinched, pressing my white-knuckled fists tightly against my thighs, and crunched a fallen twig under my right foot.

“Calm down, Mollie.” Jared whispered.

He stepped under the front porch awning, his pear-shaped body shrouded by a mixture of half-light and half-shadow, and approached the front door. Tiny flakes of red paint sprinkled the film of plastic-green felt covering the front stoop as he looked back at me and raised his hand toward the doorknob.

“We need to get the hell away from here.” I whispered. “If our parents catch us, we’re in serious friggin trouble.”

“Would you just chill out?” He said, then chuffed. “If the door is locked, th–”

The front door creaked open on scarred brass hinges and cut him off in mid-sentence; thin pockets of white smoke floated across the threshold, spun in the cool summer breeze and drifted up toward his face. Jared cocked his head toward the open doorway, his face sullen and guilt-ridden, and sucked deep pockets of sheer fog into his lungs. His body grew tense, but he stood his ground, his eyes riveted onto what was behind the door.

Fear rooted my feet to the ground and seized my lungs inside of its thick powerful grip, robbing me of the will to breathe. An icy chill snaked along the contours of my spine, prickling my skin and raising the hairs on the back of my neck. My cheeks grew hot as my heart pounded, blood throbbing against my ears.

Sweat beads cascading down my face had secreted inside of my pits and glued the back and sides of my tee-shirt to my ribs. The breeze picked up, sending an odd smell drifting past my nose. It wasn’t the familiar scent of pine sap and wood smoke but instead it was the sickly-sweet smell of licorice.

From where I was standing, I prayed for a carpet of light to flood across the front porch followed by a crabby old man spouting obscenities at us while we scampered away like roaches. If that was what got us away from here, then so be it. If my parents were informed of this little incident, I would take my punishment and be done with it.

Everything I wanted to see was inside of that house, observed by the frozen hypnotic gleam flickering in Jared’s eyes. Whatever was going on in there, I wasn’t invited. The smell increased in both flavor and intensity, sparkling off my tongue like I’d downed a whole packet of Pop Rocks.

Something slipped out from behind the open door but I couldn’t see what it was at first. I squinted into the velvet darkness flooding the driveway until I saw what lay beyond and felt my chest tighten with fear. My eyes swelling with fear, I suppressed a wave of nausea rising toward my throat and forced it back down into the pit of my stomach.

A thick human arm hugged by a loose-fitting white shirt sleeve emerged from the swirling black folds of the doorway and extended across the front stoop. Its thick calloused fingers had a light-green tint and its neatly-trimmed nails were coated with slick pools of obsidian liquid. The wrist spun to the left, then to the right and slowly dragged its knuckles down both sides of Jared’s face, spreading large purple blemishes across his cheeks.

The cool summer breeze carried the soft chorus of eerie whispers from inside of the house and filled my ears with incubus murmurs. As a wide pleasing grin spread evenly across Jared’s face, tugging at the corners of his mouth, an alarm rang in the back of my head. A hot lucid tear protruded from the corner of my right eye, slid down the contour of my cheek and dripped off of my chin.

I shook the fear off my bones, brushed my tongue across my dry cracked lips and sprinted toward the front porch. My body switching to panic mode, I threw my hands up in front of me, slammed the front door shut with a loud hollow thud. I clutched a handful of Jared’s left sleeve in my right fist, dragged him away from the front of the house and back up the driveway, his feet teetering out from behind him.

We hopped onto our bikes and sped away. We were halfway down the hill, my ears filled with the soft hum of bike tread on hot pavement when he glanced back at the house with a heavy morose look on his face. My body racing on fear and adrenaline, my hands shook so bad I gripped the handlebars of my bike until they hurt and the color bled from my knuckles.

“What did you see?” I asked.

When I repeated myself, he shook his head and grinned.

By the time we reached my house, neither one of us spoke a word. Pinprick stars riddled the night sky; a sickly-white moon sat high in the east, glowing behind a roiling cloud cover. We arrived back at my house and found Aunt Ruth standing beside of the road, her mouth hanging open as if she were about to call our names but then decided not to when she saw us coming.

After we put our bikes away, I gave him a hug and a kiss on the forehead. It was unusual not because he was cousin but because he was always shy about that sort of thing; we’d always make a little hide and seek game out of it. This time, however, he hadn’t protested at all.

When Ruth and Bruce made the short trek from the front of the house to the driveway in front of the garage, she noticed it, too. She crouched in front of him, her knees pressing into the cold cobblestone porch and grazed her left hand across his cheek. My spine tingled with fear as my mind reverted back to the same phantom hand that grazed Jared’s cheek in the same soft, tender fashion.

I hid my reaction so my parents wouldn’t notice and put on my best fake smile. Mom slipped an arm across the small of my back, waved at Bruce as he caught up with Jared and Ruth, and leaned against my left shoulder.

“Are you okay?”

“I think I ate too much.” He mumbled in a sulking voice.

Bruce added. “You’re still going to school next week.”

Ruth raked her left hand through Jared’s hair, planted a soft kiss on the crown of his forehead and corralled him into the back seat. As they drove past the front of the house, Jared clipped on his seatbelt and peered at me with a brooding look on his face.

We waved at them as they started their long trek back to Columbus. Before their headlights were swallowed by the newly-risen darkness, I noticed the blemishes on Jared’s right cheek had disappeared.

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Published on February 02, 2020 03:17

February 1, 2020

Blind Date A Book 2020 – Book #2

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The material (chapter) in this post is copyrighted by the author and may not be used or copied in any way without the author’s permission.

Chapter 1

“That’s right, John. You’re looking at the new veep of the whole Northeast Division.” Jack Tate sat behind an expansive wood desk with a giant plate glass window behind him that gave a view down on Fifth Street. It used to be a pretty good view until the Black Group Building across the street was blown up.

Jack had a fresh bullet wound in his temple, small and neat enough to have come from a .22 or something like that, but the ragged mess on the other side of his head was anything but. I’d caught sight of the hole as he was pulling a binder out of the overhead behind him, my stomach had threatened to heave and I’d barely stifled a ‘yip’ when upon seeing it. He must have done it without his suit jacket on; the collar of his white shirt was crusted thick with crimson, but the gray jacket was unstained. He’d been a living, breathing, non-flesh eating Jack Tate just before lunch. I shifted in my seat.

“Uh, congratulations,” I said.

“Hey, thanks, man. Means a lot.” No, it didn’t, but as a favor to us both, I said nothing. He’d been under a deadline, was all I had known. I was in accounts receivable, he was—or had been—my manager’s manager so we’d passed by one another occasionally. We’d actually gone to high school together; he’d graduated the year after me. I had already been working here eight years when he first started in the junior executive program.

The past few days he had had a bewildered look whenever I’d seen him, like whatever stress he’d been under was becoming too much. His eyes were still red-rimmed and he had the faint odor of vodka on him, but his eyes looked relaxed and the smile currently on his face had a sparkle. Jack was fresh enough to not stink and if you really zoomed in on his eyes you could almost forget about the gaping head wound.

And the flies.

Nobody tells you about the flies.

It’s never talked about in the movies. Not sexy, I suppose. But almost every one of them walks around with a cloud of flies buzzing around. Jack only had a few right now, but by tomorrow morning he’d be a full-fledged, card-carrying member of the walking dead.

Jack leaned back in his high-backed leather chair and laced his fingers behind his head. There was a hole with some of the cushioning coming out by his left hand. He must have done it right there.

“How long you been working for the company, John?”

“I’m not sure. Twelve years?”

“Jeez, that’s long. And you’re still in A/R? Hell, I don’t need to turn you; you’re already dead.”

“You’re going to—”

“No, no, no,” he said, holding out a hand. “It’s a joke. I brought you in to talk about the FOH.”

“Flint Osteopathic Hospital?” I’d started weeping and Jack shook his head.

“Stop it, already.” He held out the box of Kleenex on his desk and I took a few. “I’m talking about the future of humankind. I’m not gonna eatcha. Really, I’m not. Not hungry anyway.”

As you all know hoi don’t eat people all the time. I was surprised to learn how many have higher brain function, especially the ones who sustain damage to the brain. Like Jack. In the early days, they even corralled the prols and the living could walk around almost like nothing had happened.

“Where was I?” Jack said. That’s the other thing I learned. Sometimes you people get confused. Throw in a non-sequitur or two and you’re completely thrown. That’s a bad thing.

Jack got that dull look in his eyes. I’m sure you know the one. The one just before a z-word gets all chewy. Every day I walk to work and I was coming to intersection one morning when I saw a human and a hoi about to cross. They were dressed in the same navy blue suit, even had similar briefcases. A car drove by—a rare thing to be seen back then—and honked its horn. Two quick beeps. I guess one of the two on the corner must have known the driver. Maybe he or she was dressed equally in blue, I couldn’t tell because of the windows of the old Ford were caked in dirt. Anyway, both men, living and dead, looked up and watched the car. After it had passed, the human resumed normal routine, checking his watch, keeping the hat on his head. I remember that hat and him clapping his hand atop it because of the breeze. He stepped out into the street, but his partner was still there, frozen, it seemed. He turned around, briefcase up by his chest and hand on his head like he was halfway being arrested and he said something.

“Martin?” At least that’s what I thought I heard him say. He could’ve said ‘muffin’ for all I knew. But the hoi just stood there, still looking as if that car that had honked almost a half minute before had stopped right there and the driver was asking him for directions. The man in the street stepped by up on the sidewalk, laid a finger of the briefcase-holding hand on his shoulder. The look on his face at that moment… well, what I’ve convinced myself was the look on his face. I’ve come to the conclusion I can’t really remember the expression. I can’t remember what he looked like—how can I honestly say how his eyebrows lifted, the purse of his lips, the roundness of his eyes? But I imagine the look on his face was concern. I remember supposing they must have known each other when they both were alive. I can’t really recall why I supposed that, maybe it had to do with the man not dropping that briefcase and letting his hat catch in the wind as he ran for his life, but the hoi turned his head, giving me a full view of the back of it, and leapt on him.

He knocked the man’s briefcase up as he reached. It swung up on the handle still grasped in the man’s hand, high up on his chest and then the hoi grabbed him by the shoulders and fell over on top of him, the two falling into the street. In their brief struggle, that hat came off, carried a short distance before landing on the sidewalk, business end up and dragged to a stop in front of me. Until that moment, it hadn’t crossed my mind that I was no more than six feet from the two men. It became a very real possibility that I could have been next. But I froze, watching it—I’m sorry, but I thought of him as a thing in that very instant—eat the man’s face, holding him down by a fistful of hair as it tore away at his lower left cheek, stripping skin all the way down to the side of his neck. The man’s screams turned into drowning gurgles as it chewed through an artery, blood spurting several feet away from where they were in the street.

Then the hoi was back. He realized what he’d done and recoiled from his friend’s body. And then of all things—he tried doing CPR! I know it has to sound funny to at least some of you—the idea of a dead person trying to breathe life into anyone. I watched him count out—one, two, three, four, then pinch his nose and puff air into his mouth.

His friend did get up. The hoi backed off, facing me now so I could see the look on his face this time. When the other one stood, it was obvious the CPR wasn’t what did it. The hoi had eaten a big chunk of muscle out of his neck and he was clearly dead.

“Dave, I’m sorry man,” the first hoi said.

“Dude—my suit!” Dave said, looking down at himself. He checked his watch and hurriedly stepped into the street again. “C’mon, we’re gonna be late.”

They hadn’t even looked at me. Maybe that was the first sign I was different. Maybe that was the reason Jack had chosen me. By the time I knew, it was too late to ask.

“Ah, yes, the future,” Jack continued. “You know one of the keys to any thriving community, John?”

“No,” I said.

“Growth. Works the same with the living as it does in here. G.O.D., John. Either we grow or we die.” I must have given him a look for his little pun because he and his eyes shifted. “You know what I mean.”

“Right now they think they have us trapped in here. Every now and then one of the M.F.E.s—mindless flesh-eaters—slips through and they put him down, study him or whatever it is they do, but that’s pretty much it. They don’t realize we really don’t want to get out just yet. Full out aggression is too iffy at this point. We could succeed, we could fail, hell we could over succeed.”

“What does that mean?”

“Glad you asked.” He leaned back in his chair, made a face and sniffed. “Hey, what’s that smell?”

I was nervous, thinking he might have been smelling me. But he looked around and opened one of the drawers at his side, looked up at me and smiled.

“Wow, they’re really rolling out the welcome wagon.” He reached into the drawer with both hands and pulled out a pile of entrails, dropping the whole stinking mess on the desk in front of him. He put his face over it and breathed in like it was manna.

“I could use a little B.T.E. You mind if I?” he asked, pointing at it. He had that look in his eye again.

“No,” I said, covering my mouth and nose with my shirt. As disgusting as it was, it was preferable to him gnawing on me. “Go ahead.”

Jack grabbed a loop of intestine and bit into it, fresh blood spilling out. The smell got even worse as he became engrossed. The slurps, the moaning, the bits of flesh caught between his teeth and fingers, the flies—I scooted back a foot and it was all I could do to keep from throwing up. Jack was no different from any prol, lost in his food.

After a minute or so he looked up. He stared at me like I was prey, blinked twice, and was back.

“Over succeeding would be saturation above sixty-eight percent,” Jack said around a mouthful. “The human race would die out entirely if we converted too many.”

“So you’re not going to kill everybody?” I asked.

“No.” He swallowed what was in his mouth and waved a hand at me, a hunk of flesh falling off his index finger. “We need humans to survive ourselves. We just want a level playing field. We kill so many, we convert so many and for the most part, leave the rest alone. In fifty years, it’ll be the most normal thing in the world for an arist to be elbow to elbow with a hoi.

“Hey, look at me—I’m not trying to eat you, am I? Sure you have to be careful of the prols, but haven’t hoi police been rounding them up? We’re building infrastructure. There’s a clear future ahead and we need the arists. I need you to be a part of it—to help make it happen.”

He made a face at the half-eaten pile in front of him and swept it into his trash can.

“We’re going to utilize the B.O.S.T. strategy, initially—that’s bite one, spare two. Rough estimates say one out of every five in this country is an Undead-American, so that’s two of us versus eight of them. If we convert two then that’s four of us versus six of them, bringing us pretty close to the parity we’re looking for. Now we’ll have to quickly consolidate with all the ‘free-range’ prols—” he made quotation marks with his bloody fingers— “to keep them from killing off too many. Now our way calls for conversion of only twenty-five percent of the living. Twenty-five. That’s something most of the arists can live with, isn’t it?” He chuckled at his joke. “The problem is those free-rangers. If we can’t get out of here quick enough and head them off, then it’s boo time.”

“Boo time?”

“The crowd boos, the curtain falls, show’s over.”

“What do you want me to do?” I asked.

“We need an intacter.” He smiled at me.

“A what?”

Jack reached in another drawer and pulled out a pack of handi-wipes. He used damn near half of them cleaning his hands before reaching back in and grabbing a small, black rectangular case and sliding it across the desk. I scooted back, leaning over to take it.

“Go ahead and open it.”

Inside there was a syringe filled with a pale yellow fluid.

“Part of the new expansion strategy involves infiltrating the aristocracy with one of ours that can pass. Considering even the freshest of us could be spotted at twenty yards, we began looking into the possibility of a switch hitter. We needed someone who could always be counted on, someone who didn’t have anything to lose, someone ready to be a team player.” He pushed away from his desk, strolled over to the plate glass window looking down onto the street and began pacing in front it. If I’d had the guts, I would have pushed the both of us right through it. “Right after my promotion, your name was the first past my lips. You’re on a very short list, growing shorter by the day.”

I held the syringe up to the light.

“What is it?”

“Something the company came up with before the Conversion.” That’s what they call it in corporate—the Great Conversion. “That’s PF-429. The boys in marketing are calling it ‘Termicil’.” He explained further after turning from the window to see my blank face. “It’s pretty much a better version of the stuff they use to euthanize dogs cocktailed with some kind of preservative.” He waved a hand at the last word, indicating he didn’t know all the specifics. “A drop of that is enough to kill you. Get this—it keeps the heart pumping for up to ten hours after brain activity ceases. The original plan was to use it on death row inmates who wanted to donate their organs. Cuts down on transport time or something. The lab guys are looking into extending the duration of the drug. Make the other side more appealing to the arists once we take over. Completely painless—you’ll be dead in five seconds flat.”

“But I don’t… I don’t wanna die.”

“Listen!” Jack slammed his palms down on the desk, leaned over and stared at me. Anger. The other thing that makes the undead look at humans like food. Jack gritted his teeth, looking like he was about to fly over the desk at me. But he looked away, turned and went back to that window.

“It’s not about you and what you want.” He was calm again. “You’re not getting out of here. Every day there are more prols roaming the streets looking for a freshie, and hell, they don’t want you out there.” Jack jerked his thumb toward the river—Windsor, the local interpretation of where the still-living resided. “Either the prols out there overwhelm the arists and eventually get in here and kill you or the arists win, come in, and wipe this place off the map. The only reason they don’t bomb us all to hell right now is because they don’t know what effect it will have on the space dust that’s reanimated us.” He rolled his eyes at the last part.

“Wanna know a secret?” He looked at me and leaned against the window. “The space dust, the signal, the virus, the rads—it’s all BS. But it’s all true too. I know it’s a little 1984-ish, but it’s a good place to hide the truth. Right in the middle of the lie. The reason the scientists can’t all agree is because they’re looking for the reason for the dead walking around when it’s really a combo of several things, including a genetic mutation that began in human beings in about the fourteenth century.”

“How would you know that?”

He shrugged. “That’s the thing they’ll never figure out about the virus. It’s semi-sentient. You see a lowly prol stumbling around, trying to eat you, but there’s memory from a thousand generations in him. He has the memories of the one who bit him too. And the one before that. On and on like that. That’s why they like to eat the brain if they can get to it. To make that mind a greater part of themselves.”

Jack stared into the silvery sky for a long time. For a moment I almost thought he had really died.

“We are a growing community. A subgroup. We want to become part of the larger community. Do you understand that, John? Wanting to belong? We’re all human, just some of us lack a pulse. Nobody can fault us for that. But when you don’t belong anywhere, that’s when you’re really dead.”

“But humans—the living—won’t accept that. A family of four isn’t going to be okay with you killing one of them. We—they’ll fight.”

Jack waved his hand and slid it back in his pocket.

“You’re dead anyway you cut it. You get hit by a truck, get munched by a prol, jump out this window or keel over when you’re a hundred, you’re dead. And then you’ll get up. At least this way you get to go out on your own terms.”

He walked back to his desk and sat down, looking at that top desk drawer. He had that blank stare in his eye again, but it was different. I’d seen that nickel-plated .22 when he’d reached into the drawer to retrieve the case.

“You know what the big guys are thinking? They’re thinking that if the right guy can get this done he gets to come upstairs. Hell, you’d be my boss.”

“But nobody knows me. I don’t know how to do anything, how am I even going to sneak out of the quar—” I clapped my hand over my mouth. I hadn’t done that since… well, I don’t think I’d ever done that. But the Q-word was a big no-no. I’d seen one of the bougies disemboweled by several of his peers for saying it.

Jack didn’t seem to notice. “Don’t you see that’s the beauty of it? It will work because you’re a nobody. They’ll think you just escaped, they’ll check you for bites and find a needle prick. They think we’re all mindless over here, zombies don’t infect by injection. They’ll welcome you like you’re one of their own.”

“How would you know you could trust me? I mean, I could fake taking the shot, sneak over and then blab everything.” As soon as it was out of my mouth I regretted saying it.

Jack only laughed.

“Thirty-eight years you’ve been one of them and what have they shown you? I remember you in high school—you got beat up practically every day and from the looks of your personnel file it doesn’t look like it’s gotten much better. I’m giving you an opportunity to belong. You can try fitting in with them, but why would it work now? We need you. You could be one of us—all we ask is one thing. If you can move past a little needle prick you’re all set. When was the last time you got a raise anyway?”

Four years, two cents. He was more right than he knew. I covered my wedding band with my right hand, thinking of my Bonnie. Even she hadn’t waited for me. She pretty much had sped off in the station wagon with Connor and Kramer poking their heads out the back windows, wagging their tongues at me.

“What would I have to do?”

“Well, take that back to your desk, think about. Better yet, take the rest of the day off.” He put his hand over mine. It was still sticky from the meat he’d just eaten. “Get back to me.”

I looked from the case and back up to him, really wondering if this was something I could do. I didn’t have a life and they knew it. Bonnie and the dogs had made it out before the quarantine, maybe I could go see them if I could get through.

Jack looked at me. Really looked at me like I was a friend. They needed me—finally I was important to someone.

“Oh, and take this,” he said, pulling a crumpled business card out of his breast pocket. Something gelatinous oozed out of the open wound in the back of his head and rolled down his back. “I hear it helps with the craving, but I haven’t had time to go. They say the ones who can’t control it don’t last long.” I glanced at it and dropped it into my pocket, forgetting about it in the next second.

I would—might do it. It wasn’t the dying part. Suicide had risen higher and higher on my to-do list with each passing day. I believed it would be painless. I believed that one way or the other it was how the whole world was going to go, despite the “rosy” picture Jack had painted. But the thought of injecting myself with a needle!

I just didn’t know if I could do it. Even holding the case and looking at it made my stomach swim.

I closed it and stood. Jack looked confused a moment and remained seated.

“I’m embarrassed,” he said. “I can’t see you to the door. Rigor mortis.”

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Published on February 01, 2020 22:50

Blind Date A Book 2020 – Book #1

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The material (chapter) in this post is copyrighted by the author and may not be used or copied in any way without the author’s permission.

Chapter 1

Every woman needs a man who will love them to the end of time. A man who puts her needs before his. A man who takes her breath away with a single glance. A man who will do whatever it takes to have a last goodbye kiss.

***

“What do you have there, Baby?” Jordan Snow took his eyes off the road for a brief second to glance at his wife, Emily.

Her oohing sounds had grabbed his curiosity, but Jordan didn’t need an excuse to gaze at Emily. From the little bump on the bridge of her nose to her svelte calves, he loved looking at his wife.

“The Christmas ornament I bought today for our new baby. Isn’t it beautiful?”

Jordan quickly glanced at the shiny bauble she dangled between them.

“Blue? What if it’s a girl?”

Giggling, Emily slipped another ornament from the bag on her lap. “I know, right? I bought two.”

Her squeal of delight made him want to stop the car and kiss her.

Is it wrong to love your wife that much?

“Pink and blue. Good thinking, little one,” Jordan chuckled.

Emily pushed her blond hair back behind one ear and held the blue bauble in front of her. “Now we’ll have a keepsake of our baby’s first Christmas. I know someone who can engrave it for us once we pick a name.’”

“And what about the ornament we don’t use?”

“Maybe we’ll use it for baby number two.”

“Baby number two, huh. Then I guess that means we have a plan.” Squeezing Emily’s hand, he asked, “Did you have a good vacation?”

Emily leaned in, laying her head on her husband’s shoulder and wrapping an arm around his. “I had the best time ever. I’m so glad we got to see one last sunset as a couple. The next time we come down for vacation, there will be three of us.”

Jordan brought Emily’s fingers to his lips and kissed them. His wife was wearing that orchid colored nail polish that reminded him of the silk sheets waiting for them at home.

“It was perfect, wasn’t it? You better check your seatbelt. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to our little baby.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Snow.” Emily saluted Jordan. He shook his head, laughing.

“Girl, what am I going to do with you?” Jordan asked, getting a giggle out of his wife.

“Are you excited about starting your internship on Monday? I so can’t believe you’re finally going to be a surgeon.” Emily’s voice was excited, pleasing Jordan.

“Let’s hope I don’t wet my pants my first day,” Jordan said, his voice solemn, sparking an eye roll from Emily. “I keep pinching myself because I’m sure I’m dreaming.”

Jordan gave a quick glance toward Emily, his grin conveying all the love he had in his heart for her before turning back to concentrate on his driving.

He was determined to get his wife and soon to be newborn home to Annapolis before daybreak. Jordan couldn’t wait for the next phase of their lives to begin.

***

Meanwhile…

Six miles away, an old Ford Fairlane station wagon with dirty tinted windows and a plastering of band promotion stickers across the back window, came rumbling out of a side road with tires spitting gravel. The clunker turned onto the highway with a jolt.

Inside, five boys and four girls, all between the ages of fourteen and nineteen, were packed in like sardines, either squeezed against each other or sitting on laps. They had left a kegger a few minutes earlier and were hurrying home to meet their curfews.

Traveling at over 60 miles per hour, the station wagon drifted over the center lane as the driver, Chad Rivers, leaned over to grab the cigarette he dropped on the car’s floor. Next to him, his best friend, Rick Anderson, paid no attention to Chad as he rooted around his feet for the lit butt. Instead, Rick twisted in his seat to see what the others were doing in the backseat. Wanting to be the center of attention, he took off his seatbelt and got up on his knees, facing the others.

Rick leaned over the back of his seat and began to belt out the lyrics to the hard rock song on the radio. Soon the others in the backseat joined in. No one was paying attention to the road as they careened into the other lane.

***

Emily saw the station wagon first. She screamed and grabbed onto Jordan’s arm, pointing at the station wagon racing toward them in their lane. “Jordan! Look out!”

***

Inside the station wagon, Chad Rivers finally snatched his cigarette from the floor and without looking at the road, turned to laugh at something happening behind him. The clunker was now 100 percent in the wrong lane. No one in the station wagon noticed the shiny red sports car they were about to slam into.

***

“Holy crap,” Jordan could see right away it was going to be too late to avoid all contact. He gritted his teeth as he twisted the Camaro’s wheel, making a hard left, desperate to avoid a head-on collision.

At the last second, the station wagon clipped the right front bumper of the Camaro, sending it flying off the road. Because the impact was a glancing blow to their fender and the alcohol was still working its way through their bloodstreams, none of the teenagers saw or experienced the hit, but it was enough to send the Camaro rocketing past some trees lining the road and flying down a steep embankment.

Inside the car, as it barreled down the embankment, Jordan and Emily turned toward each other, locking eyes.

It was out of their hands now, and they knew it.

Jordan put one hand out to protect his wife and child. Emily lost the ability to scream. She froze, her eyes wide with panic.

Their bodies slammed back and forth in the Camaro in spite of the seat belts. The cherished Christmas ornaments slammed against the windshield, shattering and sending shards of glass into the air.

Jordan’s head banged against the window on the driver’s door. Emily’s head snapped back, burrowing into her headrest. Grabbing the sides of the headrest, Emily held herself stiff against the seat.

At the bottom of the embankment, the Camaro landed on its nose and flipped over onto its roof, crashing through some weeds until it slid into the ditch wall of the culvert, coming to a crashing halt.

***

After the crash, it was eerily quiet except a clicking noise coming from the Camaro’s engine and the sound of the station wagon’s broken muffler as it sputtered and drove away.

Out on the highway, Chad finally turned around and steered the car back into the correct lane. Oblivious to the accident, most likely because he was drunk, Chad focused on getting home in one piece.

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Published on February 01, 2020 01:20

January 31, 2020

Blind Date A Book Event 2020

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Valentine’s Day is coming soon, and while I can’t guarantee you a significant other to go on a date with, I can offer you a blind date with a book!

Throughout the month of February, in honor of Valentine’s Day, I’ll be posting the first chapters of books to entice you to Blind Date a Book!

Here’s how it works…

There will be a blog post about a book. The post will contain the book’s first chapter, which will hopefully entice you to want to take a chance on that book and fall in love!

If you decide the book sounds good, there will be a purchase link for you to buy the book (or put it on your “wish list”) right after the chapter.

There will be no title mentioned in the post.

I won’t tell you who the author of the book is in the post.

You won’t know what book it is or who wrote it until you click that link…and Blind Date a Book!

I hope you’ll participate and fall in love with a book you never knew you wanted in your life.

And, if your Valentine’s Day plans involve staying in…

Order yourself some takeout.

Open a bottle of wine.

And curl up with your new book!

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Published on January 31, 2020 21:02

January 22, 2020

How To Approach An Author – Dos and Don’ts

How To Approach An Author – Dos And Don’ts

Rebecca Besser

Most writers/authors aren’t jerks, but they can come across as jerks on social media.

Why?

Because most writers/authors aren’t sitting around waiting for someone to randomly message/contact them on social media. They’re writing, dealing with their family life, and basically just living as human beings. Writers/authors may seem like magical creative creatures that live in an alternate reality where things are much more beautiful and artistic, but they live on planet Earth and have the same issues as other people: they have kids, spouses, get sick, have doctor appointments, run errands, etc.

Add on top of that real life stuff that they deal with constant deadlines and they’re trying to fit all the normal life stuff around their writing time. Or their writing time around all the normal life stuff. The last thing writers/authors need is someone who contacts them out of the blue asking a bazillion questions about writing.

So, when you get ignored or shut down by terse responses, know that the writer/author isn’t out to be a jerk. We do try to be polite. We do like our fans. We do want to encourage you. We do want to hear about what you think of our books (in a nice way—no one likes rude assholes).

Note: We do love to hear from people who love our stuff; it encourages us. And one of the absolute best ways to do so is to write reviews for our books and post them (Amazon or Goodreads are good places to post). If you just message us and tell us, that’s great too, but reviews are like giving a writer/author a surprise present. We love them. And they help with sales and our careers, which means the world to us. Reviews are the best way to show your favorite writer/author support.

And since that’s all true for those of us who aren’t really jerks (there are some that really are), here are three ways for you to get information from your favorite writer/author without coming across like a needy time-sucker that can’t make an appointment:

Write and send an email. Most have blogs or websites with at least a contact page. This would allow the writer/author the opportunity to get back to you when they have time. Most will.
Ask the writer/author to write a blog post about what you’d like to know. Chances are, other people out in the world would love to hear what the writer/author has to say too.
Ask the writer/author for book recommendations or resources about writing where the information you’re seeking is already available. There are many. Chances are, if you look around, you’ll find some helpful stuff on your own.

Please keep in mind that unless you know the writer/author personally and they’ve said to hit them up sometime with your questions, that it’s not okay to expect them to be available when you randomly contact them. They don’t live on your schedule. You need to give them time to respond to things like messages/emails without bugging them constantly.

I know it can be hard. I know you sometimes feel a connection over the writer/author’s work…but the writer/author doesn’t know you personally. They aren’t your best friend, but you can possibly become friends if you show restraint and respect in how you contact and try to communicate with them.

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Published on January 22, 2020 09:31

January 1, 2020

2020 – Managing New Year’s Expectations

2020 – Managing New Year’s Expectations
By Rebecca Besser

Today is New Year’s Day, the first day of 2020. On social media people are sharing their resolutions and plans for the upcoming year. That’s all well and good…if you can keep to them. But most people don’t. By the third week to the end of January, the likeliness is that most people will become depressed because they’re failing to meet the lofty goals they’ve set for themselves. Why? Because most of the goals are unrealistic or too big to accomplish easily or in a short time period, which people need to stay motivated. Most people will give up on what they want when they realize it’s going to take time and work.

So, what’s the point? I don’t get it. I’ve set goals at the beginning of the year before. I’ve also set goals mid-year and random other arbitrary points on the calendar. I try to make changes in my life when I see the need for that change. The day, the time, the year doesn’t matter…and it shouldn’t. And that’s why I don’t do New Year’s Resolutions (and that’s completely a personal choice).

Making one point in the year so important people put weight on all the value of change causes undo pressure. And when they fail, the depression arrives. So…why not set goals at your speed, on your schedule? It’s healthier. Not everyone is ready to make big choices for their lives at the same time. Human existence, experience, and need doesn’t match those of other people. And therefore you shouldn’t feel pressured to make those choices and changes on a calendar schedule.

But if the calendar schedule and peer pressure, or just the excitement of the possibility of something fresh and new like New Year’s, spurs you to make changes, make your choices and decisions wisely.

What do I mean by wisely? I mean be smart about the size of your goals and what it will take to reach them. Break down your big goals into small goals.

For example: If you want to lose 50 lbs., don’t expect it to happen in one month by starving yourself or doing some kind of fad dieting. Make small plans for each month that ultimately lead up to all the changes necessary for you to lose the weight. The smaller, slower changes will actually help you change your lifestyle and give you a better chance of keeping the weight off once you’ve lost it (however long it takes to get there).

And guess what happens when you break big goals down into smaller goals? You reach them faster and don’t get depressed because you aren’t seeing any change. You’re making changes. You’re accomplishing something. You’re doing what you need to. You’re changing you and your life.

Another example: If you haven’t been able to write as much as you’d like, and your goal is to write a minimum of 100K for the year, don’t set some crazy unrealistic goal of finding 3 hours a day to write. You’ve been struggling to find time in your day to write at all, so jumping to some big lofty goal you know you can’t meet without major stress isn’t going to help you reach your end goal. Challenge yourself to 100 words a day. Or 500 words a week. Chances are, once you sit down to do those minimum goals, you’ll start writing more than 100 per day or 500 per week. Pretty soon, once you start finding where you can work writing into your schedule, you’ll start finding more time to write, and you’ll start flowing with more word count than you’d originally planned. And once you find those times, once you’re into the flow of your project, you’ll reach your big goal easier because you feel accomplished slaying the smaller ones and going above and beyond your own expectations.

Keeping up a positive attitude and momentum is the hardest part of any goal, no matter the size. And a positive attitude and momentum are the things that are going to get you to the change you want.

I hope all of you that have made New Year’s Resolutions have great success. And I hope my suggestion of managing your goals and expectations inspires you to look at your big goals in a manageable way that will help you get there happily.

Happy New Year!

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Published on January 01, 2020 11:46

December 22, 2019

Merry Christmas – Nurse Blood for Kindle

As part of Limitless Publishing’s Christmas promotions, Nurse Blood is free for a limited time on Kindle!
The promotion will run from Dec. 23rd through Dec. 27th!
Merry Christmas!

[image error] Click on cover to visit title on Amazon!

Nurse Blood
by
Rebecca Besser

Sonya Garret roams the bar scene hoping to steal the heart of an unsuspecting victim—literally…

Sonya, better known as Nurse Blood, is part of a team of lethal organ harvesters who seek out the weak to seduce, kill, and part out for profit on the black market. When Sonya meets Daniel McCoy, a young man recovering from a broken engagement, he’s just another kill to line her pockets with quick cash.

Agent David McCoy vows to find out how and why his twin brother Daniel disappeared…

Daniel’s body hasn’t been found, and the leads are slim to none, but it won’t stop David from dedicating his life to solving his brother’s case. When the evidence finally uncovers the shocking truth that Daniel’s disappearance is linked to organ harvesters, David knows his brother is most likely dead. But he’s determined to stop the villains’ killing spree before they strike again.

One last harvest is all Sonya and her team need to put their murderous past behind them…

A family with the rarest blood type in the world is the only thing standing between Sonya and retirement. David McCoy and the FBI are hot on their trail, though, and multiple targets make this the most complicated harvest yet. Will David unravel Sonya’s wicked plans in time to avenge his brother and save an innocent family? Or will Sonya cash in her final kill and escape for good?

Murder for profit stops for no man when you’re Nurse Blood.

[image error] Author Rebecca Besser

Rebecca Besser is a horror/thriller author who resides in Ohio with her wonderful husband and amazing son. They’ve come to accept her quirks as normal while she writes anything and everything that makes her inner demons squeal with delight. She’s best known for her work in adult horror, but has been published in fiction, nonfiction, and poetry for a variety of age groups and genres. She’s entirely too cute to be scary in person, so she turns to the page to instill fear into the hearts of the masses.

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Published on December 22, 2019 19:06

October 31, 2019

Halloween Blitz – Kindle Fire 7 Winner

Happy Halloween!

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The lucky winner of this Black Kindle Fire 7 is…

Tonya Marie Perkins!

I will get in contact with you, but if you don’t hear from me within the next 24 hours, contact me at becca @ rebeccabesser . com (without spaces) since sometimes internet contact can be tricky if we aren’t directly connected already.

***Winner was chosen randomly. Each entrant was given a random number. I then asked my son to pick a random number between those numbers (1-X). The number he chose was the winner, and he never set eyes on the list.***

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Published on October 31, 2019 05:04

October 30, 2019

Halloween Blitz – Full Recap

Did you miss any of the Halloween Blitz posts?

Below is a full list, with links, to all the Halloween Blitz event posts so you can go back through and revisit something you loved or catch up on what you missed before its over!

Tomorrow I will be posting the last post for Halloween Blitz, in which the winner of the Black Kindle Fire 7 will be announced! Be sure to check back for that announcement.

I hope you enjoyed this event as much as I did putting it on. If you loved it too, share the event posts with your friends/followers and come back next October for more horror/Halloween fun!

~Rebecca Besser

Day 1: Halloween Blitz & Halloween Blitz – Last Halloween by Jay Wilburn

Day 2: Halloween Blitz – Keyport Cthulhu 2

Day 3: Halloween Blitz – The One That Got Away by Dale Elster

Day 4: Halloween Blitz – The Night Weaver by Monique Snyman

Day 5: Halloween Blitz – Re-Civilize: Liam by Rebecca Besser

Day 6: Halloween Blitz – Stiff Breeze by Brian J. Smith

Day 7: Halloween Blitz – Deadsville by Dale Elster & T.D. Trask

Day 8: Halloween Blitz – Twisted Pathways by Rebecca Besser

Day 9: Halloween Blitz – Cold Fingers by Suzi Albracht

Day 10: Halloween Blitz – Which Witch? by Rebecca Besser

Day 11: Halloween Blitz – Conversation with the Living by Courtney Rene