The Damage Factory: Excerpt of the Week

This week's excerpt is from The Damage Factory. It's one of my favorite titles I've come up with. If a shadowy criminal organization being hired to ruin people's lives sounds good, then you'll like The Damage Factory. 

It's available on these e-book platforms. Paperback and e-book are also available through Amazon. 

"Don’t write anything down. Don’t tell anyone you talked to me. And for God’s sake, make sure no one follows you." What would you do if a secret criminal organization was hired to destroy your life? Three unsuspecting people tied together by a tragic event are about to find out. John Georges is out for revenge. He meets with a member of The Damage Factory and hires them to seek vengeance.Their goal is to dismantle lives. As John's victims find out, once The Damage Factory is in motion, there is no turning back. The Damage Factory. Business is good.

The Damage Factory

Copyright 2017 Anthony Izzo

Don’t write anything down. Don’t tell anyone you talked to me. And for God’s sake, make sure no one follows you.  

That’s what the rough-sounding voice on the phone had told him. 

John George pulled up to the hulking warehouse, wondering if he should turn back, the man’s words echoing in his mind. He didn’t. Instead, he got out of the car and immediately smelled the dead fish odor coming off the lake.  

He went to the passenger’s side, opened the door, and took out a bulky manila envelope.  

As he approached a steel door, he noticed a security camera mounted overhead. There was a doorbell mounted on the wall. He pressed it and heard a loud bell echo from somewhere in the warehouse. It reminded him of the old fire alarm in his elementary school. 

He waited, used to being patient. Used to being alone these days. In the evening he would heat himself up a frozen entrée, the French bread pizzas being his favorite. His expanding belly was proof of his love of frozen foods. 

There was no need for large meals or extensive grocery lists.  

Occasionally, he would eat Italian at Marcos, sticking with Chicken Parm and a glass of house red. It always felt to John that the waitresses were taking pity on him, calling him sweetie. He must’ve seemed like a sad case.  

After dinner, he would return home and sift through photos on the computer, looking at their trips to Bar Harbor and the Outer Banks. More often than not, the night ended with him in tears. 

The door swung open and a guy in a flannel, work boots, and paint-spattered jeans answered. He was half a head shorter than John but his neck was like a tree trunk. “You John?” 

“That’s me.” 

“Follow me,” the guy said. 

John followed the man to small room at the rear of the warehouse. Inside was a table surrounded by wooden folding chairs.  

“Take a seat,” the man said. 

John pulled out a chair and sat down. The guy took a seat on the other side.  

“Are you sure about this?” the man said. 

“Did I talk you on the phone?” 

“Don’t worry who you talked to. Once we start things in motion, there’s no going back.” 

“I’m sure.” 

“Where’s the money?” 

John slid the envelope across the table. As the man reached for it, his shirt hiked up and John saw a chrome .45 in a holster.  

“You can call me Rex,” the guy said, and dumped the bundles of cash on the table. John had emptied out his 401K for the cash. 

Rex did a quick count of the money. “All here. Good boy.” 

“I’m not a dog,” John said. 

“We’ll go over this again. Like on the phone. No cops. No news. We’ll contact you with updates. You turn on us? We turn on you. Here’s what happened to the last guy that tried it.” 

He took two photos from his breast pocket and slid them across the table. John took a look, saw a headshot of a man lying on some sort of table. Most of the skin was removed from his face. 

“That was done while he was alive,” Rex said. 

“I won’t cross you. I want these people to suffer,” John said. 

“They will. Believe me. It’s what we do.” 

“How will I know when it starts?” 

“We’ll contact you.” 

John said, “I’ll need proof.” 

“Let us worry about that. Someone will be in touch, like I said. However, if you have an emergency. If someone’s on to you, take this,” Rex said, and pulled a crème-colored business card from his pocket. He slid it across the table.  

The Damage Factory was printed on it in small, black letters. Below that was a phone number, most likely a burner phone. 

John put it in his wallet as if it were a sensitive explosive. 

“Don’t fucking lose it. We’ll be in touch. And don’t worry, you came to the right place.” 

Excerpt of the Week - The Island

When two couples venture to an island where monsters of legend are real, what could possibly go wrong? 

The Island is available here. 

It's the horror fan's ultimate dream. A tour of an island where legendary monsters are real. Escorted by armed guards, lifelong friends Rick and Nate travel to the island as a birthday surprise for Rick. They soon find out that the island's inhabitants are hungry, and the tour turns into a fight for survival. 

A an action-packed horror novella loaded with monsters and gore from the author of The Dead Land Trilogy.

“Wait until you see what I've got planned,” Nate said, standing on the dock in his leather jacket and khakis. He was sporting a goatee, meant to compensate for the thinning hair and double chin that had crept up since he'd hit forty. 

“I think I'm a little scared,” Rick Solomon said. 

Julie, Rick's wife, said: “So where's the mystery man taking us?” 

Eve, smoking a cigarette and watching the sunset, said: “My husband's an enigma wrapped in a riddle. I don't even know what he’s planning.” 

“What's the bag for?” Rick said, alluding to the small suitcase Nate had at his side. 

“You'll see, my friend.” 

Rick supposed there were worse ways to spend your fortieth birthday. Nate had been promising a surprise for weeks, and the day was here. All Nate would tell him was to pack enough clothes for a few days. 

It was mid-November, and Rick shivered inside his pea coat. A few more minutes and he was going to head into the shack that served as the dockmaster's office. He didn't have to go inside, because a seaplane buzzed and banked over the lake. Came in for a landing and they all backed up.  

It came up parallel to the dock and after a moment its propeller cut out. 

Julie came up beside him and took his arm. He smiled at her. They'd spent an amazing weekend up at a spa in the Poconos to celebrate his fortieth, five-star meals and massages included.  

 

Now it was Nate's turn to give his best friend a gift.  

A door on the side of the plane opened, some stairs folded onto the dock, and a squat man with a crooked nose stepped off. He was dressed in black and bore the look of someone familiar with the ring. Rick noticed his knuckles were huge and scarred. He eyed up Rick and the others if they were his next opponent. 

“Which one of you is Nate?” the man said. 

“That'd be me,” Nate said. 

“Got the fee?” 

“In the suitcase.” 

“Hand it over,” the man said.  

Nate handed him the suitcase and he placed it on the plane.  

“My name is Sutherland. I'm going to frisk each one of you now. No cell phones. No cameras. And no guns.” 

Eve tossed her cigarette on the dock and stamped it out. “You're not frisking me.” 

“It's policy,” Sutherland said, his gaze flat. 

“No frisk,” Eve said. 

“Lady, either I frisk you, or you don't get on the fuckin' plane,” Sutherland said. 

Nate said, “Eve, just go along. It's Rick's birthday.” 

“Fine. But watch your hands.” 

Sutherland frisked Nate, Julie, and Eve in short order, taking their cell phones. Rick handed his over before Sutherland frisked him, and the man with the crooked nose put them in his pockets. The frisking wouldn't win him any awards for being gentle. 

“You'll get them back after the trip. Anyone have to use the john? No bathroom stops.” 

“We're good,” Rick said. 

“Get in the plane. We'll be in the air about two hours.” 

As they were boarding the plane, Sutherland put a hand on Nate's chest, stopping him. 

“It's all there, right? Two hundred thousand.” 

“You can count it if you want,” Nate said. 

Their wives climbed on board and Rick took Nate aside for a moment. 

“What are you fucking nuts? Two hundred thousand dollars?” Rick asked. 

“You know I'm good for it.” 

“The restaurant business must be good,” Rick said. 

“I've sold a lot of ribs and chicken this year,” Nate said, clapping Rick on the shoulder. 

“I can’t let you spend that kind of money.” 

“It's as good as gone. And trust me, from what I hear, this is going to be worth it,” Nate said. 

Sutherland said, “If you two ladies are done discussing beauty tips, I have a fucking plane to fly, okay?” 

As they boarded the plane, Rick said: “Wonder what charm school he graduated from?” 

 

 

The ladies took the two seats in the rear of the plane. Rick and Nate sat in the two behind the pilot. 

 There were some bottles of a nice Chilean pinot noir and cheese with crackers in a cooler. Rick was presently on his second glass. Feeling nice and warm. Normally he was a beer guy, favoring stouts and IPAs, but the wine was going down good. 

“So where are we going?” he asked Nate. 

“I haven't had that much to drink,” Nate said. “Not letting the feline out of the proverbial sack.” 

“What the hell kind of trip costs two hundred grand?” Rick said. 

“If you keep asking me, I'm going to have Sutherland throw you out of the plane. Just relax and enjoy.” 

“Can you at least tell me our destination? A town? City?” Rick asked. 

“We're headed north of the border. The wild wilderness of Canada.” 

“I don't have a passport. Neither does Julie.” 

Nate took a sip of wine, waved him off. “The people I'm dealing with don't have those concerns. It's been taken care of.” 

That made him a little nervous, as did the amount of money involved in this little outing. He suspected his best friend had some shady dealings from time-to-time. He owned the aptly titled Big Nate's Barbeque, a chain of twenty-three restaurants spread across Western New York and Pennsylvania. Although he was sure his buddy did well, the four houses and six luxury cars were maybe a little too much for the owner of a chain restaurant.  Plus, the amount of money he’d just handed over to Sutherland was a little concerning. 

After they'd been in the air for about two hours, the plane banked sharply and Rick looked down on a small, densely wooded island. At one end was a large log structure, perhaps a lodge or hotel. It was surrounded by high, concrete walls. Odd. 

 Maybe this is where they'd be staying.  

 

Excerpt of the Week - The Last Ride

Last year, I wrote a novel about a group of people living in a pandemic. A flu is sweeping the world, and some lucky lottery winners get to take an armored bus to safe haven. I got the idea for the Last Ride while reading about a bus that makes a run in Mexico. In one of the areas controlled by the cartel, people ride the bus from one town to another. The bus goes 80-90 mph the whole time. It's so dangerous that it stops for nothing. 

That got me thinking about potential story ideas. Swap out Mexico and cartels for the apocalypse, and there was a story. The Last Ride was born.

You can purchase the last ride as an e-book or in paperback. 

A killer flu has swept the world. Survival is key. In a city soon to be deserted by the military, a group of lottery winners get to take the last bus out. The armored vehicle will take them to a government shelter. The trip won't be easy. Along the way they will have to face roving gangs and warlords. 

Among the passengers on the bus is a young woman carrying the fate of the world in her hands. People will kill to get their hands on what she's carrying. The passengers will have to band together if they're going to survive the last ride to safety.

They’d kill me if they could, Tony Wells thinks. 

He moves along the street, his large hand enfolding ten-year-old Sam’s. The boy is a little too big to have his hand held, but it’s for safety reasons.  

In the past few months, three kids have been snatched off the street. Sold to slavers and sex traffickers for food. Now that money is worthless, human cargo is the new currency.  Plus, they’re marked for winning the lottery. 

He sees people peering out of broken windows. Five and six story apartment buildings line the street. A group of men warm their hands over a barrel fire out in the street. They look like they want to gut him alive.  

“Keep moving,” Tony says. 

“They hate us, don’t they?” Sam says. 

“Pretty much.” 

“Because we get to leave?” 

“That’s about right,” Tony says. 

Jake says, “They had just as much chance as us to win.” 

“People are bitter sometimes.” 

He supposes he would be, too. Those left behind in the old city are likely going to die. There are rumors that the army division guarding the city is pulling out. Their supplies are running thin, and winter is coming. That will leave a ragtag militia to protect a small city. The odds aren’t good for those left behind.  

Tony and Sam reach the end of the street, leaving behind the small apartment where they rode out the outbreak.  Tony remembers watching bodies in bags being tossed onto flatbed trucks. Flu vaccines ran out after the first six months of the epidemic.  The government was decimated. Air Force One crashed over Virginia with the president and cabinet aboard. Civil war broke out between numerous armed militias. 

Tony has a .45 semiautomatic in a holster on his hip. He traded three bags worth of groceries for the gun and two magazines in the early days of the outbreak. He hopes he doesn’t need the gun. 

They reach the end of their street. He takes a final glance at their apartment building. There’s part of him that wants to turn back, hole up, and stay safe in the confines of 7B, but he knows it’s a death sentence to stay here. They’re the lucky ones.  

The two of them pass a group of men seated on the steps of an apartment building. They have on winter coats smudged with grease and dirt. Tattered jeans. Their cheeks are hollow, as if someone has scooped out the muscle and fat underneath. He feels like a gazelle walking in front of a pack of hyenas. 

Sam is staring at them. 

“Don’t linger,” he says to Sam, nudging him along. 

The compound is up ahead. Concrete walls with sandbags stacked on top. Men walk on a parapet behind the sandbags. He can see their heads and shoulders. They all have rifles slung over their shoulders. 

 

Outside the gates sits a tank. It’s painted in camo. The tank has long since run out of gas, but the main gun still works, as does the .50 caliber machine gun mounted on the turret. It is enough to dissuade anyone dumb enough to risk a frontal assault on the compound. 

“I’ll bet it’s cool riding in a tank,” Sam says. 

“I’ll bet it is. Also hot, dirty, and loud.” 

“Think they’ll let me fire the gun?” Sam says. 

“Keep dreaming,” Tony says. 

As they approach the tank, a guy wearing a big fur hat pops his head from the hatch. Leans on the .50 caliber. “ID numbers for both of you.” 

Tony reads off the ID numbers everyone in town was assigned after the outbreak.  

The man in the fur hat reaches down in the tank and brings up a clipboard. From his front pocket he takes a pair of reading glasses and puts them on. He thumbs through some sheets and says: “Wells, Anthony. Wells, Samuel, ages thirty-eight and twelve. Photo matches up. Looks about right. Lucky winners. All right. Head to the gate.” 

The man raises his hand and makes a twirling motion. The gate cranks open. When it’s fully ajar, Tony sees a machine gun nest fortified with sandbags just inside. Three more men are hunkered around. A guy with brown stumps for teeth sees them and says, “Pass us. Depot is the third building on the right. Get going so we can close the fucking gate.” 

“Can I say the F word?” Sam says. 

“No.” 

“Not like I haven’t heard it,” Sam says. 

“Still a negative,” Tony says. 

As they head inside the gate, Tony hears a barely audible “Fuck it” escape Sam’s lips. He smiles and decides to let it go. 

The Werewolf Novel Nears Completion

Nightshade, my werewolf novel in progress, crossed the 60K word mark this week. I'm guessing it'll clock in around 70,000 words total, which means about 10-12 more days of writing. From there, it's off to the proofreader before getting it uploaded.

I recently finished reading The Magpie Coffin by Wile Young. It's a fast, brutal, read, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. I released a horror western earlier this year entitled Vanished. I'm considering diving back into that territory soon. I've also been enjoying some of Jeff Strand's recent work.

I have a short story I'll be posting here soon. It's entitled "A Rough Night at the Redeye Mine." If you like undead things creeping out in the night, this one's for you. I'll also be putting it up for sale on the e-book platforms.

Murderland: Excerpt of the Week

This week, I'm sharing an excerpt from my horror novella, Murderland. It centers around an amusement park with a bad history and a murderous creature escaped from a freak show.

Something has escaped the Tarp Brothers' Carnival Sideshow. A bloodthirsty creature bent on killing. It's made its way to the abandoned White Sands Amusement Park, known to many as Murderland.

As the creature terrifies the local population near White Sands, a police detecive and a group of college kids will come face-to-face with the terror in the woods. When the Tarp Brothers set out to capture the beast, all three groups will collide.


You can purchase Murderland on all e-book platforms. Also available in paperback.


Murderland Copyright 2019 Anthony Izzo


One


“This is going to be amazing,” Jerry Stanton said as he stared at the towering Ferris wheel that dominated the sky above the amusement park.  White Sands Amusement Park had closed two months ago, but the place was still largely intact. A six-foot fence surrounded the property, no doubt designed to keep people like him out.
Marissa nodded. “I can’t wait to see the funhouse.”
She took out a Nikon digital camera. The photos would go up on their website. Two urban explorers about to set out on their next adventure.
They were at the rear end of the property. The waves from the  beach crashed in the distance. When this place was operational, people had flocked to the cottages and spent their days on the beach or at the park.
“Someone probably cut this fence,” Jerry said. “Can’t imagine we’re the first ones to explore the park.”
Marissa tied her hair back with a scrunchie-thing. At least that’s what he called it.  “God, you’re beautiful.”
“You’re laying it on thick. What do you want?”
“Oh, nothing,” Jerry said.
Jerry slung his backpack over his shoulder. He had some protein bars and Gatorades in there, along with his camera and a Moleskin notebook. He liked to make observations about the places they explored.
“Did you bring a weapon?” Marissa asked.
“Do I ever?”
“Dangerous place,” Marissa said. “Eight people dead in the park’s history. That one girl fell off the lookout. Or was pushed.”
“Accidents. It happens at amusement parks, unfortunately,” Jerry said. “I suppose a few of them were suspicious, though.”
“Murderland,” she said.
“Let’s find the hole in the fence.”
They made their way along the fence until Jerry eyed a spot where the fence had been cut. On the other side of the fence was a concession stand called the “Dog Hut.” It was a long building covered in cedar shakes. Surrounding it were picnic tables and benches. It somehow made him sad to see the place empty like this.
The two of them ducked through the hole in the fence. Security was spotty at the park. There may or may not be a guard patrolling the grounds. Although in mid-October it was getting chilly and a guard might not want to be bothered freezing his ass off walking out here.
Marissa stopped to snap a few pictures.
“That Ferris wheel shot is going to look good on the website,” she said. “Dramatic against the sky.”
“Big bastard, isn’t it?”
“It was from the World’s Fair, I heard,” she said.
“Where do you want to go first?”
“Funhouse. Definitely,” she said.
They made their way through the area of the park dedicated to concessions. Pizza shacks, stands advertising cotton candy, soft pretzels, and candy apples. Jerry imagined he could still smell the food. He was here once, for his twelfth birthday. He’d cut his belly on an inner tube valve stem at the water park. His mother had yelled at him for being careless. Some damn fun this place was.
They turned left, passing the shuttered game stands. The Whack-a-Mole, the ring toss, and the dart throw among them. After another turn, they came to the funhouse.
The structure was all angles and turns, painted black and deep purple on the exterior. One side had a giant skeleton painted on it.  In the corner of the wall was painted a cartoon witch with a crescent moon in the background. Typical carnival cheesiness.
A ramp led up to a boarded-up door. Over the door was painted the words Enter if You Dare.
Between the two of them, Jerry and Marissa pried the plywood from the entrance with enough room to slip inside. They took out flashlights and turned on the beams.
They moved down a corridor, Jerry noticing holes in the floor. “What are those for?”
“Air holes. They would blow air up to scare the customers,” she said.
They came to a room and entered. Jerry lost his balance and slammed into a wall before realizing the floor was tilted at a crazy angle. Marissa giggled. “They used to tilt the floor mechanically. Weren’t you ever in here?”
“I didn’t come to the funhouse,” he said.
Marissa snapped a few pics, her flash illuminating the room.
From the tilted room, they proceeded to a room of mirrors. Jerry spotted a door at the rear of the room and got curious. He gave it a push and it opened, cool air wafting into the room of mirrors. A dank, damp stink emanated from the other side of the door.
He poked the beam through and realized it was some sort of maintenance corridor. He turned the beam on a ladder which descended into an opening. “This might be interesting.”
He slipped through the door and heard Marissa say, “Wait for me.”
The corridor ran the length of the building and turned at the end. He guessed workers could reach any of the rooms in the funhouse through this hallway. But the ladder intrigued him. What was down there?
Marissa slipped through the door.
“We should check that out,” Jerry said
“I don’t know. Could be flooded or something down there.”
“I just want to have a quick look,” he said.
He threw a leg over the ladder and descended. At the bottom, he was surprised to find a long tunnel. He shined his beam into the darkness.
The tunnel had smooth concrete walls tagged by bright graffiti. It appeared to take a left turn up ahead.
“How is it down there?”
“There’s a tunnel. I wonder if these go under the entire park?” Jerry said.
“I’m coming down.”
Marissa joined him at the bottom of the ladder.  “Whoa.”
“We should see how far it goes,” she said.
“Okay. This is really cool.”
They proceeded to the turn and followed it. There was a mechanical zombie with rotting skin leaning against the wall, a castoff from the funhouse. Next to that was a golf cart. The tunnel was quite wide. Jerry guessed you could fit two golf carts side-by-side in here.
They made a few more turns.
“We probably shouldn’t go too far,” Jerry said.
“Just a little farther,” Marissa said.
They ventured a little further, past an abandoned popcorn popping cart.
“Did you hear that?” Marissa said.
“What?”
“Behind us. Something scraping in the tunnel?”
Jerry strained to listen. He did hear something. It was a scraping noise, followed by tapping. Tap. Tap. Tap.  
There was definitely someone in the tunnel behind them. Probably just kids coming down to explore, maybe making noises just to freak them out.
Tap. Tap. Scratch.
A stench wafted down the tunnel, something like ripe garbage mixed with rotting flowers.
“That stinks,” Marissa whispered.
“Homeless person maybe?” Jerry said.
“Lower your voice,” Marissa said.
“They already know were here.”
“Turn off your light, Jerry. Do it.”
She clicked off her flashlight, and a moment later, he did the same. They stood in the darkness, the sound of their breathing filling the air.
The smell grew stronger. More clicking noises.
“We should go,” Jerry said. “I don’t know what the hell that is.”
“C’mon,” Marissa said, turning her light back on.
They continued down the tunnel, heading farther from the funhouse. Now footsteps sped up behind them, someone coming out of the darkness.
The two of them broke into a run. Something hissed. It sounded angry. Or maybe hungry. What the fuck was it?
As they reached another junction, Jerry turned to see something tall coming at them. It had to hunker down to avoid hitting its head. Something with impossibly long limbs. Crooked fingers ending in claws.
Jerry tried to turn the corner. The tunnel thing was on him. Something swiped at his face, slicing open his cheek. He screamed and fell to the ground, landing on his belly.
Marissa turned and screamed.
“Go!” he said, and something like a heated knife dug into his neck and ripped him open to his tailbone.

Excerpt of the Week

Going to start posting an excerpt from one of my books each week. This week's is from Enter the Night. You can purchase it as an ebook here. It's also available in paperback at Amazon and Barnes & Noble. Book blurb below:

They came to the mountain to hunt ghosts. They ended up as prey.

The Iron Mountain Asylum once housed the criminally insane. The worst of the worst. Four men escaped the asylum and were never caught. The legends grew. Some said they lived on the mountain, killing anyone who crossed their path.

The contestants on a reality show called Enter the Night are about to find out if the legends are real. Six people. Non-stop filming. A week exploring the abandoned asylum and a military base near the mountain. The contestants will find out that there are things far more frightening on the mountain than ghosts. 

Truth be told, the mountain gives Bob Grey the creeps. 

He steers the cube truck up the winding road. Hits the wipers. Snow begins to pelt the windshield. There’s a blizzard coming down from the Canadian Rockies that will hit later next week. 

“Getting icy,” he says into the Bluetooth headset.  

“Take her easy,” Gary Meyers says. Gary is in the Dodge Ram behind Bob’s truck.  

“What’s the name of this show again?” Bob says. 

“Enter the Night,” Gary says. 

“How about we call it let’s get the fuck off this mountain? I’ll star in that show,” Bob says, and Gary meets this with braying laughter. 

He steers the truck around a switchback and continues up the mountain. Takes a swig of coffee from his travel mug. It’s now lukewarm and bitter, but it’s better than nothing. “Why would anyone want to film a reality show up here?” 

Gary says, “Couldn’t be Hawaii or South Beach, could it?” 

“Honeys in bikinis and drinking on the beach. That’d be more like it.” 

They’d passed the abandoned military base at the foot of the mountain, where rusted tanks and trucks sat abandoned behind a chain link fence. Bob is glad they don’t have to drive up to the abandoned hospital near the top of the mountain. He’s grateful to be stopping midway at the lodge. 

“Lodge should be coming up,” Gary says. 

Bob spots the rustic sign in his headlights. It reads: Iron Mountain Lodge. He brakes and turns onto the road that goes to the lodge. 

The road twists and turns. He wishes for a Red Bull and maybe some caffeine pills to keep him sharp. For now, he contends with shitty gas station coffee. Dozing off at the wheel up here would be deadly. 

The lodge comes into view: it’s four stories tall. Miles of roof. Hundreds of windows. He knows it was a playground for the rich in the last century. The Rockefellers stayed here on a regular basis. Howard Hughes used to rent an entire floor for himself. Now it looks like it wants to swallow people whole. At least in the dark. It’s probably fine, maybe even nice inside. 

He parks the truck near the front of the lodge. A massive covered porch runs the entire length of the building.  

Lights appear in his side mirror; Gary pulls up behind him in the Dodge. 

He spots the maintenance garage; that’s where they are to park the cube truck. It’s loaded with supplies for the week-long shoot.  

Bob has driven truck all over the country. The current gig with Blackmore Productions isn’t bad. The pay is decent. He’s home for good chunks of time. But right now, he’s shivering and wants to be back at the Holiday Inn, where he can order a Philly cheese steak from room service and watch a pay-per-view movie. 

He gets out of the truck and the wind screams. He holds onto his Blackmore Productions trucker’s cap to keep it from blowing away. He wishes he’d brought a winter hat. 

Gary fumbles with the keys before inserting the right one in the lock. He gives it a turn and cranks the door handle. 

“Don’t just stand there. Help me lift the bastard,” Gary says. 

They hoist the garage door open and Bob spots a pickup truck with a snowplow attached. There’s also a vehicle with tracks that looks like it belongs to the ski patrol.  

The boss wants them to leave the truck in the garage and the film crew will unpack it.  

He notices an odd smell: body odor. Like someone hasn’t showered in a month. Once, he’d gotten a whiff of a homeless guy who accosted him for a handout in Nashville. It reminds Bob of that. “Smell that? It’s really rank.” 

Gary says, “Probably a dead critter got stuck in here.” 

“Smells so bad I can almost taste it. I’ll get the truck,” Bob says. 

“I’ll guide you in,” Gary says. 

As Bob walks to the truck, Snow whips into his face. The wind moans again. His warm room back at the hotel comes to mind again. 

Bob picks up his pace and reaches the truck. He hops in the cab. As he’s about to start it up, he hears a high-pitched scream. Someone in terrible pain. 

He keeps a .44 Smith & Wesson in a case under the seat when he drives. Bob’s kept it there ever since being beaten and robbed on a run through East St. Louis. He gets out the revolver and loads it. There are brown bears on the mountain and he sincerely hopes he’s not about to run into one of those. 

Bob hops out, bracing himself against the wind. The snow picks up and the garage is now barely visible. It’s going to be a bitch driving down the mountain in this. 

He reaches the open garage door. “Gary, you okay?” he calls. 

The snow lets up long enough and Bob sees a man with Gary’s body draped over his shoulder. Blood drips down and stains the snow. The man looks back. He’s wearing a gas mask, an olive-drab coat, and camo pants. 

He turns and continues walking, carrying Gary like a sack of dry concrete. 

“Hey! What the hell?” 

Bob raises the Magnum, realizing Gary is in serious trouble, but he has no shot.  

The man disappears around the garage. 

Bob chases after him. 

Blogging in the Pandemic Entry 4

This week, I finished up a 5,500-word short story that I'm planning on submitting to a magazine. I also continued work on Nightshade, my latest horror novel. The novel is around 34,000 words right now.

We got hit with a late blast of winter this week in the Buffalo area. My wife and I had been walking every night after dinner, but the miserable weather has put that on hold.

Watched Underwater this week. Despite having a cool premise (deep sea mining station besieged by mystery monsters), the movie failed to generate any real tension. Also learned little to nothing about the characters, so I really couldn't give a shit what happened to them. 

I'm reading I Am Legend. Trying to spend time each day on writing, drawing, music, and art. Also making time for workouts. I've also been buying a lot of e-books (curse you, Bookbub). Not a bad thing.

Governor Cuomo just extended NY Pause (COVID-19 lockdown) until May 15th. I'm working from home until at least May 31st. I suspect that might be extended, and when I do go back to the office, I'm guessing things are going to be a lot different.