Текст книги "Best new zombie tales, vol. 3"

Автор книги: James Daley

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

" It's about time," Paddy said, wiping blood from her ear lobe.

Marilyn tilted backwards and hiked up her full white skirt until her pink lips grinned at the camera. She shoved the Twinkie up inside herself and crooned, "Happy Birthday to You."

Paddy opened her eyes. Rewind, or what was left of him, lay in the background of the shot, a golden prop, much of Mr. Woods' forearm sticking out of his mouth. Suddenly this movie came into sharp focus.

~

Paddy's Daddy wandered home every night by instinct, just the way he used to before he became a Deadie. Not that he needed rest. He never had; he was no different now.

Paddy boarded up the windows. Marilyn nailed a two by four tornado warning across the door.

Daddy stared, eyes hungry, same as always. Finally Paddy picked up his mottled hand and hauled him down to the root cellar, the way he'd done with her all her life.

She lit the hurricane lamp. Bushel baskets of rotting potatoes and carrots and cabbage lined the shelves and the floor was littered with broken jars with pickled foods she'd put away she didn't know when. The place stank, but no worse than Daddy.

She positioned him on a Peaches and Cream Corn crate. His glazed, half-rotted eyeballs wandered the room aimlessly, like he didn't recognize anything. Paddy was used to that. All the Deadies resided in Bliss, a drive-in theater she hoped to visit real soon.

Marilyn stood in a corner, legs spread, hands on knees, cleavage scrumptious, waiting for the wind to whistle up her skirt on cue.Paddy nodded. Daddy's head kept bobbing like an antenna in a storm because his neck had snapped so she held it steady and made him look in her direction, but she couldn't get his eyes to stay put. Black mixed media belched from his lips; his digestive juices were working; he must be watching the screen.

Marilyn hiked her skirt and turned.Paddy, skirt lifted, waved her backside at Daddy's oscillating face, the way he always liked. Nothing.

Marilyn peeked over her shoulder and pouted her lips into an 'O'.Paddy planted a movie smooch on Daddy's crisp lips. His rotted nose mashed against her cheek and a chunk with crusty stuff inside broke off. A blowfly with eyes like Daddy's emerged. "Thanks ever so!" the fly said. Paddy yelled at Marilyn, "Cut!" MM tossed back her platinum hair, thrust out her tits and giggled.

Paddy glanced down at her nearly flat chest and felt lousy. Daddy had always hungered for her before and now he didn't and now she was truly alone on the set. She plunked down onto the dirt floor and cried, something she hadn't done since way before she started taking the meds she'd run out of. The leak created micro mud puddles between her legs. The fly dived into one and bathed. He smiled up at her with Technicolor eyes in all his clear iridescent holiness and winked.Paddy found enlightenment. She saw the solution to all her troubles.

" It's a wrap," she said, but MM refused to vacate the studio. Instead, she straddled a Mason jar of pickled banana peppers and mumbled on and on about misfits and how some of them like it hot.Paddy fast-forwarded.

She crawled to Daddy and peeled rotting fabric from his groin. His penis, always so big and full, dangled like a thick black connecting cable with green eyes. The eyes leaked puss-yellow tears that white life forms swam in. Those baby bugs are joining heads to tails! Paddy realized, astonished. The word LOVE flashed onto the screen and a ball bounced along the letters. Wasn't this what Dolly Parton always sang about, and what Marilyn always got?Now Paddy knew exactly what everybody meant.

She closed her eyes and opened her mouth.

And bit.

Daddy didn't complain. He didn't seem to miss his cock.

Paddy sat back on her haunches and munched.

Marilyn skipped over with a rotting banana pepper dangling from her wet lips. "When it's hot like this, I store my undies in the ice box."

Made sense to Paddy. She swallowed the last bits of her Daddy, the bits that meant anything to her. He tasted like all the buttered popcorn they ever ate watching movies together.

As his head bobbed her way, he grinned like he used to, and Paddy felt proud. At last she'd landed a part in The Deadie Movie. She would play Daddy's Little Deadie Girl and the movie would run forever, or at least until the reel ran out of film.

Sweetbread

TONIA BROWN

Mary Mooney stood in the doorway of her kitchen with a shotgun aimed at her icebox. Or rather, she aimed at the black clad rump of some stranger poking out of her icebox. The rump wiggled about as its owner's front half rooted through her leftovers. Now, it wasn't unusual for someone to stop by for a glass of iced tea or an hour's gossip, but never unannounced and certainly not at five in the morning. Mary caught the flash of a blueberry pie with the middle scooped away. The whole, freshly baked pie was spoiled.

"My icebox aint no trough," she said.

The rummaging stopped as the rump stilled.

Mary reached beside her and flicked on the light.

"Get your hands up and step away from the pie," she demanded.

She cocked the gun, to show the rump she meant business, which she most certainly did. A pair of big hands, caked with filth and every nail black with grunge, lifted as the stranger stood. He was as tall as the fridge, almost as broad, and looked like he hadn't seen the inside of a washtub in a good year. His black hair was greasy and short on his grubby neck. His black jacket was sore-fully tattered, too short for his long arms and covered in grime. He looked like he had spent the last hour rolling around in the pig pen. Smelled like it too.

"Now turn round, real slow like," Mary said. "One wrong move and I'll empty this here buckshot inta your butt."

When he turned to face her, Mary regretted having asked him to. He was a horrible site. The skin of his face not covered in blueberries had a sick green tint to it, like a moldy hide stretched taunt across his skull. His lips were thin, black lines pulling in a tight grimace from his blueberry stained teeth in an eerie half grin. His eyes were milky, dark marbles floating free in their sockets. In short, he was a monstrosity. A big, filthy, blueberry pie stealing monstrosity.

"Hey honey," it said through a mouthful of pie.

It was then that Mary recognized him as her big, filthy, blueberry pie stealing monstrosity.

"Rufus?" She dropped the shotgun and covered her mouth as her eyes flew wide with terror.

"Careful Mare Bear," Rufus said as he pointed to the clattering gun.

"But Rufus," Mary said through her fingers. "You're d-d-d-dead!"

"Well that's a fine 'how'd ya do.' Come down for a snack and you wanna kill me fur it?" Rufus frowned as he wiped the pie from his face. He stopped as he spied the berries on his muddy sleeve. Understanding came upon him and he felt duly guilty. "That pie was for church. Weren't it? I'm sorry, sugar. 'Aint no need to shoot me over it."

He stretched his black lips back, baring his teeth. Mary's stomach lurched at the gruesome sight. What should have been a sweet smile ended up a slavering snarl. Her knees wobbled and she grabbed a kitchen chair to steady herself.

"Roo, it 'aint about the pie," she said. "You was dead, honey. Stone dead."

"You been at my still?" Rufus asked, raising a half brow and cocking his head at her with a loud crack.

Mary sat at the opposite end of the table, far from her dead husband. "You been dead 'bout near two weeks."

"You sure you 'aint been at the shine?" His head was pounding, his guts were growling and she stared at him so hard it made his skin crawl. Or rather she made him feel like something under his skin was crawling. He jerked his chair from the head of the table, and the sound of twisting leather rose from his knees as he sat.

"Roo, we put you in the ground and everything."

Rufus looked down at his dirt caked hands and soiled suit. He realized he looked like he just crawled free from a hole in the ground. But that was to be expected because he had, indeed, just crawled free from a hole in the ground. "Well, that would explain a lot. I thought I fell asleep in the field and got all plowed over by Charlie."

"No Roo, you was dead. I swear it. Here..." she paused and slid a pie pan down the table. "Look at yourself."

Rufus lifted both brows to her as he lifted the pan to his face. In the dull metal he saw a monster staring back at him. "That 'aint me," he said. The monster mouthed his words and Rufus groaned. "Aww Mare Bear. What happened to me?" He patted his rotting face with a decaying hand.

"You don't remember? Charlie kicked you in the chest. Broke your chest bone and crushed your heart is what the Doc said."

"Dammed mule 'aint never been nothing but trouble." He ran his hand over the breast of his muddy suit, and felt it give where his heart should have been. He didn't dare open his shirt to look inside, for fear he might see inside his insides, and that would be too much insides for one man to bear. He looked back to his reflection and frowned. "Am I really dead?"

"Didn't you see your stone when you came up?"

"It was dark. Plus I weren't really looking for it, was I? You don't wake up in a hole and just assume you're in the grave, do ya?"

"I wouldn't rightly know."

"Speaking from experience, ya don't. And it wasn't like there was a whole lot of graveyard giving me a hint."

"Well, ya said ya wanted to lay to rest on the farm. Weren't no help that I had to rush the funeral."

"Why rush it? I wasn't going nowhere."

"In this summer heat you set to stinking right away."

Rufus lowered his gaze in a sudden bout of shyness. "How was it?"

Mary squinted at his odd question. "Well, it was kind a like... boiled fish heads, mixed with wet manure and week old eggs. 'Course you smell a lot less now, but I reckon–"

"I don't mean my scent, woman, I mean my funeral!"

Mary glared at him and pursed her lips. "I see dying 'aint done nothing to your temper."

Rufus hung his head.

"Besides," she added in a tender yet devious voice. "I don't rightly remember a whole lot about it. I were knee deep in grief over ya, Roo."

But Rufus would not be moved. "Ya don't remember nuthin?"

"If I'd a known you'd be back for a play by play, I'd 'ave took notes." Mary crossed her arms and returned her lips to their previous purse.

The couple fell quiet and stared at one another. Thirty years of marriage had seen them through a lot, but nothing prepared them for this.

"Sorry about the pie," Rufus said. "But I couldn't help myself. I got this powerful hunger, Mare Bear." As if on cue, a rumble rolled across the quiet kitchen and Rufus covered his belly with his big hands. "Why ya lookin' at me like that?" he asked. She was looking at him the same way she did when she thought she had caught him doing something wrong. Which was to say, she was looking at him the way she always did.

Mary clicked her tongue.

"What?" Rufus asked.

"Nuthin'," she lied.

"Ya clucking like a mother hen. That means ya got an idear."

Mary frowned. She didn't want to think of this dead thing as her Roo, but he sure acted like it. "Maybe you're one of those things they make them movies about. A zomblie."

Rufus scowled even harder as his stomach rolled again.

"You aint never seen a zomblie movie, have you Roo?" she asked.

Rufus shook his head and his neck creaked like a dry wind blowing across an old tombstone.

Mary had only seen one zomblie film, when she was much younger, but she was sure they all pretty much had the same plot. "Zomblies eat... people... the brains mostly..." her words trailed off. Rufus was lifting his nose, sniffing at the kitchen air like an old hound dog.

"Brains you say?" Rufus asked as he breathed deeper, enjoying a sudden delectable scent. He nosed around, wondering if Mary had something on a slow boil, until he realized it was coming from her. Rufus Mooney, despite his best effort to the contrary, began to drool.

Mary stared as the dead man raked his black tongue back and forth across his putrid lips. He was looking at her the same way he looked at her whenever he wanted that certain special something. Which was to say, he looked at her with hunger. She went white in terror.

Her look of horror snapped Rufus back to his senses. This was his wife, not some early morning buffet! "I don't think I could rightly eat people," he said to ease her mind. He lied, because he was sure he might just be able to choke down a chunk or two. "Besides, if all I eat were brains I'd starve in this town inside a week!" He laughed, forced and hoarse.

Mary shuddered at the horror of it, but part of her laughed with him. Part of her knew he was an abomination, yet part of her wanted him to stay. But want as she might, she knew in her heart that her Rufus was long gone, kicked to death by his own ass.

She stood and went to the fridge. "Maybe we can find something to satisfy your hunger."

"That's more like a wife." Rufus gleamed with pride.

"Ya know, I'm not really your wife. Not no more."

"Whatcha mean? I still got my ring!" Rufus held up his decrepit left hand. A golden band glowed against his ghastly flesh.

Mary shook her head. "Don't you remember our wedding vows?"

"Yeah. Love. Honor. And obey. Now obey and make me some flapjacks!"

Mary looked down at Rufus. "I mean the bit at the end."

His milky eyes lit with unholy desire. Mary smelled delicious. "He said I could kiss the bride."

She shook her head again. "Till death do we part."

"So."

"Honey... you died."

Mary waited as the bitter truth sank into Rufus's soft skull.

"I can't stay, can I?" he whispered.

"I love you, Roo, but you know you can't stay. Not... like this." She ran a trembling hand across his rotting face.

Rufus could feel her quiver with fear. His heart ached to bursting, but he knew what he had to do. He pushed her away, stood and stalked towards the door.

"Rufus!" Mary shouted, but she didn't give chase. She heard the door slam as the first tears came. It was as painful as the day they brought his broken body home.

Maybe worse.

Just as quick as it closed, she heard a knock at the door. She stood and went to it. The knock came again before she could get there. Mary pulled open the door and on her porch stood Rufus, propped against the frame, still dead.

"Widow Mooney," he said with a nod.

Mary narrowed her eyes.

"Mamm, I'm sorry about your recent loss but I must confess that I've had my eye on ya for some time. Unfortunately, I have to go away for a while. I don't know how long I'll be, or if I'll ever come back."

"I'm sorry to hear that. You seem... like a fine man."

Rufus turned his milky eyes to the horizon and nodded again. "I thought maybe we could break some bread and watch the sunrise. One more time, before I go."

Mary wiped away her bitter tears. "As long as it 'aint my sweetbread."

Rufus grinned.

It should have been goofy, instead it was gruesome and Mary didn't mind at all.

"Come on in. I was just making flapjacks," she said.

And Rufus Mooney came home, one last time.

~

ZOMBIE #3

½ oz over-proof rum

0.5 oz pineapple juice

1.5 oz orange juice

½ oz apricot brandy

½ tablespoon crushed eyeball

½ tablespoon sugar

1.5 oz dark rum

1.5 oz light rum

1. Shake light rum, dark rum, apricot brandy, pineapple juice, orange juice, limejuice, and powdered sugar with ice.

2. Strain into a Collins glass.

3. Sprinkle eyeball into over-proof rum and float on top

4. Garnish with a fruit slice, spring of mint and a cherry.

5. Serve.

About The

AUTHORS

JAMES ROY DALEY ~ is the brains behind BOOKS OF THE DEAD, the author of The Dead Parade, Terror Town, 13 Drops of Blood, and Into Hell. He is the editor of Best New Zombie Tales Volume 1, 2 & 3, and Best New Vampire Tales Volume 1. Upcoming work includes Zombie Kong, Best New Werewolf Tales Volume One, and Best New Zombie Tales Volume 4.

PAUL KANE has been writing professionally for almost fourteen years. He currently lives in Derbyshire, UK, with his wife – the author Marie O'Regan – his family, and a black cat called Mina.

NATE SOUTHARD ~ is the author of Just Like Hell, Broken Skin, He Stepped Through, and the graphic novels Drive and A Trip to Rundberg. His short stories have appeared in such venues as Cemetery Dance, Thuglit, and numerous anthologies. Red Sky, his debut novel, will be available later this year. Nate lives in Austin. You can learn more at natesouthard.com.

JEREMY C. SHIPP ~ Jeremy C. Shipp is the Bram Stoker nominated author of Cursed, Vacation, and Sheep and Wolves. His shorter tales have appeared or are forthcoming in over 50 publications, the likes of Cemetery Dance, ChiZine, Apex Magazine, Pseudopod, and Rosebud. While preparing for the forthcoming collapse of civilization, Jeremy enjoys living in Southern California in a moderately haunted Victorian farmhouse with his wife, Lisa, and their legion of yard gnomes. Thankfully, only one mime was killed during the making of his first short film, Egg.

MURRAY J.D. LEEDER ~ is the author of the novels Son of Thunder and Plague of Ice for Wizards of the Coast, as well as almost twenty-five published short stories. In addition, his academic writings have appeared in such journals as the Canadian Journal of Film Studies, the Journal of Popular Culture and the Journal of Popular Film and Television. He is a currently pursuing a Ph.D. at Carleton University in Ottawa.

SIMON WOOD ~ is the Anthony Award winning author of six books as well as over 150 published stories and articles. He writes thrillers, mysteries, and horror fiction. His previous books include Working Stiffs, Accidents Waiting to Happen, Paying the Piper, Terminated and We All Fall Down as well as The Scrubs and Road Rash under the pen name Simon Janus. His upcoming titles include a first in a new mystery series set in the world of motor racing, Did Not Finish, and the crime-caper, The Fall Guy. You can find him on Red Room, Crime Space, Good Reads, Facebook, Twitter and MySpace, which is home to his blog.

JG FAHERTY is an Active Member in the Horror Writers Association. His credits include Cemetery Dance, Wrong World, Shroud Magazine, Doorways Magazine, and several major anthologies. A freelance writer with over 15 years of experience, he has a varied background that includes working as a laboratory manager, accident scene photographer, zoo keeper, research scientist, and resume writer. He also contributes regular columns, interviews, and book reviews to the HWA newsletter, FearZone, Dark Scribe Magazine, and Horror World.

AARON POLSON ~ When Aaron Polson isn't arguing about the definition of irony with his high school English students, he can be found chipping away at a twisted tale in his basement dungeon. Many of his stories take place in the fictional town of Springdale, Kansas, a strange place modeled after his own hometown.  He currently lives in Lawrence, Kansas with his wife, two sons, and a tattooed rabbit. Aaron's stories have appeared in various publications, including Reflection's Edge, Nectrotic Tissue, Big Pulp, and several anthologies.

TIM LEBBON ~ has been published for more than ten years now, and you can find out loads about him at his website http://www.timlebbon.net. He is the author of over thirty books, including the Noreela series of fantasy books (Dusk, Dawn, Fallen and The Island), the NY Times Bestselling novelization of the movie 30 Days of Night, and several books with Christopher Golden, including The Map of Moments and the forthcoming Secret Journeys of Jack London for Harper. He has also written several screenplays and some TV proposals. Tim has won several prestigious awards, and some of his work has been optioned for the big screen.

JOHN L. FRENCH ~ is a crime scene supervisor with the Baltimore Police Department Crime Laboratory. In 1992 he began writing crime fiction, basing his stories on his experiences on the streets of what some have called one of the most dangerous cities in the country. His books include THE DEVIL OF HARBOR CITY, SOULS ON FIRE, PAST SINS and the upcoming HERE THERE BE MONSTERS. He is the editor of BAD COP, NO DONUT which features tales of police behaving badly.

SIMON MCCAFFERY ~ is former magazine editor who sold his soul to high-tech corporate America, living with my wife, Angela, and three amazing children in the Tulsa, Okla., area. He has been writing and selling fiction since 1990, and owes his love of zombies, science fiction, and things that go bump in the day and night to his father, James McCaffery, who taught him to read at an early age and gave him a box of paperback books when he was eleven, Something Wicked This Way Comesamong them.

LEE CLARK ZUMPE ~ discovered long ago that using the written word to spin yarns and evoke emotions is both a challenging and a rewarding enterprise. The author's zeal for writing led him to college after several misspent years where he recently earned a Bachelor's Degree in Professional and Technical Writing. In his spare time, Lee is an avid reader of speculative fiction, and a confessed bibliomaniac with an ever-expanding private library. Since his first sale to Nocturnal Lyricin 1992, more than 200 of Lee's short stories and poems have been published in magazines and anthologies in North America, England, and Australia. Most recently, his work appeared in the pages of Wicked Hollow, Lunatic Chameleon, and Voicings from the High Country. Look for Lee in upcoming issues of Star*Line, Weird Tales, and Mythic Delirium. In January 2003, Anxiety Publicationspublished Lee's first chapbook of poetry titled An Invisible Shimmer. Lee lives on the west coast of Florida with his wife, artist Tracey Potter Zumpe, and four feline muses purportedly descended from the cats of Ulthar. Visit Lee's website at: http://blindside.net/leeclarkzumpe/.

ERIK T. JOHNSON ~ Erik T. Johnson lives in New York with his wife, son, and a little dog too. His stories have appeared in Underworlds Magazine, New York Stories, Trunk Stories, Sein und Werden, Saucytooth's Webthology, and the Midnighters Club anthology, among other places. More of his writing is forthcoming in Electric Velocipede, New Horizons, Morpheus Tales, Black Ink Horror, Golden Visions, Dead But Dreaming 2, The Zombie Chronicles Volume One, and Best New Zombie Tales Volume Three. His website is www.eriktjohnson.net.

JOE MCKINNEY ~ Joe McKinney is the San Antonio-based author of numerous horror, crime and science fiction novels. His longer works include the four part Dead World series, made up of Dead City, Apocalypse of the Dead, Flesh Eaters and The Zombie King; the science fiction disaster tale, Quarantined, which was nominated for the Horror Writers Association's Bram Stoker Award for superior achievement in a novel, 2009; and the crime novel, Dodging Bullets. His upcoming releases include the horror novels Lost Girl of the Lake, The Red Empire, The Charge and St. Rage. Joe has also worked as an editor, along with Michelle McCrary, on the zombie-themed anthology Dead Set, and with Mark Onspaugh on the abandoned building-themed anthology The Forsaken. His short stories and novellas have been published in more than thirty publications and anthologies. In his day job, Joe McKinney is a sergeant with the San Antonio Police Department, where he helps to run the city's 911 Dispatch Center. Before promoting to sergeant, Joe worked as a homicide detective and as a disaster mitigation specialist. Many of his stories, regardless of genre, feature a strong police procedural element based on his fifteen years of law enforcement experience. A regular guest at regional writing conventions, Joe currently lives and works in a small town north of San Antonio with his wife and children.

GREGORY MILLER ~ Gregory Miller was born in State College, Pennsylvania in 1978. His short fiction and poetry have appeared in a number of national publications. His first novel, Big Cicadas, was published in 2003 and his first collection of poetry, Four Autumns, in 2005. In October 2009, a collection of short stories, Scaring the Crows: 21 Tales for Noon or Midnight, was published by StoneGarden.net Publishing, and received positive reviews from authors such as Piers Anthony and Brad Strickland. Ray Bradbury recently wrote, "Gregory Miller is a fresh new talent with a great future." He recently edited the Static Movement anthology, Don't Tread On Me: Tales of Revenge and Retribution. A high school English teacher, he currently lives in Pittsburgh with his wife and two young sons.

WILLIAM T. VANDEMARK ~ William T. Vandemark writes speculative fiction. He can be found wandering the backroads of America in a pickup truck. He chases storms, photographs weathervanes, and prospects for fulgurites. When wanderlust ebbs, he resides in San Antonio or Seattle, depending on weather and inclination. Currently, he serves as editor of the Science Fiction Writers of America blog.

JOHN CLAUDE SMITH ~ has written fiction as himself and under the pseudonym, John Kiel Alexander. He's also written over 1000 music reviews as JC Smith. His short fiction has appeared in over twenty magazines, ezines and anthologies, including The Corpse Magazine, From The Asylum (!), Lenox Ave, Darkness Rising 2005 and THWN Presents: Voices in a Dark Future. He recently completed a novel of the surreal, his first; a second novel is already in progress.

MICHAEL STONE ~ was born in 1966 in Stoke-on-Trent, England. Since losing most of his eyesight to Usher Syndrome, he has retreated from your world to travel the dark corners of inner space. To put it more prosaically, he daydreams a lot.

NANCY KILPATRICK ~ Award-winning author Nancy Kilpatrick has published 18 novels, 200 short stories and 1 non-fiction book. Her genres are mainly horror and dark fantasy. Currently she is editing her twelfth anthology Danse Macabre–Close Encounters with the Reaper, and her next completed anthology Evolve Two: Vampire Stories of the Future Undead will be released August 2011 (both for Edge SF&F Publishing). She's published several zombie stories and is working on a zombie novel. www.nancykilpatrick.com

TONIA BROWN ~ is the author of Lucky Stiff and lives in NC with her husband of many years. She shares her home with a brood of moody cats, and her likeness with an identical twin sister. She likes coffee and fudgesicles, though not always together.

~

Preview of:

JAMES ROY DALEY'S – TERROR TOWN

~~~~ PROLOGUE: CLOVEN ROCK

The people that lived in Cloven Rock considered the town's final Monday a beautiful one, like most of the days in the recent weeks. The sun was shining; the air was clean and warm. Flowers bloomed and birds sat among the branches singing songs only birds could understand. Dogs chased master's Frisbees and people said hello to strangers, not to suggest that thousands of tourists roamed the beachfront or the area that passed as the downtown core. That wasn't the case; there were only a few. If you asked one of the locals why things were this way, the answer would be simple: Cloven Rock was an inclusive town, an uncomplicated town, a town that didn't encourage a vacationer crowd even though sightseers would have flocked to it religiously. Many residents thought the town was special and they were right. It wasspecial. It wasn't a small place trying to be a big place. It was a town without civic uncertainty.

The Yacht Club Swimming Pool, a Cloven Rock favorite, had a full house the day before the town was lost. They also had an open door policy; if you were respectful, courteous, and didn't pee in the pool, you were welcome anytime. Also on that day, friends sailed the calm waters of Cloven Lake and children built sandcastles on Holbrook Beach. Kids played in Easton Park while the people on the large wooden deck at the Waterfront Café enjoyed the spectacular view. The post office closed early. An ice cream store called Tabby's Goodies was doing good business and a mile and a half up the road the men and woman working at the Cloven Rock Docks fought for, and won, a fifty-cent raise. Spirits were high at the Docks, and the personnel were getting along just fine. It wasn't surprising. Nearly half the workforce was related and the other half was considered family.

The Cloven Rock Police Department was not at full strength when things turned ugly. One officer was on vacation, one had gone home due to an illness in the family, and two had the day off. Of the nine remaining officials, only Tony Costantino, Joel Kirkwood, and Mary O'Neill, were on duty when the reports came in. The other four were either at home or on call. Normally this wouldn't be deemed a problem. Most locals figured a thirteen-person police force was nothing short of overkill anyhow. The Rock hadn't had a stitch of recorded violence in six years.

The community as a whole didn't know horror, as most tight-knit communities can understand. It knew long days, family activities, and simple living. It knew Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. It knew family.

But sadly, like all communities, Cloven Rock had its share of tragedy.

2007 was a bad year.

It was the year a local artist named George Gramme had his hands caught in his motorcycle chain while he was working on it. He suffered two broken wrists and lost four of his fingers. He also lost his artistic spirit and the means to keep that spirit alive. In the weeks following, he put his motorcycle up for sale and fell into a state of depression that changed him into a different man.

Two weeks later the town's senior librarian, Angela Lore, died from cancer on the same day that 'odd-job' Martin West fell off a ladder and broke both of his legs while shingling his neighbor's roof.

2007 was also the year a car accident claimed the lives of three teenagers.

As the story goes, a half dozen youngsters were drinking on the unnamed road surrounding Holbrook's pond. After several hours of alcohol consumption, the six youths plunked their butts inside two vehicles. In one car, Andrew Cowles and Dean Lee, a pair of borderline delinquents, drove home without incident and arrived safely. The second car, loaded with four of the sweetest kids you'd ever meet, weren't so lucky. Two brothers, Guy and Henri Lemont, along with May Lewis and Lizzy Backstrom, the youngest of the crew, decided it would be a good idea to take a quick jaunt to Hoppers Gas on the 9 ^thline. But on the way to Hoppers somethingstepped onto the road causing Guy to swerve left and lose control of the vehicle.