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

Автор книги: James Daley

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

Two of the men helped Frank to his feet. "I'm okay," he said. "I'll live."

He pushed away and edged through the crowd until he stood over Kane's corpse. The killer lay in an ocean of blood, one cheek peeled aside by a bullet to reveal those shiny white teeth, as if he was still smiling.

Frank sagged, catching his breath.

Across the room wood shrieked against a strike plate. When Frank looked, he saw one of the tactical officers trying to yank open a door built into the opposite wall. It pulled free on the third try, and the officers that closed in to clear the room beyond immediately choked and recoiled.

"Holy shit," one of them cried.

Another doubled over and puked.

Frank hurried forward. He pushed through the crowd, wincing in pain, but came to a halt when he beheld the unimaginable sight that waited in the dirt-walled room ahead. He stared in dreamlike detachment, his mind straining to make sense of the madness displayed before him.

"My God," he whispered.

And just when he thought his overstressed nerves had been pushed to their limit, one of the medics who'd bent over Kane's body ended the shock-induced stillness with a scream.

"He's still alive!"

CHAPTER 1

Five Years Later ...

Jerry Anderson's eyes snapped opened to see the last flicker of pale blue lightning depart from his bedroom walls, pursued into the night by darkness.

He bolted upright and surveyed the shadowy bedroom with widened eyes, searching his surroundings for the source of what had roused him. By the weakness of the lightning's pursuing thunderclap, he knew it hadn't been the storm.

Something moved in the darkness, and Jerry wheeled around to face it.

Outside, the wind gusted against the house and through the nearby treetops, its morose tone overlaid by the sound of rainwater dripping from the gutter. Inside, black shadows swayed on the walls and floor, but he saw nothing to justify his fear.

Nothing yet.

"Get up," he hissed, shaking his wife.

Margaret Anderson jerked from sleep. "What–" she gasped, but Jerry clapped a hand over her mouth before she could finish.

"I heard something," he whispered. "In the house."

Her startled expression cleared, replaced by a look of stark terror. Even in the wan light of the bedside clock the color drained from her face. "No," she groaned. "It's been three days. Kern said three days and we'd be safe."

"Kern's a fool," Jerry said. "We were idiots for listening to him."

Her eyes flicked from his to the door, then back. Lightning flashed outside, and a peal of thunder trembled through the air. They listened to the silence that followed, straining to hear into the deeper reaches of the house.

"You're certain it wasn't just another nightmare?" she asked. "We've been through this before. You know how real they can be."

Jerry shook his head. "We should've left when we had the chance."

Turning away, he extracted a .44 revolver from the nightstand, keeping his gaze trained on the bedroom door. When he looked back to his wife, she'd already retrieved the Remington pump-action shotgun from under her side of the bed, just like they'd practiced.

"Stay here," he said.

He eased out of bed and walked toward the hallway, holding the gun ready. He forced himself to keep his finger on the trigger guard rather than the trigger itself, afraid his shaking hands might fire the gun prematurely.

Clearing the doorway, he crept down the hall to where the stairs overlooked the foyer. Below, the reassuring red light of the front door's new security panel glowed in the darkness: Property Secured.

He exhaled his fear in one great breath. If anyone lurked down there, the motion sensors would've detected them the moment they entered the room.

I'm a prisoner inside my home. And now even home no longer feels safe.

But maybe it was over; maybe Kern was right?

Lightning flashed outside. It lit the huge window in the adjoining living room and displaced the darkness, illuminating a collage of muddy footprints splattered across the carpet.

Jerry's heart convulsed.

His jaw trembled; his legs weakened.

"No," he whispered, clutching the railing for balance.

Darkness devoured the sight, but not before he saw the tracks proceeded up the stairs.

Then it came again, the noise he'd heard earlier.

Not wind. Not rain.

Someone moving through the darkness.

His skin went cold, and he whirled around, tracing the footprints back to the bedroom door, where they faded to nothing more than outlines on the carpet.

Margaret screamed.

"Not her," Jerry cried.

Bounding faster, he came through the door to find the source of his dread looming at the bedside, silhouetted against the far window. Margaret thrashed on the mattress, battling to free herself from a cocoon of bed sheets wrapped tight around her head and held fast by the attacker's hand behind her back. Her muffled cries came to him like the screams of a drowning swimmer.

The intruder stood silent, unmoving. Resisting Margaret's violent struggle elicited no signs of strain whatsoever.

"Get away from her," Jerry yelled. He thrust the gun forward. "You're not welcome here. Leave us alone!Go the hell away and don't ever come back."

Despite the strength of his words, a cold sweat beaded on his forehead.

"Need you," the trespasser replied.

"No," Jerry cried. "Find someone else to torment. I'm not going to help you. I can'tdo what you want."

Another flash of light played across the sky, and Jerry gasped at what it revealed: his old flannel shirt; Margaret's faded blue jeans with the patches on the knees. The intruder had taken the clothes off the scarecrow from their garden and now filled the mud-covered garments to the point of nearly bursting the seams. Jerry trembled at the nightmarish sight, mumbling "please" over and over again in a child-like whimper. His eyes searched the dirty burlap sack that made up the thing's head for the slightest sign of mercy, but no details had ever been added to the simulated head to create a face. The only response to his pleas came in the form of a blank, expressionless stare.

Thunder boomed, shaking the house around them.

The scarecrow extended its free hand, holding forward an old, wooden-handled shovel.

"No," Jerry mewed. "I won't."

The scarecrow's face wrinkled, creasing into a look of rage. "You have no choice!"

On the bed, Margaret's wild movements had dwindled to weak clawing actions.

" You're not supposed to be able to come here anymore," Jerry shrieked.

With tears slipping from his eyes, he sighted the weapon on the center of the wadded bed sheets and blew two bloody holes through his wife's shrouded head.

Then, acting before the maniac scarecrow could stop him, he rammed the hot barrel under his chin and fired again.

End of Preview...

~

Preview of:

JAMES ROY DALEY – INTO HELL

1

Carrie Paige's favorite duffle bag in the whole wide world had a picture of Kermit the Frog on both sides. The bag was black and cute and it said IT'S NOT EASY BEING GREEN on the strap and Carrie thought it was the greatest thing she had ever seen. She brought her bag into the backyard with her when she was playing with her dolls, and she was planning on showing it off on her first day of school, which was eleven days away. She was excited. Big kids go to school, her mother often told her. Big kids go to school and little kids stay home. Eleven more sleeps and it would be official; she would be a big kid. She was so excited she could hardly think.

Carrie reached into her Kermit bag and shuffled through her important possessions. This included a flower made of construction paper, playing cards, multicolored rocks, a bag of marbles, a handful of crayons and a plastic horse with a squished head.

The playing cards were alwaysin her Kermit bag. If they were out of the bag she had them spread around so she could see every card at once. They were very special to her. She cherished each and every one of them and as a result the cards looked like hell.

Her favorite boycard was the one that said READY FREDDIE.

Ready Freddie looked so adorable sitting at the kitchen table with a knife in one hand and a fork in the other that sometimes she kissed the card. Freddie had yellow socks, a green bandana, and his tongue was sticking up from his pencil-line lips suggesting that he couldn't wait another minute to eat.

Her favorite girlcard was FANCY NANCY.

Fancy Nancy sat on a pink-and-white striped chair. She had a hat on her head and a mirror in her hand and a purse that looked like a teakettle. Carrie imagined Ready Freddie and Fancy Nancy getting married someday and having babies that looked just like them.

Other cards she loved included Jolly Jean, Corny Carl, Lady Luisa, Skinny Minnie, Jumping Jack, Scary Harry and Slim Jim. Then there was the OLD MAID. Nobody liked the Old Maid. And because nobody liked her, Carrie decided she liked the Old Maid just fine. It was only fair. And her mother always said if you can't play fair, you shouldn't play at all.

Carrie pulled a photo album from her bag and put the bag at her feet.

The album had a picture of three Care Bears on the cover: Love-A-Lot Bear, Tenderheart Bear and Bedtime Bear. Care Bears were okay, but they weren't half as good as Kermit and were nothing next to SpongeBob.

SpongeBob SquarePants and his best friend Patrick were amazing. If she were a resident of Bikini Bottom she would eat at The Krusty Krab every day, just to play Old Maid with the pair of them.

She opened the photo album, which held one picture per page. She flipped through the pages slowly; then she lifted her Coke can from the cup holder and sucked a mouthful through a straw like she was in a drinking race.

After she put the can back in the holder she said, "I hafta go the bathroom."

Stephenie was thirty years old and looked a whole lot like her daughter. Not so much now, but when she was Carrie's age the resemblance was spooky. Back then she was cute. Today she was beautiful. She had subtle features, a slim nose and lips that were neither thin nor full. On a day like today she fixed her hair and Carrie's hair the same way: in adorable little pigtails. The twosome looked so delightful it made you want to barf.

Stephenie said, "What's that? You need the bathroom?"

"Yeah."

Stephenie slid a hand along the steering wheel, looked at the gas gauge and said, "Okay. I need to stop anyhow. I'm almost out of gas." She stuck her tongue out and made a silly face and for a moment, Carrie thought her mother looked like Ready Freddie.

Carrie said, "Really?"

"Yep. The gas gauge is telling me it's time for a fill up."

"Are we going to run out of gas? Madeleine Nyssa said that her daddy ran out of gas when they were going to their grandpa's house and they had to call a doctor to get some help."

Stephenie pinched her smile and tried not to laugh. Sometimes it was impossible not to laugh. Carrie was constantly saying things in ways only a child would consider appropriate. "Madeleine Nyssa told you that, did she?"

"Uh-huh. Yes she did. She also said her mommy got mad at her daddy and they were kissing and then she got a bleeding nose."

"Oh really?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, I don't think we're going to run out of gas there babe, so don't get too worried about it."

"Okay mommy. I won't get too worried about it. I'll try to keep my nose from getting all bleedy too."

Stephenie smiled. "That sounds good. How bad do you need the washroom, really bad?"

Carrie grabbed her Coke and put the straw to her lips and enjoyed another drink. She put the can down and said, "Yes. I have to go reallybad. It might come out in my pants a little."

"Well don't do that. If you need to pee I'll stop the car and you can pee at the side of the road. Do you want me to pull over so you can go?"

"No. I can hold it inside my tummy 'til we find a bathroom."

Stephenie put pressure on the gas petal and the car moved a little faster. The highway was pretty much empty so she could drive as fast as she wanted. She didn't need a speeding ticket though, so if worst came to worst she wouldpull over and Carrie could relieve herself at the side of the road whether she thought it was a good idea or not.

She said, "Do me a favor, babe?"

"Yeah?"

"Stop drinking the Coke. It only makes you need the bathroom more."

Carrie eyed the can suspiciously. "Okay, I won't have any more until after I go." She grinned, showing the big hole where a tooth had once been.

"Great. Do you have to go number one or number two?"

"Number one." She held up a single finger so her mother could see.

Stephenie nodded her head and Carrie smiled.

Carrie loved her mommy more than Kermit, the Care Bears and SpongeBob together. And after watching Stephenie nod her head, she decided to nod her head too.

2

Ten minutes passed.

Stephenie turned on the radio and flipped through the stations. She found a song that wasn't too annoying, might have been Radiohead. She turned it low and let it play. Resting an elbow on the open window she looked at the gas gauge again.

She was almost out of gas.

She didn't tell Carrie this information, but she was worried about how much gas was in the tank and how far it would take them. Being stranded at the side of the road was quickly becoming more realistic and today wasn't a great day for that type of adventure. It was hot outside. The late August sun wasn't fighting its way through many clouds and the wind factor was nonexistent. Then again, it was nearly 7:30 pm. The heat was sure to ease soon.

Carrie flipped through the pages of her photo album.

Looking at a photo of her daddy, her face saddened. It had been five months since daddy had gone to heaven and she was finally beginning to accept the fact he wasn't coming back. It wasn't fair. Madeleine Nyssa's daddy didn't have to go to heaven. In fact, none of the kids she played with had daddies that had to go away forever.

She wanted her daddy to come home. Sometimes she asked God to send daddy home and she promised to keep it a secret and not tell anybody. Sometimes she asked God if daddy could drop by for a visit because she missed him, and because she wanted to show him the tooth that fell from her mouth after she wiggled it with her tongue. God didn't respond. She wasn't sure if she liked God. She knew she was supposed to love him and figured that loving him was okay, but she didn't know if she liked him. God didn't play fair. He never responded to her questions, he never dropped by to say hello, and he was keeping her daddy all to himself. Mommy said people that don't like sharing are spoiled brats. Sometimes she thought God was a spoiled brat but she never said anything because she didn't want to say any swears.

Stephenie looked at Carrie; her brow furrowed.

Carrie didn't notice.

Stephenie said, "Do you miss him?"

Carrie turned the page. "Yes."

"It's okay to miss him you know. I miss him. I think about him every day."

"So do I."

"We'll be okay babe. We'll get through this. Every day things get a little easier so don't worry. It's okay to miss him but try not to worry."

"Are you going to get us a new daddy?"

Stephenie took a moment to find the right combination of words. "I don't know what to tell you babe. Right now I'm not looking for a new daddy but I don't want to say there won't ever be one. Do you want me to find a new daddy?"

"No. I want the old one back."

"Carrie, you know–"

"Yeah, I know, I know. Daddy is on an elevator for heaven and he can't come back to visit us ever, even if God says it's alright. You don't hafta tell me. I know he's not coming home. God won't let him."

Stephenie didn't say anything. She didn't know what to say. This wasn't a new conversation; they had talked about Hal's death a hundred times or more.

Hal had a terrible accident while he was at work and now he was dead and life goes on, even though it's hard. And it washard. The past five months had been hard for so many reasons. Hal's death was the big reason, of course. But the fact Stephenie had been in-and-out of therapy and prescribed a handful of drugs wasn't helping anything. She was irritable and irregular and her nightmares had her waking up in tears. The doctors (all four of them) were telling Stephenie that when they found a suitable combination of drugs and dosages, sleep would be easier and her body would function more regularly. Until that time she had to be strong, pay close attention to her body and let them know what was happening.

Stephenie figured the trip would be good for both of them. Visiting mom and dad was something she didn't do often enough. And besides, a six and a half hour drive wasn't that far. It was doable. And it was time.

Hanging from the rearview mirror was a small portrait of Jesus Christ.

Stephenie's mother had given it to her at Hal's funeral. She hung the portrait around the mirror for no real reason, aside from the fact that her mother would notice it and appreciate it being there. Oddly enough, she liked it there too. She wasn't a Catholic or a Christian, but she found comfort in the image. Jesus had eyes that were kind and sad and without a trace of anger. And if the stories were true he had a reason to be angry, beyondangry. If the stories were just stories, well then, she supposed there was something worth thinking about inside the message.

Stephenie looked at the gas gauge again.

Empty.

A cold sweat threatened to break out on her forehead.

Carrie said, "Are you okay mommy?"

Stephenie took her eyes off the road and looked at her daughter. "What's that babe?"

"I said are you alright?"

Stephenie was emotionally charged, strung out on meds, and had a reoccurring nightmare where her husband fell eighteen stories and landed on a sign that said DANGER – MEN WORKING. Sometimes Hal screamed as he fell and sometimes he didn't. Sometimes he said things as he dropped. Things like, I told you I didn't want to go to work today. I told you I wasn't feeling well, right babe? Why did you push me into going to work today Stephenie? Why didn't you let me stay home? I knew I wasn't feeling well and you said I was being a lazy baby. You said I was making excuses and now I'm dead. Is that what you wanted Stephenie? Is that what you wanted, babe? Who's going to take care of Carrie now, huh? Who's going to bring home the bacon? Not you Stephenie. You're falling apart. You're falling apart and I'm just falling. And when I hit the ground I won't make a simple little splat on the sidewalk, I'll come down on the fence and my body will be severed in half. It will be a closed casket funeral and while you're standing above my remains it will occur to you that I could have been placed in two separate boxes. Whose fault do you think that is, huh babe? Do you have an answer for me? Huh? Do you or not? Do you know what I think? I think it's your fault I was chopped in half at the waist Stephenie. I think it's ALL YOUR FAULT.

"Mom?"

"Huh?"

"I said are you alright? You look pale mom. You look like you're sweating."

Stephenie focused on the road, knowing she could have driven the car straight into a river without knowing it. She said, "I'm okay babe."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I'm sure."

Carrie put her hand on the Coke can then pulled it away as if her fingers had been burned. She squeezed her legs together and snuck a hand in-between them.

She said, "Okay mom. Just checking."

"I love you babe. Don't worry about me. Things are going to be all right. You just watch."

Up ahead was something;Stephenie wasn't sure what the something was but it looked promising. Less than twenty seconds later everything came into view. There was a gas station with a restaurant attached to it. Carrie could go to the bathroom and she'd be able to fill up the tank. Everything was going to work out just fine.

"Look babe," Stephenie said. "A place to go to the bathroom."

Carrie looked honestly relieved. "That's good," she said. "I thought I might go pee-pee in my pants even though I said I wouldn't."

"Can you hold it another minute?"

"I think so."

"Well try babe. Try."

3

Stephenie pulled off the highway and onto the establishment's asphalted driveway. A large neon sign said KING'S DINER. It looked seventy years old or more. She pulled her car next to a pair of gas pumps that looked as old as the sign, if not older. Above each pump a weather-faded notice read: WE SERVE.

Carrie opened her door with a grunt, jumped out of the car and tossed her photo-album on the seat. The pavement felt hard beneath her feet. The book bounced and fell open to a random page. The page had a photo of Carrie sitting on a swing with Stephenie standing behind her.

"Wait a minute babe," Stephenie said, reaching for her ignition keys. She thought she heard the words, Okay, mom. But then she watched Carrie shaking her head in total disagreement.

"I can't," Carrie shouted. "I've got to go to the bathroom super-duper or I'm going to make an uh-oh in my pants!"

Carrie hustled towards the restaurant like she was in a hurry, leaving the car door wide open. She squeezed her knees together and struggled with the restaurant door, which seemed to weigh a thousand pounds or more. She pulled on the handle with all her might; in the end she managed to wiggle herself inside. Just.

Stephenie turned the car off, unlatched her seatbelt and felt it slide across her waist. She unlocked her door, swung the door open and stepped outside, leaving her keys dangling in the ignition. The sun had begun to set but the temperature was still hot. It was muggy out; the air felt thicker than most days.

Her eyes scanned the parking lot for an attendant. Didn't see one.

Across the road a single bungalow sat before the backdrop of undeveloped land like it had been misplaced. It had dark windows and was made of brick. It had a long driveway on the right hand side. There was no garage, few trees. Thick green grass was growing long. There was no sidewalk in front of the building, no curb either. The grass just shrank away, diminishing into rocks, pebbles and sand until it came to the clearly defined edge of the highway, which was old but in good condition, faded but not overly weathered.

She dismissed the house and all the details that defined it. She walked towards the gas pump and looked over each shoulder, once again trying to locate the man in charge. She didn't see him. There was a greased-out gas-shack attached to the restaurant. Maybe he was there? Or perhaps he was picking his ass inside the restaurant, ordering coffee and making time with the waitress. That seemed about right. For a moment she wondered if the attendant might actually be a woman, but for reasons unknown the idea didn't seemed to fit. So assuming the attendant was a man, where the hell was he?

The attendant's hiding place was unknown, a lackluster mystery.

Didn't really matter, she supposed. She knew how to pump gas and if the attendant didn't like it he could suck on a lemon and piss up a rope.

After she unscrewed her car's gas cap, she lifted the nozzle and switched the pump on by lifting an ancient looking metal lever. She stuck the nozzle into her tank and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. She opened her fingers, waited a moment and squeezed the trigger again. Still nothing.

"Huh," she said, with an eyebrow lifted and her tongue peeking out between her teeth.

Stephenie flicked the gas-pump switch on and off a number of times and squeezed the trigger a number of times and still nothing worked. She returned the nozzle to its place and walked around in a circle.

It was a hot day. Nice, but hot.

She waited ten seconds that seemed like ten hours and walked towards the restaurant feeling like a failure.

Between the entrance to the gas station and the restaurant's main door was a patio swing made of wood. The swing could hold three people, two comfortably. Sitting on the swing was a thin girl with dark hair. Her name was Christina Split; she wore an attractive brown dress covered in white polka dots. The dress looked retro. She looked about eighteen. Stephenie noticed her earlier but ignored her because she was clearly not the person in charge.

Christina–who had been quite literally, twiddling her thumbs–lifted a hand from her lap and waved, offering a sad little smile.

Stephenie waved back. She considered saying 'hi' but didn't. Instead she pulled the restaurant door open and stepped inside while nodding her head and making a face that felt comfortable to wear but might have been humorous to see. Bells rang. Not the electric kind, but the old-fashioned, 'bells hanging above the door' kind that made every day seem like Christmas. Carrie didn't open the door with enough gusto to make them cry out, but Stephenie had. Then the ringing faded and the door closed behind her. Stephenie's eyes popped open. Her heart started pounding, her breathing became labored and she thought she might be sick.

The restaurant was a slaughterhouse.

The customers and staff were splattered everywhere. They were slumped over in the booths and in pieces on the floor. Body parts were on the tables and chairs. The walls were soaked with blood. The carnage was nearly immeasurable.

Stephenie stumbled; her mouth became dry.

Spinning, the world was spinning.

She put her hands on her knees and felt her stomach heave. Somehow she held it in. She wasn't sick on the floor but she wanted to be. Not that being sick would fix anything. It wouldn't. And her view wasn't better now that she was crouched over like an umpire at a ball game; it was worse.

She was looking at a corpse.

The corpse wore a yellow waitress uniform that consisted of a loose button shirt, glossy black shoes and a miniskirt. The dead woman was twenty-five years old, give or take a year. Her nametag said SUSAN; her head was twisted awkwardly towards the door. Her skull had been cracked apart like an egg.

Stephenie could see the woman's brain just as clearly as she could count the bone fragments lying on top of it. And still, she held her nausea at bay. She held it because she didn't want to vomit on the girl. She didn't dare move, fearing her stomach would revolt against such action, leading her into a bought of illness that would last fifteen minutes or more.

She closed her eyes and squeezed them tight.

When she opened them nothing had changed. She was getting a real close look at this waitress named Susan, whose eyes were wide open, shockingly open, dreadfully open. Her face held an expression of terror so absolute she seemed to have died of fright before the killing blow had been able to claim her.

In time, Stephenie lifted herself to an upright position.

There was a puddle of blood around Susan's head and tiny footprints were in it. Tinyfootprints. Carrie'sfootprints.

"Where's Carrie?" she whispered.

Then she closed her eyes, telling herself she was trapped inside a dream, a terribledream–a nightmare in fact. More than anything else, that's what she wanted to believe. Otherwise she'd need to face the fact that she was standing in a horrific bloodbath and her five-year-old daughter was suddenly gone.

4

The scene was tranquil. Everything was calm. The customers were eating and socializing, the staff was working and everyone was happy. There was no blood on the walls, no bodies slumped over in the booths, no body parts lying amputated on the floor. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing disturbing. Nothing to suggest there was a problem big enough to have people shaking their heads in disbelief. It was a diner, just a simple diner with no strings attached. It had stools with red seat covers, which were bolted to the floor in front of the counter. It had booths with divisional walls that were a little more than waist high, giving privacy but not too muchprivacy. It had cheap paintings on the walls between the dark windows. Florescent lights buzzed in the ceiling and ceiling fans spun below. It was the type of place that gets labeled a greasy spoon and often times deserves the label. It smelled like coffee, toast and bacon. The smell alone was enough to get your stomach rumbling and your waistline expanding.

Stephenie felt a tug on her finger. She heard a voice. It was a child's voice, her daughter's voice.

The voice said, "Mom?"

Sitting inside a booth in the center of the diner was a woman named Angela Mezzo. She was a beautiful Italian lady with dark hair and an exotic appearance. Her lips were full and her cheekbones were high. She was roughly the same age as Stephenie, twenty-nine, maybe thirty. But unlike Stephenie her youthful exterior was no longer present. Not in a bad way, in a good way. She had womanly features that weren't restricted to the curves of her body, but on her face too. In contrast, Stephenie's appearance suggested that she might carry her inner-girl around with her until the day she died.

Angela lifted a coffee mug from the table with delicate, manicured hands. She swallowed a sip of coffee without making a sound.

The mug had a yellow happy face painted on the side. It was the same yellow happy face that had been produced and reproduced a hundred million times and can be found on cups and glasses in dollar stores around the world.

Stephenie felt another tug on her finger. She heard the voice again: "Mom?"

Angela sat the mug on the table in front of her. She started to grin, but the grin sat on her face wrong somehow, like it didn't belong there, like it belonged somewhere else.

Stephenie's eyes narrowed. She had seen that smile before but didn't know where.

Angela's grin thickened, growing hard across her features like old gravy left forgotten on the stove.

Now Stephenie knew.

The smile was lifted from her late husband Hal. It was the same smile he made in her dreams, in her nightmares. Not when he was falling, but the moment before he hit the sign that said DANGER and his body was severed at the waist. But why was Hal's smile on Angela's face? It had to be a coincidence.

Angela began changing. Her eyes turned blacker than oil and her mouth crept open like a squeaky door in a haunted house. Her head tilted, hair swooped in front of her face and her skin became pale. For a moment Stephenie thought she might crumble into dust.