Another excerpt from my latest book, Ghosters
The next day, they pushed deeper into the houses, trying to get through twenty by lunch. The mules, used by now to the routine, cooperated.
They stopped in the ruins of a ballroom, half its tall ceiling lying on the marble floor. The far exit to the ballroom was blocked by criss-crossing tree limbs.
They ate tuna fish sandwiches while sitting on the floor, Tilda unscrewing the blue top off a jar of mayonnaise, a small, sample-size jar, since they’d have to throw it out once it was opened.
After eating, she got one of the chainsaws going, little puffs of gray exhaust rising from the rear like smoke signals. Walking over with its loud vibration hanging from her right hand, she placed the spinning chain against the nearest tree branch blocking the exit to the ballroom. Let the weight of the chainsaw carry the rapid teeth down into the wood, sawdust spraying up, whine of the chainsaw rising as the teeth spun down through the limb.
Stepping back, she let the severed limb fall. The asymmetry of its branches caused it to shift on the marble floor, as if it were still alive.
Looking over her shoulder at MacDonald, she shouted above the noise of the chainsaw. “If you could move each limb to the side so I don’t trip over it and have a very painful accident, I’d be much obliged.”
Working together, they cut a passageway through the mess of limbs in an hour.
Tilda opened her mouth to say something. Instead, dropped the chainsaw on the floor, letting it spin around, still alive. Pulled her side arm. Aimed and shot in front of her.
Ran through the passage, poked her head in a nearby bathroom, reared her head back, fired into the bathroom five more times.
MacDonald crept through the carved-out tunnel, past the thick white cuts of tree branches, a rifle from the mule pack in his hands. His face was flushed.
Tilda had her revolver flipped open, thumbing fresh bullets into the cylinder. “It’s dead.”
MacDonald peered into the Art Deco bathroom. The alligator had collapsed with its spine against the tiles of the rear wall, exposing its pearl underside. Long jade tail in the bathtub, one front claw in the bathroom sink, scrabbling gray streaks in the white porcelain. Its triangular head rested against the medicine cabinet’s circles of shattered mirror.
Blood leaking from six small holes.
Tilda dipped down her right hand until she had the rhythm right, then hoisted up the spinning chainsaw. “You know how good alligator tail is. I could saw off the best part of the tail, wrap it in that shower curtain, and we’d have fresh meat tonight. You game?”
MacDonald gave an amused shrug. “Okay. Sure.”
Tilda stepped into the bathroom with her chainsaw, poking its round tip at the alligator’s scaly stomach, just to be sure. Positioned the buzz of the saw above the thickest part of the tail, watery pink blood spraying up onto the geometry of the shower stall’s white tiles, the plastic curtain’s cartoons of smiling goldfish.
They built a fire that night in the middle of a downstairs bedroom.
--from Ghosters, my latest book.
When someone you love dies, are they gone forever?
Meet the Ghosters, and the desperate people who hire them.
In our modern world, only Ghosters know what comes after death. What stays behind. And what dwells between.
Available in both Kindle and trade paperback editions.
In the UK the Kindle edition is only £1.92; the trade paperback is only £9.32.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Ghosters-Ralp...
In the US the Kindle edition is only $2.99; the trade paperback is only $13.36.
http://www.amazon.com/Ghosters-Ralph-...
They stopped in the ruins of a ballroom, half its tall ceiling lying on the marble floor. The far exit to the ballroom was blocked by criss-crossing tree limbs.
They ate tuna fish sandwiches while sitting on the floor, Tilda unscrewing the blue top off a jar of mayonnaise, a small, sample-size jar, since they’d have to throw it out once it was opened.
After eating, she got one of the chainsaws going, little puffs of gray exhaust rising from the rear like smoke signals. Walking over with its loud vibration hanging from her right hand, she placed the spinning chain against the nearest tree branch blocking the exit to the ballroom. Let the weight of the chainsaw carry the rapid teeth down into the wood, sawdust spraying up, whine of the chainsaw rising as the teeth spun down through the limb.
Stepping back, she let the severed limb fall. The asymmetry of its branches caused it to shift on the marble floor, as if it were still alive.
Looking over her shoulder at MacDonald, she shouted above the noise of the chainsaw. “If you could move each limb to the side so I don’t trip over it and have a very painful accident, I’d be much obliged.”
Working together, they cut a passageway through the mess of limbs in an hour.
Tilda opened her mouth to say something. Instead, dropped the chainsaw on the floor, letting it spin around, still alive. Pulled her side arm. Aimed and shot in front of her.
Ran through the passage, poked her head in a nearby bathroom, reared her head back, fired into the bathroom five more times.
MacDonald crept through the carved-out tunnel, past the thick white cuts of tree branches, a rifle from the mule pack in his hands. His face was flushed.
Tilda had her revolver flipped open, thumbing fresh bullets into the cylinder. “It’s dead.”
MacDonald peered into the Art Deco bathroom. The alligator had collapsed with its spine against the tiles of the rear wall, exposing its pearl underside. Long jade tail in the bathtub, one front claw in the bathroom sink, scrabbling gray streaks in the white porcelain. Its triangular head rested against the medicine cabinet’s circles of shattered mirror.
Blood leaking from six small holes.
Tilda dipped down her right hand until she had the rhythm right, then hoisted up the spinning chainsaw. “You know how good alligator tail is. I could saw off the best part of the tail, wrap it in that shower curtain, and we’d have fresh meat tonight. You game?”
MacDonald gave an amused shrug. “Okay. Sure.”
Tilda stepped into the bathroom with her chainsaw, poking its round tip at the alligator’s scaly stomach, just to be sure. Positioned the buzz of the saw above the thickest part of the tail, watery pink blood spraying up onto the geometry of the shower stall’s white tiles, the plastic curtain’s cartoons of smiling goldfish.
They built a fire that night in the middle of a downstairs bedroom.
--from Ghosters, my latest book.
When someone you love dies, are they gone forever?
Meet the Ghosters, and the desperate people who hire them.
In our modern world, only Ghosters know what comes after death. What stays behind. And what dwells between.
Available in both Kindle and trade paperback editions.
In the UK the Kindle edition is only £1.92; the trade paperback is only £9.32.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Ghosters-Ralp...
In the US the Kindle edition is only $2.99; the trade paperback is only $13.36.
http://www.amazon.com/Ghosters-Ralph-...
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