BLACKNESS OF THE SOUL

“I know… You know, Paul, people sometimes think I don’t listen to prayer anymore… If I ever did. They tell themselves that and then they begin to believe it. I do listen though. I do. Every prayer. Every time. Do you believe that, Paul?”

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Blackness Of The Soul

This material is copyright protected. It has not been edited for content. This material can not be used without the express permission of Wendell Sweet or his Assignee.


Paul Brown settled the barrel of the nine Millimeter pistol against his left palm, curled his hand around it as if to hold it forever, and then released it finger by finger. A sob escaped his throat and a fat tear drop rolled down his left cheek and splashed against the butt of the pistols grip where the clip protruded slightly. He took his free hand, wiped the tear away and then reached for the beer that sat beside him.

He raised the can to his mouth, drank deeply, and then continued to stare at the black pistol that rested in his right hand. Once again his left hand closed around the barrel, but lightly. Stroking it. Caressing it. He fished a cigarette from the pack beside him on the floor, thumbed the wheel of his old Zippo and pulled the harsh tobacco smoke into his lungs.

The smoke, or the beer, or both seemed to calm him, at least momentarily. His chest hitched but he stifled the sob this time. The sobs frightened him more than the gun. The sobs came on their own and there seemed to be no way to fight or stop them. They were a life unto themselves. The gun on the other hand only had to speak once. And technically he would never hear it.

“Probably never hear it,” he whispered into the semi darkness of the living room. He had pulled the curtains on the outside world. Blocked it away from him.

Probably never hear it. He wondered about the truth of the statement for what seemed to be an excessive amount of time to him, caught himself, and took another deep drink of the cold beer followed by a near frenzied pull from the cigarette. He waited on the sob but it came when he didn’t expect it. A flood of tears came with it, falling from his eyes, staining his reddened cheeks before he could think to try and stop it.

“Oh, God,” he moaned. He sucked in a deep breath, lifted the pistol to his mouth and bumped the barrel across his teeth and into his mouth.

Everything seemed to freeze. The taste of oiled metal flooded his mouth He gagged, and then nearly squeezed the trigger too hard because of it. Panicked, he ripped the gun from his mouth tearing open his upper lip on the gun site as he did.

He was breathing hard. He needed to calm down. The tears just continued to fall. His cheeks felt raw. His eyes full of sand. His head began to pound harder. It had begun to pound earlier. He thought about that too. No more headaches. None. No more worries. No more anything at all. He sighed and returned the gun to his lips. He could taste the oil and metal once more, mixed with the blood from the torn lip.

His lips did not seem to want to part. He eased the gun away, took a deep drag off the cigarette, his breath shuddered in and out. He tipped the can and took a deep drink to rinse his mouth of the tastes that had made him gag, then upended the can and drained it. He reached over and pulled another beer from the bag on the carpeted floor, took another deep drink to rinse the tastes from his mouth and then lit a new cigarette from the butt of the old one. He dropped the old butt into the freshly emptied can beside him. He pulled the smoke deeply into his lungs and then let it drift from his nose as he slowly exhaled, trying to calm himself. If he could only think this out, his mind jabbered. He took another deep drink from the can.

In a way it would be nice to sit down and think this through, but in another way he didn’t care if he ever had another thought in his life. He didn’t want to take the time to think it out at all. He had made up his mind earlier. In a few minutes, when he finished the cigarette and the beer he’d do it, he decided.

He didn’t want to die with a lit cigarette in his mouth and burn down the house. Anne had to live here… Well, maybe not, but even so she’d have to sell it or something… If she didn’t lose it…

He pulled hard on the cigarette as if rushing it to its end so he could rush his own end. He took a deep drink from the beer and felt the headache ease back a little.

He could feel the buzz from the beer. Maybe it would knock down the headache after all. Either way the headache was not long for this world, he decided.

Calm seemed to come over him all at once. The sob that he had been waiting for didn’t come. His chest didn’t hitch. His cheeks still felt irritated, his eyes full of sand, his mind weary and removed from him to a degree, but the hysteria he had been sure was going to grab him didn’t make another appearance.

Through the curtains he could see the late afternoon sunlight. Still gold in the sky. Heating up his part of the south. There was no noise except the steady rumble of the air conditioner. Whatever heat the sun held was lost on him today.

He pulled on the cigarette, noticed that it was all but dead and dropped it into the can with the last one. He upended the beer can and drained it. He waited, expecting the sobs to come back but the calm remained. He sighed once, was surprised to find that the gun was only inches from his lips, opened his mouth and slid the barrel in. The hysteria stayed at bay. He adjusted the barrel so it would be more comfortable, sighed at the absurdity of that thought, and then squinted his eyes down as his finger tightened on the trigger.

~2~

“How do you feel, Paul?”

Paul blinked and tried to look around him. He found that it was not entirely possible. He couldn’t really turn around to where the voice had come from no matter how he tried.

“It doesn’t matter though,” the same voice said.

And it didn’t. It became completely unimportant right then. Just like that.

“How do you feel?”

“I’m pretty upset. I…” He stopped. He had been pretty upset, but he wasn’t now. Now he felt… Well, at peace.

“That’s good, Paul. You should feel at peace.”

“It feels good,” he said. It seemed entirely normal that whoever was behind him could read his mind… Am I dead?

“I wanted to talk to you about how you got here, Paul.”

“How?”

“How.”

The time spun out.

“I stole about… I guess I don’t even know how much… I kept stealing and it kept adding up. And I knew they’d catch it… And they did… My boss must have called the cops,“ Paul said.

“Actually the company accountant… But I meant how you got here… To this point.”

“I… … I don’t know what you mean.”

“To kill yourself, Paul. I mean how did you get to this point where you decided to kill yourself… Take your own life… How did you reach that point, Paul?”

“Oh… I thought about it… I…” He stopped and thought about it. “I see… It’s just tough to understand… I don’t really know exactly… Are you God?”

“Do you think of me as God?”

Paul thought about it. “I think I do… I think so… I believe you are God.”

“Then I am.”

“You are? … Really? You really are God?”

“I really am, Paul…”

His voice was soft. Reassuring.

“I… I thought you would sound different… I… Am I dead?”

“No… Not yet… You have some little time left… I thought, since you asked, that before you do something that will change everything we should talk.”

Paul nodded. “I prayed… Earlier I prayed.”

“I know… You know, Paul, people sometimes think I don’t listen to prayer anymore… If I ever did. They tell themselves that and then they begin to believe it. I do listen though. I do. Every prayer. Every time. Do you believe that, Paul?”

“I do… I mean I do now. I do know that now. I’m ashamed to say that.”

“Don’t be. There is no shame here. You are used to saying words that really don’t mean anything true. They are there, you say them… In this case you say that you are ashamed when you are not ashamed.”

Paul examined himself. “You’re right… I don’t feel ashamed. I feel good still. At peace still.”

“So how did you get here. How did you come to be here? Who told you that suicide was a solution?”

“I… It was painful… My wife will leave me. We’ll lose everything… The kids… I can’t imagine what the kids will do… Feel… It seemed… It seemed right.”

“Did it?”

Paul thought about it. “Maybe not… It felt like the only choice I had.”

“Yet you called out to me. Why?”

“Because… Because I used to believe in you… I…”

He laughed. “And I am still here. Did you think I had died? Did you think I had stopped believing in you?”

“Some people think so… That you died.”

“You?”

“No… I guess the truth is I just stopped believing… I believed in other things… Taxes… Bills… Mortgage payments… Summer… Fall…”

“The things you see every day.”

“That’s a good way to put it.”

“I have a way with words.”

Paul laughed and then stopped. “I thought maybe that was a joke.”

”It was… Do you wish you had not stopped believing? Do you see how things could have been different?”

“I can see that now, but what good is it after the fact? I pulled the trigger… I remember that.”

“Did you? I think you asked me to help… Sometimes I help in unexpected ways… Thomas needed to see… To place his hand in my side… Peter needed to see me risen… Sometimes my people ask me for help and then don’t recognize the help when it comes.”

“Like now?”

“Like now, yes. It’s time to think. To breath… To make a decision… A different decision.”

“Then what?” Paul asked.

“Then? … What comes, comes… I know what it is to live. I have felt what you feel. Struggled with the same temptations. We take it as it comes to us, Paul.”

“So the problems would still be there?”

“Yes.”

“That’s help?” Paul asked.

“I will help you all that you will allow.”

Paul thought about it and realized it was true.

“So… How did you end up here?”

“I guess I just walked away… I guess I chose to do that.”

You still choose words that are untrue. Do you guess or do you know?”

“I know. I walked away.”

“You know, it’s a split second decision… Many times if you take the time to think you can get through whatever comes at you.”

Paul nodded, took a deep breath. “I see.”

~3~

The finger stopped. He remembered something… Something… Summer. A thousand years ago it seemed… Anne… When they had first met… The picture in his mind was so perfect, so intense. So real, and a flood of images followed it… But… There had been something else there for a moment, hadn’t there? He had been focusing on the trigger… The pressure… And there had been something else there… Just for a moment… It seemed so. It seemed as though he had been ready to pull the trigger and… And someone…


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A GOOD PLAN

“Okay,” Paul said. “Morbid… Sure it is. I know that, dick-wad, but death is always morbid, man, for real. The thing is what happens after and that is that life goes on am I right? I mean, my Bro. flies back to Seattle, he don’t like me anyhow… Randy goes back to work bustin’ his ass down the paper mill and so do you. End of story. Oh, maybe you think of me tenderly from time to time.”

This material is copyright protected. It is not edited for content. You may not use this material for any purpose with the express permission of Wendell Sweet, and, or his assignee.

A GOOD PLAN

“No,” Paul slurred, as he shifted around on his bar stool and looked directly at Jack, “I mean dead as in gone! As in outta here, friggin’ history, get it?”

“Yeah, dead as in dead, as in suicidal again as in I told you I don’t know how many times you can’t do that. You got resposisilillyties? No, resposabilities. To-hell-with-it, you know what I mean.”

Apparently Jack couldn’t talk any better than he could, Paul thought, but they had both been drinking since eight this morning and it was now nearing four PM what else could you expect? Paul asked himself. And not beer either. If they had stuck to just beer they would have been be fine. But Jack had got him going on the ginger brandy chasers. Beer… Shot of ginger brandy… Beer… Shot of ginger brandy. And that was the way the day had gone. “I knoooh,” Paul said, still slurring his words, “that I got them things, respectabilities, but I. Have. Had-it. Fuck it! I mean, less say I croaked right now. Jess sittin’ right here on this beer-stool-Beer-stool was a private joke. Neither of them could remember which had started calling it a beer-stool, but they both knew one of them had-drinkin’ and then I croaked. Say a freakin’ heart attack, prob’ly would be, or a stroke. Anyway! Dead, like, right now… You’re sitting right freakin’ there and I buy the farm. Then what?”

“Hey for real, man, like, mental health might be a thing to think about here.”

“Uh uh, you ain’t got it yet is all. I don’t mean dead as in dead I mean dead as in gone, get-it?”

“Same thing, man, same…”

“No it ain’t,” Paul said as he leaned forward from his stool nearly surprising Jack into falling off his own stool. “I mean the supposing thing is the same, but the premise ain’t. Hey, I said premise right I ain’t too far gone. In other words, just play along for a quick sec., okay?”

“Fine,” Jack said wearily. He tipped back his glass of beer, drained it, and looked at Paul.

Paul nodded.

“Two more, and a couple a more shots too,” Jack said, once he got the beertenders attention.

Beertender was another private joke, but one they had picked up rather than invented. “Okay,” Jack said once the beers and shots had come and he had downed his shot and chased it with some of the beer. “Gotta piss like a race horse, man. Then we’ll get back to this.”

“Again? Man you’re pissin’ like every ten minutes,” Paul said, quickly cutting his eyes to the darkened rear area of the bar.

“Yeah? Well so are you, man,” he got up and staggered back towards the men’s room. Laughing as he went.

Paul cut his eyes quickly toward the darkened rear area once more, as a shadow parted from the darkness and came forward quickly. Jack was back a few seconds later.

“Okay,” Jack said picking up the conversation once again. “You’re croak city right here. Right now so… I guess I call the cops, right? Friggin’ CSI time or somethin’?”

“Sure you do, or the beertender does, but I mean after. After they come and get me and drag my ass down to the city morgue or whatever it is they do, then what?”

“Well…” he thought for a moment, not sure where Paul was trying to lead him. “Okay, the funeral. Me, probly Randy from work, your brother’d fly down from Seattle probly. We all cry, an… An then we plant you. Over and done.”

“And?”

“And what? You’re frigging worm food there ain’t no and then what.”

“Sure there is. There always is.”

“Got me swingin’, man. I don’t know where the hell you’re goin’ with this and I’m seeing two of you sittin’ there and I ain’t really sure which one of you came up with this bull-shit, but it sucks. It’s morbid, man, kinda sick.”

“Yeah? well now I gotta piss, but you hold that thought, man. I’ll be back in a flash.”

Jack watched him go, and then turned away from the dark area at the rear of the bar. He ignored the slight rustling noise beside him. Concentrating instead on the back bar. Counting the bottles. He didn’t turn back around until Paul came back and seated himself on the barstool once again.

“Okay,” Paul said. “Morbid… Sure it is. I know that, dick-wad, but death is always morbid, man, for real. The thing is what happens after and that is that life goes on am I right? I mean, my Bro. flies back to Seattle, he don’t like me anyhow… Randy goes back to work bustin’ his ass down the paper mill and so do you. End of story. Oh, maybe you think of me tenderly from time to time.”

“Not friggin’ hardly… I got somethin’ you can tenderize, man,” Jack said laughing.

Paul laughed right along with him. “Okay,” he said at last, “that was cute, but for real life will go on; end of story. I don’t have that ever-lovin’ Mortgage comp’ny on my ass. Same for the bank that has my truck loan. Joan can’t grab me for no more fuckin’ alimony, it’s the end… The real end, it’s over and life goes on.”

Jack stared back speculatively. “Listen, for real now, you’re startin’ to scare me, man. There’s no reason to do somethin’ like that. Hire a friggin’ lawyer, man. Go to court and fight her. Hand the goddamn keys to the truck back and the keys to the house and file bankruptcy. The end, problems gone, fini.”

“Not true, man I thought about it. Even talked to a lawyer. As long as Joan doesn’t ever remarry I gotta pay her. If I don’t have the money they’ll throw me in the slammer until I come up with it. As for the house I could give a shit. The truck’s nearly paid for why should I hand over the keys just because we can’t get no hours down the mill? Uh uh; I spoke to the same lawyer bout that. They’d make me pay it. I’m single, no dependents. They’d grab my whole fuckin’ check and send it off to the court every week. I’d end up bustin’ my ass for nothin’.”

“Okay… Okay fine, but dead? Being dead ain’t the answer, Paul, for real.”

“I agree.”

“Well, what the hell! You been arguing that bein’ dead is the answer!”

“It is… But not really dead: As good as dead, but still alive.”

“Okay, splain this one to me.”

“Easy… I been thinkin’ for over a year about it; here’s my plan. I go huntin’, right?”

“Right.”

“That’s it. I never come back.”

“A year? A whole friggin’ year and that’s the best you came up with?”

“Uh uh. I got a plan… A real good plan too… I’m about average size, right?”

“Right.”

“Do you know how many guys are average size?”

“Like, a real number?”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, since it’s average I guess a lot would be.”

“Zactly. Friggin-a. In fact you’re average, am I right?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, well since I’m average all I need is another guy that’s average, to make my plan work.”

“Uh uh, flawed to the max., man. What about, like, dental records. Or, like, blood type, or, like, I don’t know there’s a friggin’ million other things they can compare. Scars, uh, shit, I really don’t know, but I do know there are a lot of things.”

“All true,” Paul said, as he took a deep drink from his glass. “All true, but who gives a damn.”

“You would. See, if you do what you’re thinkin’, like switchin’ a body for your own, they’ll know, and… And why in hell am I even discussing this with you? Do you know how crazy this sounds?”

“Prolly does sound crazy, but I worked it all out. You know I got this partial plate, on account of that football thing back in school right?” Jack nodded. “Well last year when I went up to Canada huntin’ I had a new one made. I wear it a lot too, to get used to it. It’s a little bit different than the one Doc. Freiler made me, but I am used to it.”

“So a persons mouth is different. A lot different,” he signaled the beertender once more, and waited for the fresh shot and beer. “How you gonna find someone with the same teeth missing in the front like you? And even if you did they’d have to be average and then the partial plate would have to fit. A lotta if’s, if you ask me.”

“Well the thing is I didn’t ask you, but if I did you’d have to give it the same amount of thought as I did, and you’d see it ain’t rilly a big deal. A pair a pliers, pull out the teeth so it’ll fit…”

“Jesus, Paul that’s sick. You tellin’ me I don’t know you? You tellin’ me you’re the sort of man that could do somethin’ like that?”

Paul grinned. “No. Just bustin’ your balls, Jack. You fall so friggin’ easy that I can’t resist it.”

Jack broke into a huge bray of laughter. “Oh shit. Oh shit, you had me… I gotta admit it, you had me hook line and sinker, Paul. Oh that was good, Jesus that was good, really I mean it.”

Paul laughed right along with him. “So’d you tell your old lady you were goin’ huntin’ with me this weekend?” he asked once he got the laughter under control.

“Christ no! She’d have a shit-fit if she thought I was out enjoying myself. Uh uh. She thinks I’m doin’ my hitch with the guard this weekend. She don’t know my hitch ended last year. You know… It’s so Cindy and I can have some time alone occasionally.” Cindy was Jack’s girlfriend, Paul knew. They’d all gone to school together and knew each other well.

Paul nodded. “Well, I’m for the woods for an hour or two. Pick a good spot. I’d like to get one this year. Then we can rent a room for the weekend, stay the hell outa this bar and bag somethin’ decent tomorrow, hopefully.”

“With ya,” Jack said, as he tossed back the last of his beer. He followed Paul out of the bar.

Paul drove the twenty miles up into the forest preserve in silence. Jack had passed out beside him nearly as soon as they had left the bars parking lot. He parked and shut off the truck. Jack came awake.

“There?” he asked foggily.

“Uh huh,” Paul agreed, his voice blurry, and indistinct. He levered the door handle open, and nearly fell getting out of the truck. Jack tumbled out from the other side, and they stumbled off up a nearby trail into the late afternoon darkness of the forest.

“So,” Paul said, after they had walked a few hundred yards. “I never finished my idea.”

“But I thought you said you were kiddin’?”

“Did.”

“So?”

“Wasn’t,” Paul said simply.

“You’d really be able to do that?” Jack asked looking directly at Paul for the first time since they’d left the truck. He had his rifle with him. Not only was it with him, but it was in his hands, and he’d come to a dead stop in the middle of the trail.

“It ain’t so much that I want to,” Paul said softly. “I have to. The banks really are drivin’ me crazy, Jack and I’m sorry, but it has to be this way…” He raised the rifle slowly as he finished speaking.

“Hey,” Jack said in a near whisper. “It was funny before, but this ain’t, man. This ain’t even slightly funny.”

“I don’t suppose it is… Do you want to hear the rest of my story?”

“Uh uh. You’re sick man, you’re goin’ too far with this… Jesus Christ, we’re friends, Paul, we’ve…”

“Been friends since first grade,” Paul finished. “That’s why I chose you, Jack. I know you, in and out. We’re built the same, we look a lot alike…”

Jack stared back at him.

“so,” Paul said quietly. “What you have to do is burn the body. I lied, it can’t work as a huntin’ accident. But as a drinkin’ and drivin’ accident while you’re huntin’, especially with all these curves up here. It’ll do just fine. It’s gotta look real obvious too. Real obvious so they don’t check too close.”

“First grade, man, think about it…” Jack blubbered.

“I did and the trouble is how am I goin’ to get you to voluntarily hop in that truck and drive it off a cliff? So I said to myself shoot his ass, stuff him in the truck and then set the pedal and let it drive itself off the cliff. Won’t work though, or it could, but a bullet’s a chancy thing. Could hit a bone, leave a hole that ain’t natural, tip them off. Uh uh, I sez finally, won’t work. Won’t work at all,” his hand fell down to the side of his belt buckle, where his knife case was. He patted it affectionately. “Knife? That’s risky too though. Nick a bone, leave a mark that ain’t supposed to be there, who knows what could happen? And besides it’s too messy to deal with,” his hand fell away from the knife case. “so I decided the thing to do is put you out some other way so’s I can get you into that truck… You agree?”

“Jesus, Paul, first grade and all. First grade!” he pleaded.

“Yeah… I know… First grade… And there was someone else there in the first grade with us wasn’t there? There was and I knew I would need help and I knew it had to be somebody I could trust too.”

“Huh? Hey come on, man. Think it over, Paul… Please?”

“You know. I didn’t expect that you’d go jelly on me, Jack, I really didn’t… Cindy? Our Cindy? Wasn’t Cindy there in the first grade too?” he raised his eyes up and past Jack. Staring into the woods. “Come on out, honey. It’s okay.”

A tall dark-haired woman stepped slowly from the trees.

“You-You, knew?” Jack managed.

She said nothing.

“So… Gangs all here, and all that leaves is the how of it. So I said to Cindy-Did you know about Cindy and me? Obviously you didn’t-So I said, how? No gun… No knife, how? Oh she’s good, Jack,” he stopped and wiped the sweat that was running in his eyes away. He had gone easy on the beer, but even so he had drank quite a bit. And he was feeling it. Dizzy, sick even and now was not the time for that. He drew a deep breath before he spoke again. “So, Ciny… I mean, Cindy said, the thing to do is to slip a sedative into a drink… But how? I asked, Well easy, she sez. He slips off to the bathroom and you slip it in. No big deal. He comes back, he drinks it, you get the both of you the fuck out of Dodge, he passes out, plop him in the truck… The end, she said,” he took two steps backwards. The friggin’ ground was all the sudden moving, he thought with alarm.

Jack suddenly straightened and stood from the ground where he had been curled nearly into a ball. The mask of fear gone from his face. A wide smile setting comfortably there now. Paul took two more steps, lost his struggle to keep his balance, and sat down hard.

“Good plan,” Jack said softly.

Paul tried to raise the rifle, but it seemed to be glued to the ground. He pulled the trigger anyway. Nothing… A dry click. He was positive he had loaded it before they had gone into the bar.

“If you hadn’t of told Cindy,” Jack said as he stumbled forward, “it would have worked. I knew about you all right. I figured it out a long time ago, buddy-boy. Cindy always was a slut. Never could keep those legs shut… But we both know that don’t we. I went right to her, Paul. Laid it all out and man was she sorry. She begged me to forgive her and she told me what you had been planning. She ain’t as sick as you are, Paul. She couldn’t and wouldn’t go through with it,” he paused and stared down at Paul who was still trying to stand up. He was having no success at all. Jack giggled before he continued.

“I can do it, though. That’s why I drank so much today. It ain’t goin’ to be easy, but I’ll make it: I’m drunk enough to do it. Switched the beers while you were in the can… Ain’t that friggin’ funny? Ain’t it?” he asked. The truth was though, that Cindy had switched the beers, he hadn’t been able to do it… She’d been in the bar, hiding back at one of the dark corner tables towards the rear and Paul had never once looked in her direction. He’d gotten the rear area where the light wasn’t so good so she could do the thing while he was in the can, for just that reason. But he’d drank maybe a little too much beer trying to work his courage up, and far too many shots. He wasn’t feeling all that good, and there were three Paul’s looking up at him from the ground. He stumbled again himself.

“Cindy switched ’em,” Paul mumbled from the ground.

Now how the hell’d he know that? Jack wondered. He stumbled again, and finally found himself sitting back on the ground. One second up the next second down. He swiveled his eyes toward Cindy.

“Had enough,” Cindy said quietly. “Had enough of you promising to leave your old lady for me. Had enough of both of you treating me like shit… Like a slut. I switched them all right. To you, when you were in the bathroom and then back to Paul when he was in the bathroom.” she smiled thinly.

Paul groaned from the ground, and his eyes suddenly slipped shut.

Jack tried to hold his eyes open, but they just wouldn’t stay.

“Shoulda treated me better. Shoulda treated me like a lady. Shouldn’ta told all your buddies about what we did in bed. Shoulda…”

Jack lost the battle to keep his eyes open, and they finally slipped shut. Darkness… A bird calling from far away in the forest… Cindy’s voice droning on and on from far away… Fading away, farther and farther, and…


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Earth’s Survivors: Rising from the AshesWhite Trash


Necro by Dell Sweet

Necro

Dell Sweet

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Description

He had been lying half in half out of the gutter for the last several hours that he knew of. He had no idea how long before that. Days? Weeks? Weeks seemed wrong. Days, he decided. He turned his attention back to the roadway before him. Was it a roadway? When he thought roadway, he thought highway, something like that. From what he could see this was more like a city street.
It had never occurred to him in the passing hours to move his head, but the thought of it being a street in a city had caused him to move his head slightly so he could look around to be sure. Slightly, but enough to know he could move it. And he had moved it enough to know it was a city street. And if he could move it that much…
His face came away from the asphalt with a wet sucking noise and he nearly stopped. Expecting pain to come. Expecting the sky to fall. Expecting something, but nothing happened. The sucking sound stopped when his face finally pulled free and he pushed off with his hands and found himself in a sitting position. He flexed his jaw, it worked; tended to click when he moved it quickly, but perhaps it was just residual of… Of? He couldn’t make it come… Something… Some accident? Maybe… He pushed harder with his hands and rose to his feet… Shaky but holding him upright. He took one tentative step and then another. Moving off down the street in search of anything that could calm the hunger in his belly…


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Mister Bob. A short story collection from Dell Sweet

Mister Bob. A short story collection from Dell Sweet


MISTER BOB

Collected Short Stories

Published with Amazon

Mister Bob: Collected Short Stories is Copyright © 2015 Dell Sweet

Copyright © 2015 by Dell Sweet All rights reserved

Cover Art © Copyright 2015 Wendell Sweet

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your bookseller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

LEGAL

This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places or incidents depicted are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual living persons places, situations or events is purely coincidental.

This novel is Copyright © 2015 Wendell Sweet and his assignees. The Name Dell Sweet is a publishing construct used by Wendell Sweet. Portions of this text are copyright 2010, and 2011, all rights reserved by Wendell Sweet and his assignees. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, electronic, print, scanner or any other means and, or distributed without the author’s or assignees permission.

Permission is granted to use short sections of text in reviews or critiques in standard or electronic print.


THE BORDERLINE

Sunday night.

I buried the Mexican just after sundown. I can’t say much about the sort of man he was in life, but I can say he was a strong man in death.

The Moon has led my way and I’m on my way across the desert into Mexico of all places.  What did they say, hide in plain sight?  There I’m going to be.  Probably already passed the border, and once I’m across the border I’ll find a small town to buy gasoline enough so I can reach South America.

I’ve played the events of yesterday over and over in my head as I’ve driven. It still makes no sense to me at all.  They say shit happens, we’ll sometimes it does, and I tell myself that’s exactly what happened here.  Some shit decided to happen and I just happened to be there.

Saturday evening.

It was early. I had nothing better to do so I took a walk downtown just to take a look at the buildings. Thinking, as I walked, how just a few short years ago I had spent almost all of my time down there. Chasing a high. Drunk or both. And sometimes a third thing: Taking a little comfort with the ladies. It all came back to me as I walked the streets.

About three years of my life had been spent like that. From the day Lilly told me goodbye, until the day I woke up in the alley that runs down the back of West Broad, behind the Chinese restaurant. The back of my head had been lumped up with something or by someone.

Some one, I decided as I had begun to blink the cobwebs away and feel carefully with my fingers. A lump only, no blood. Probably a closed fist…

Two feet away from me was a dead rat. A big dead rat, and a few even larger rats were breakfasting on him. And, suddenly, just like that, I was done. That gave me a clear message about the world. And I heard it.

Of course that didn’t mean I got off Scot free. There were many little things I’d done during my long, long slide. And it took time to fix those things. Rehab, jail for some bad checks I couldn’t remember. Bad teeth, health, ideas, depression, suicide, and finally a night where I felt strong enough to take a walk through the worst of my nightmares and see if I was truly over the drugs, the life, the weaknesses that had led me there in the first place.

So that’s how I came to be there yesterday evening: Getting my feet wet. Seeing how strong I was… Or wasn’t. And it turns out I was strong enough for the temptation of the streets, but not over the bad habits I had picked up there. And that’s what got me… I cannot believe it was only yesterday when all this started.

I walked by the mouth of the alley twice. Both times I saw the old Ford sitting there in the deep shadows. Heard the soft murmur of its engine running. Some guy and some girl, I thought, or some guy with some guy, or boy who knows what. It was downtown. Shit like that happened all the time. But, I thought after the second time, this guy must be trying to set a record. He’d been there for 15 minutes by my watch, not that it was my business. All the same, fifteen minutes is a long time for a trick. Or to shoot up. Fifteen minutes could bring a cop. In the street world it was just too long for almost anything. In fifteen minutes you could get your thing on, your drug of choice, and be a half mile away and have forgotten all about that last little space of time. So why was this guy still there?

And that was the street part of me that was not gone. The street part of me that was still looking for trouble. And I found it.

The third time by, which was just a few minutes later, I was too curious. My evening had bought me some excitement. The drugs, I could see the flow all over the avenue. Easy to see if you knew what to look for. The ladies were calling too. I knew what that was about. I didn’t look at them like they were whores, or something less than human. It was a line I couldn’t draw, had confused many times, so I came back fast to see what this was. That Ford was calling.

I had stopped at the mouth of the alley. Same Ford. An old one. Like a classic. Nice shape too. Maybe somewhere in the sixties, but I wasn’t good with cars like that. I only knew old, classic, nice looking.

Nobody around.  Of course that didn’t mean there was no one in the car. I hesitated for only a second, and then walked quietly down the alley, staying in the shadows as I went.

~

I found the Mexican slumped over behind the wheel. Blood dripping down the side of his head. A gun on the seat beside him.  Another guy was slumped over into the floorboards on the passenger side. That one was dead for sure. A large, bloodless hole on one side of his chest.  A larger hole behind that shoulder I saw when I reached over to move him.

And why are you still here? A little voice in my head whispered. Why are you touching him? What are you doing? But I pushed those warning voices away and continued to look.

There was blood and gore all over the seat on that side. The coppery stench of blood was thick and nauseating. Something else mixed in with it, tugging at my brain. Blood and…  Fear? Something. That was when the Mexican spoke in all that silence and nearly made me jump out of my skin.

“Don’t call the cops!” and… “No Policia.” His head came away from wheel. He shook it and drops of blood went flying. I felt it hit my face, but I was still too stunned to move.

“Hey! … You hear me, Blanquito? Habla English? … No Policia?” He muttered under his breath “Dios Christos,” he focused his eyes on me once more. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I thought you were dead,” I managed.  I should’ve run. I chose to talk.

“Yeah… I get that a lot. But I ain’t dead.” He picked up the gun from the seat and before I knew it was in my face. “Come around the side, Blanquito. Get Lopez out of the car.” He waved the pistol and I moved.

Lopez pretty much helped himself out of the car. When I opened the door he spilled out into the alley, leaving the mess on the seat and a large smear of blood on the seat back and the door panel as he went.

“Good… Good,” the Mexican said. “Now get in the fuckin’ car… No… No… This side. Come back around to this side. I can’t drive no car, Blanquito… Dios!” He waved the gun once more and I moved. Racing around the hood of the car to the door.

The Mexican did a fair job of getting himself over into the passenger seat. I was glad it was him sitting in Lopez’s blood and not me, although I had been about to sit in it.

I slid into the driver’s seat.

“You got some kind of car… Truck… Something like that?” The Mexican asked.

I didn’t have a vehicle, but my grandfather had, had a truck. It was sitting in the garage in back of my house. That house had also been my grandfather’s. They were the only two things, the house and the truck, that had survived those three years on the streets.

“Sort of.”

“Sort of?” He looked around “Get this car moving. That’s the first thing… You got a place?… Close by? How does anybody sort of own a fuckin’ car anyway?”

“Yeah, I got a place” I said.  I was afraid to answer, but more afraid of not answering fast enough.

“Let’s get there, Amigo.” He slumped back against the seat. I shifted into drive, worried I might drive over Lopez as I went, and drove us out of the alley.

~

The house was dark. I had thought to leave a light on, but I had forgotten. I drove the Ford right into the garage, pulled the garage door back down, and helped the Mexican out. He looked over at my grandfather’s truck.

“That your sort of truck? Looks fine to me, man. Doesn’t it run?”

The thing is it did run. I had been  working on it here and there. I like to tinker with things. And I had a lot of spare time to fill when I quit drugging so I had turned it to the truck.

It was an old truck. But I had in the back of my mind to fix it up and drive it. So I had started with an oil change, then installed a new headlight on the driver’s side, that sort of stuff, when I had time.

I nodded. “No plates though.”

The Mexican nodded. “Don’t worry about that… Got gas in it?”

“Some…  Enough to get you away.”

“Ha, Amigo.” He laughed and then clutched the side of his head where the blood still drizzled and spilled down the side of his face, spat some blood from his mouth, and looked back at me. “Us,” he said. “Us.”

I saw an amazing thing as he spoke. The Mexican had a small blue hole just above the stream of blood. A hole from a bullet.  In his head. The blood just pulsed out of it as I watched. I wondered how he could even be alive.

I switched the plates to the truck and left the Ford sitting in the garage. I unloaded four big suitcases from the trunk of the Ford into the bed of the pickup truck. The Mexican had me stretch a tarp over the bed of the pickup and tie it off, and we were on the road. Heading for the Mexican border…



I hope you enjoyed this free preview. Scroll down for the Amazon link where you can get a longer preview of buy the book for just $0.99!


Mister Bob is a collection of short stories from Author Dell Sweet.


FIREFIGHT: Private Johnson finds himself in the middle of a firefight in the jungles of Vietnam. He has no idea how he got there, why he is there, or why the men with him seem to know more about his circumstances than he does.


RAPID CITY: When the apocalypse of the dead befell the world, men and women rose to the challenge. The great gunfighters of the zombie plague years rose and dealt with the dead with ruthless precision, but their time is fading.


PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS: Hired to do a simple job, the case that was not supposed to be a big deal turns into one. A man, a woman, and the lies that bind them together.


THE BORDERLINE: Billy had only intended to take a short walk downtown. See the girls, the sites, feel the night air on his face. Twenty-four hours later as he was digging a grave in the desert hard-pan, he found himself wondering what had gone wrong.


A DRESS FOR JANEY: A dirt poor farmer rides out after the thief that stole his horse. He leaves behind his wife to run the farm while he is gone, hoping he can catch the thief and return before too long. Morning turns into night as he rides alone.


MISTER BOB: A little girl awakens screaming in the night, convinced that someone she calls Mister Bob has come to her window in the middle of the night to plead for his life, hoping she will intervene for him.


Seventeen stories from Dell Sweet, from True stories to horror and even humor.


Get Mister Bob for just $0.99!

Amazon Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/Mister-Bob-Collected-Short-Stories-ebook/dp/B017YKQX6I

Amazon Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/Mister-Bob-Collected-Short-Stories/dp/1519298544

Necro by Dell Sweet

Necro

Dell Sweet

This book can be downloaded and read in iBooks on your Mac or iOS device.

Description

He had been lying half in half out of the gutter for the last several hours that he knew of. He had no idea how long before that. Days? Weeks? Weeks seemed wrong. Days, he decided. He turned his attention back to the roadway before him. Was it a roadway? When he thought roadway, he thought highway, something like that. From what he could see this was more like a city street.
It had never occurred to him in the passing hours to move his head, but the thought of it being a street in a city had caused him to move his head slightly so he could look around to be sure. Slightly, but enough to know he could move it. And he had moved it enough to know it was a city street. And if he could move it that much…
His face came away from the asphalt with a wet sucking noise and he nearly stopped. Expecting pain to come. Expecting the sky to fall. Expecting something, but nothing happened. The sucking sound stopped when his face finally pulled free and he pushed off with his hands and found himself in a sitting position. He flexed his jaw, it worked; tended to click when he moved it quickly, but perhaps it was just residual of… Of? He couldn’t make it come… Something… Some accident? Maybe… He pushed harder with his hands and rose to his feet… Shaky but holding him upright. He took one tentative step and then another. Moving off down the street in search of anything that could calm the hunger in his belly…


Get this book right now: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/necro/id1238359802?mt=11



 

Mister Bob. A short story collection from Dell Sweet

Mister Bob. A short story collection from Dell Sweet


MISTER BOB

Collected Short Stories

Published with Amazon

Mister Bob: Collected Short Stories is Copyright © 2015 Dell Sweet

Copyright © 2015 by Dell Sweet All rights reserved

Cover Art © Copyright 2015 Wendell Sweet

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your bookseller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

LEGAL

This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places or incidents depicted are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual living persons places, situations or events is purely coincidental.

This novel is Copyright © 2015 Wendell Sweet and his assignees. The Name Dell Sweet is a publishing construct used by Wendell Sweet. Portions of this text are copyright 2010, and 2011, all rights reserved by Wendell Sweet and his assignees. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, electronic, print, scanner or any other means and, or distributed without the author’s or assignees permission.

Permission is granted to use short sections of text in reviews or critiques in standard or electronic print.


THE BORDERLINE

Sunday night.

I buried the Mexican just after sundown. I can’t say much about the sort of man he was in life, but I can say he was a strong man in death.

The Moon has led my way and I’m on my way across the desert into Mexico of all places.  What did they say, hide in plain sight?  There I’m going to be.  Probably already passed the border, and once I’m across the border I’ll find a small town to buy gasoline enough so I can reach South America.

I’ve played the events of yesterday over and over in my head as I’ve driven. It still makes no sense to me at all.  They say shit happens, we’ll sometimes it does, and I tell myself that’s exactly what happened here.  Some shit decided to happen and I just happened to be there.

Saturday evening.

It was early. I had nothing better to do so I took a walk downtown just to take a look at the buildings. Thinking, as I walked, how just a few short years ago I had spent almost all of my time down there. Chasing a high. Drunk or both. And sometimes a third thing: Taking a little comfort with the ladies. It all came back to me as I walked the streets.

About three years of my life had been spent like that. From the day Lilly told me goodbye, until the day I woke up in the alley that runs down the back of West Broad, behind the Chinese restaurant. The back of my head had been lumped up with something or by someone.

Some one, I decided as I had begun to blink the cobwebs away and feel carefully with my fingers. A lump only, no blood. Probably a closed fist…

Two feet away from me was a dead rat. A big dead rat, and a few even larger rats were breakfasting on him. And, suddenly, just like that, I was done. That gave me a clear message about the world. And I heard it.

Of course that didn’t mean I got off Scot free. There were many little things I’d done during my long, long slide. And it took time to fix those things. Rehab, jail for some bad checks I couldn’t remember. Bad teeth, health, ideas, depression, suicide, and finally a night where I felt strong enough to take a walk through the worst of my nightmares and see if I was truly over the drugs, the life, the weaknesses that had led me there in the first place.

So that’s how I came to be there yesterday evening: Getting my feet wet. Seeing how strong I was… Or wasn’t. And it turns out I was strong enough for the temptation of the streets, but not over the bad habits I had picked up there. And that’s what got me… I cannot believe it was only yesterday when all this started.

I walked by the mouth of the alley twice. Both times I saw the old Ford sitting there in the deep shadows. Heard the soft murmur of its engine running. Some guy and some girl, I thought, or some guy with some guy, or boy who knows what. It was downtown. Shit like that happened all the time. But, I thought after the second time, this guy must be trying to set a record. He’d been there for 15 minutes by my watch, not that it was my business. All the same, fifteen minutes is a long time for a trick. Or to shoot up. Fifteen minutes could bring a cop. In the street world it was just too long for almost anything. In fifteen minutes you could get your thing on, your drug of choice, and be a half mile away and have forgotten all about that last little space of time. So why was this guy still there?

And that was the street part of me that was not gone. The street part of me that was still looking for trouble. And I found it.

The third time by, which was just a few minutes later, I was too curious. My evening had bought me some excitement. The drugs, I could see the flow all over the avenue. Easy to see if you knew what to look for. The ladies were calling too. I knew what that was about. I didn’t look at them like they were whores, or something less than human. It was a line I couldn’t draw, had confused many times, so I came back fast to see what this was. That Ford was calling.

I had stopped at the mouth of the alley. Same Ford. An old one. Like a classic. Nice shape too. Maybe somewhere in the sixties, but I wasn’t good with cars like that. I only knew old, classic, nice looking.

Nobody around.  Of course that didn’t mean there was no one in the car. I hesitated for only a second, and then walked quietly down the alley, staying in the shadows as I went.

~

I found the Mexican slumped over behind the wheel. Blood dripping down the side of his head. A gun on the seat beside him.  Another guy was slumped over into the floorboards on the passenger side. That one was dead for sure. A large, bloodless hole on one side of his chest.  A larger hole behind that shoulder I saw when I reached over to move him.

And why are you still here? A little voice in my head whispered. Why are you touching him? What are you doing? But I pushed those warning voices away and continued to look.

There was blood and gore all over the seat on that side. The coppery stench of blood was thick and nauseating. Something else mixed in with it, tugging at my brain. Blood and…  Fear? Something. That was when the Mexican spoke in all that silence and nearly made me jump out of my skin.

“Don’t call the cops!” and… “No Policia.” His head came away from wheel. He shook it and drops of blood went flying. I felt it hit my face, but I was still too stunned to move.

“Hey! … You hear me, Blanquito? Habla English? … No Policia?” He muttered under his breath “Dios Christos,” he focused his eyes on me once more. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I thought you were dead,” I managed.  I should’ve run. I chose to talk.

“Yeah… I get that a lot. But I ain’t dead.” He picked up the gun from the seat and before I knew it was in my face. “Come around the side, Blanquito. Get Lopez out of the car.” He waved the pistol and I moved.

Lopez pretty much helped himself out of the car. When I opened the door he spilled out into the alley, leaving the mess on the seat and a large smear of blood on the seat back and the door panel as he went.

“Good… Good,” the Mexican said. “Now get in the fuckin’ car… No… No… This side. Come back around to this side. I can’t drive no car, Blanquito… Dios!” He waved the gun once more and I moved. Racing around the hood of the car to the door.

The Mexican did a fair job of getting himself over into the passenger seat. I was glad it was him sitting in Lopez’s blood and not me, although I had been about to sit in it.

I slid into the driver’s seat.

“You got some kind of car… Truck… Something like that?” The Mexican asked.

I didn’t have a vehicle, but my grandfather had, had a truck. It was sitting in the garage in back of my house. That house had also been my grandfather’s. They were the only two things, the house and the truck, that had survived those three years on the streets.

“Sort of.”

“Sort of?” He looked around “Get this car moving. That’s the first thing… You got a place?… Close by? How does anybody sort of own a fuckin’ car anyway?”

“Yeah, I got a place” I said.  I was afraid to answer, but more afraid of not answering fast enough.

“Let’s get there, Amigo.” He slumped back against the seat. I shifted into drive, worried I might drive over Lopez as I went, and drove us out of the alley.

~

The house was dark. I had thought to leave a light on, but I had forgotten. I drove the Ford right into the garage, pulled the garage door back down, and helped the Mexican out. He looked over at my grandfather’s truck.

“That your sort of truck? Looks fine to me, man. Doesn’t it run?”

The thing is it did run. I had been  working on it here and there. I like to tinker with things. And I had a lot of spare time to fill when I quit drugging so I had turned it to the truck.

It was an old truck. But I had in the back of my mind to fix it up and drive it. So I had started with an oil change, then installed a new headlight on the driver’s side, that sort of stuff, when I had time.

I nodded. “No plates though.”

The Mexican nodded. “Don’t worry about that… Got gas in it?”

“Some…  Enough to get you away.”

“Ha, Amigo.” He laughed and then clutched the side of his head where the blood still drizzled and spilled down the side of his face, spat some blood from his mouth, and looked back at me. “Us,” he said. “Us.”

I saw an amazing thing as he spoke. The Mexican had a small blue hole just above the stream of blood. A hole from a bullet.  In his head. The blood just pulsed out of it as I watched. I wondered how he could even be alive.

I switched the plates to the truck and left the Ford sitting in the garage. I unloaded four big suitcases from the trunk of the Ford into the bed of the pickup truck. The Mexican had me stretch a tarp over the bed of the pickup and tie it off, and we were on the road. Heading for the Mexican border…



I hope you enjoyed this free preview. Scroll down for the Amazon link where you can get a longer preview of buy the book for just $0.99!


Mister Bob is a collection of short stories from Author Dell Sweet.


FIREFIGHT: Private Johnson finds himself in the middle of a firefight in the jungles of Vietnam. He has no idea how he got there, why he is there, or why the men with him seem to know more about his circumstances than he does.


RAPID CITY: When the apocalypse of the dead befell the world, men and women rose to the challenge. The great gunfighters of the zombie plague years rose and dealt with the dead with ruthless precision, but their time is fading.


PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS: Hired to do a simple job, the case that was not supposed to be a big deal turns into one. A man, a woman, and the lies that bind them together.


THE BORDERLINE: Billy had only intended to take a short walk downtown. See the girls, the sites, feel the night air on his face. Twenty-four hours later as he was digging a grave in the desert hard-pan, he found himself wondering what had gone wrong.


A DRESS FOR JANEY: A dirt poor farmer rides out after the thief that stole his horse. He leaves behind his wife to run the farm while he is gone, hoping he can catch the thief and return before too long. Morning turns into night as he rides alone.


MISTER BOB: A little girl awakens screaming in the night, convinced that someone she calls Mister Bob has come to her window in the middle of the night to plead for his life, hoping she will intervene for him.


Seventeen stories from Dell Sweet, from True stories to horror and even humor.


Get Mister Bob for just $0.99!

Amazon Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/Mister-Bob-Collected-Short-Stories-ebook/dp/B017YKQX6I

Amazon Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/Mister-Bob-Collected-Short-Stories/dp/1519298544