Writing Updates

I spent most of the week's writing time working on freelance articles, but did manage to get some work done on the Dead Land Trilogy, the third zombie book in a series. It stands at about 25,000 words, roughly halfway done. I'm anticipating an October release if all goes well.

My latest thriller is also available. Beat the Devil is available for Kobo and Nook.

It's about an ex-Navy SEAL who gets recruited by a government agency to take out a serial killer.

Only $2.99.

Buy from Amazon

By from Kobo 

Beat The Devil Now Available

My latest thriller, Beat The Devil, is now available for Kindle and Kobo.

Notorious serial murderer Raven has escaped during his prison transfer. A merciless killer, Raven had struck terror into the hearts of the populace for years before being locked up.

Now he's free again.

A newly-created government agency doesn't want Raven arrested. They want him dead. The Agency kidnaps ex-Navy SEAL John Childress' family and makes him a proposition: kill Raven and he gets his family back.

With the help of an ex-cop who put Raven away and one of the Agency's assassins, Childress must find his quarry before time runs out.

Beat the Devil. The hunt is on.

$2.99 for Kindle and Kobo. Nook version to follow soon.

KOBO

Kindle 

The Day's Writing

This was the first weekend I didn't have to work my day job in some time. I took advantage by working on some writing projects.

The first John Childress novel is done. Just waiting for the proofreader to go over it, then I'll be uploading it to Kindle, Nook, etc. I haven't decided whether to do a paperback version. There hasn't been much demand for them, but Createspace makes it easy to do, so I just might do a paperback anyway.

I'm working on a crime novella about a mob wife that rips off her husband. There's crooked cops, a hit man, and lots of mayhem. I typed in about 5 pages from the rough draft I'd started in a notebook. This should be a fairly quick project, possibly uploaded next week.

I had someone ask me about the third Dead Land book, and I'm outlining that now. Should be out in July if all goes well.

Beat The Devil Chapter 2

Here's Chapter 2 of Beat the Devil. It still needs to go off to the proofreader, but I thought I'd post a preview.

Beat the Devil - Excerpt
Copyright 2013 Anthony Izzo

John Childress climbed the stairs, an important mission on the line. He was to read The Hungry Caterpillar to Jordyn. At six-years-old, she was one of the top readers in her class, but she still loved her father to read to her. This was what he'd missed while in Afghanistan.

He's put in his twenty in the SEALS and had retired earlier in the year. It suited him fine. He had loved what he did, relished every mission, but being home was even better.

As he entered Jordyn's room, she was sitting up, a pillow behind her back. Her damp hair hung in loose curls, sill wet from the shower Megan had given her.

“Hey, Daddy.”

“Are you still awake? Shouldn't you be sleeping?”

“Dad, really?”

“Really. You should go to sleep,” Childress said.

“Quit teasing,” she said.

“Or if you'd like me to read this,” he said, holding up the book.

She patted the bad and he sat next to her, their backs against the headboard. As he opened the book, the lights went out. Jordyn gasped.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Just a circuit breaker. I'll flip a switch in the basement and the lights will come back on.”

Jordyn eyed him as if she didn't believe her father.

Jessica entered the room, a flashlight in her hand. Her hair was pulled back in a pony tail and a few errant strands crossed her forehead. As usual, she looked amazing, even with her hair hastily pulled back.

“Wanna play amateur electrician?” she asked.

“Consider me hired,” he said, and stood up. He took the flashlight from Megan and she took his spot next to Jordyn on the bed. After going to the basement, he opened the breaker box and found none of them tripped. He speculated there was an outage on the road somewhere.

The lived in a rural area, the nearest neighbor hundreds of yards away. He couldn't even peek out the window and see if the neighbors lost power, as well. They were bordered by fields and the neighbor's house was too far away to determine if the lights were on.

He went upstairs and looked out the bay window in the living room. The pole light at the road cast a glow on the end of his driveway. It was odd that the light still had power.

They had an extra flashlight in the kitchen junk drawer. He entered the kitchen and something caught his eye outside. Someone was creeping across the field and coming towards the house. Dressed in black. A chill went down the back of his neck.

He burst from the kitchen and raced up the stairs. Entered Jordyn's bedroom. “Listen to me. Go in the hallway bathroom. It'll be safe. There's no windows. Lock the door and don't come out until I tell you.”

Megan stood up, her brow knitted into a frown. “John, what the hell's going on?”

“Call 9-1-1,” Childress said.

“John, tell me.”

“There's someone creeping up on the house,” he said, and went to Jordyn's window.

It overlooked the back yard, and looking out, he saw more of them, dressed in black and carrying pistol-grip shotguns. They were to the edge of the field, almost at the house.

“Who?”

Childress gripped her wrist and brought her to the window. He pointed out the men, who were mere shapes in the darkness. Her eyes grew wide.

“You have your cell?” he asked.

“In my pocket.”

“Lock yourself in and call the cops.”

She took the cell phone from her pocket, dialed, and held it to her ear. “Nothing.”

They only had cell phones, no landline. It occurred to him that the intruders may have jammed the signal, which would mean they were professionals. Had there been a leak? He wondered if he'd been exposed to some terrorist cell and they were coming to seek revenge.

Childress ushered his wife and daughter into the upstairs bathroom. He heard the lock click into place. He went to the hallway closet and grabbed his old softball bat. It was better than nothing.

He went downstairs, racking his brain as to who might be coming after him.

In the kitchen, he peered out the rear window. Two of them, carrying shotguns, crept near the back of the house, the men getting closer to breaking in.

More of them might be coming through the front door, and he cursed himself for not locking it. He hurried to the front door, flattened himself against the wall. As he reached to lock it, the door was eased open.

The two men came inside, but they hadn't seen Childress yet. Both of them were clad in black, all but their eyes obscured by ski masks.

He hit the second man in the knee, sending him to the ground. Followed up by smashing him in the face, the bone giving with a hollow crack. He fell face down on the floor.

The first guy turned, aimed the shotgun at Childress. He swung the bat, clipping the shotgun and forcing the guy to point it at the ceiling. He jabbed the guy in the throat with the butt-end of the bat. The intruder fell to the floor holding his throat.

He grabbed the shotgun from the man, a Mossberg pistol grip. A moment later, the back door exploded inward. The other four men entered the kitchen and fanned out. He fired the Mossberg, forcing them to scatter. Glass shattered. Hope that wasn't the good china, he thought.

Trying to Win New Wheelchair Van

For the second year in a row, our son Tony is entered in a contest to win a new wheelchair van. The contest is part of National Mobility Awareness Month. It's a nationwide contest, and people can vote one time per day.

Tony has mitochondrial myopathy, which falls in the Muscular Dystrophy spectrum of diseases. There is no known cure and we depend on the van to get him where he needs to go.

I'd like to take a moment to ask if people would take a look at Tony's profile and cast a vote. It only takes a second, and our family truly appreciates every vote. We've got our fingers crossed, as our current van is 14 years old and has 120K miles on it. My wife drives Tony to her school, which is 50 miles round trip.

Please consider voting for Tony by clicking on the link below.

http://www.mobilityawarenessmonth.com/entrant/anthony-izzo-east-aurora-ny/

Thriller Excerpt - Chapter One of Beat the Devil

I have about sixty pages left to edit on Beat the Devil. Here's the first chapter. I'll post additional chapters over the next few days.

Excerpt from Beat the Devil
Copyright 2013 Anthony Izzo

1

They were taking him to one of those Supermax facilities, where John Raven would spend the rest of his days in a cell. Twenty-three hours a day in a six-by-eight cage, with an hour allowed for exercise.

The guards walked him out of the cell block, Raven shuffling along with cuffs and leg irons. The Department of Corrections van waited for them, dimly visible through the sheets of rain falling outside Block D.

The guard, a pig-faced slug named Harrod, nudged him along with a shotgun. One of the other guards slid the door open and they muscled Raven into the van. A steel grid separated the driver and passenger from the rear seating. They shut the van door and Raven listened to the rain beat on the van roof. It was a six hour drive to Supermax. To the end of his freedom.

Herrod turned to him and said, “Going to enjoy your new home, Raven?”

“I'd enjoy skinning you. That's what I'd enjoy.”

The look of anger appeared on the pig's face was worth it.

“Boy, if I had five minutes with you, I bet you wouldn't talk so tough,” Harrod said.

“You wouldn't last five minutes with me. “

He scared people. That he knew. He'd always been big, growing to six-foot-five as a teenager. He had done thousands of pushups and burpees in his cell, packing on slabs of muscle. His long, dark hair sometimes hung over his eyes, making him hard to read. And then there was the scar: a mess of pink tissue that crisscrossed his right cheek, given to him by a cop.

“You'll never see the sun again, know that Raven?”

“Do you have family? I once cut a family of four to pieces. The father lasted two hours before he died.”

“You deserve to rot,” Herrod said, turning around.

Raven smiled, something he rarely did.

The van began rolling and he looked out the rear window and Griffin State Penitentiary faded in the distance, becoming a large gray blur in the falling rain.

The scenery rolled past, the road flanked by towering pines. Up ahead twin head lights approached on the other side of the road. He could see the running lights of a semi, the rig swerving back and forth. Something was wrong with it.

It drew closer and Raven watched it veer towards the van, the grill looking like the maw of a great beast. The van's driver tried to swerve, but the semi clipped the van's bumper and they whipped around and before Raven knew what was happening, they had flipped. The van rolled several times and Raven felt as if he were in a steel drum being rolled down a hill.

He heard screeching metal and the blare of a large horn as the van came to a stop. He was staring up at the broken side window, the van resting on its side. Turning his head to the right, he saw the pig-faced guard sprawled over the seat. His neck was cocked at a bad angle. Broken.

The front windshield had been smashed out and the driver was nowhere to be seen.

His body felt as if he'd been hit with baseball bats. He realized when he moved his arms, his wrists were no longer bound, the chains having been snapped by the crash.

He got to his knees and began crawling towards the front of the van. The cage separating the driver from the passenger's had been peeled open. He crawled over the dead guard, who smelled as if his bowels had let go. After ten minutes, he managed to crawl out the hole where the front windshield had been.

The guard who had been driving lay on the blacktop, his face covered in blood. Raven went to the dead guard, hunkered down. He found a set of keys on the man's belt and undid his shackles. Then he took the guard's weapon, a Glock 40. He grabbed the extra clips, too.

Looking down the road, he saw the semi had rolled. The trailer had been ripped open, looking like someone had taken a can opener to it. Smoke billowed from the tractor.

He saw a second set of headlights approaching and he watched as a Ford pickup truck approached. It stopped and a large man in a blue mechanic's uniform got out. A grease-smeared cap rested on his head. “You okay? Any other prisoners around?”

“Just fine, and I'm the only one,” Raven said.

“You ain't going to hurt me, are you?”

Raven shook his head.

“I'll get my cell,” the man said, approaching. “Call for help.”

“I'll be needing your clothes,” Raven said.

“Excuse me?”

“Your clothes,” Raven said, and shot him in the face.

He undressed the man, who was roughly Raven's size. After stripping down to his prison-issue boxers, he dressed in the man's uniform. The patch sewn on the shirt indicated the guy's name had been Jeff. “Thanks Jeff,” he said, and dragged the body, now clad in a pair of red jockey shorts, into the woods. Taking the Glock and ammunition, he got behind the wheel of the Ford and drove off.

He wondered how much time he had before they realized he was loose. And if it was enough time to settle some old scores.

He drove for half-an-hour until he spotted a ranch home tucked back on a hill. A long driveway snaked up to the house. Even at eleven p.m. the lights were still on.

Turning up the driveway, he killed the headlights and eased the vehicle forward.

Off in the distance, sirens cried out.

Donald Spielman was in bed watching the local news run through a fluff piece, something about a dog riding a skateboard. He wondered why he bothered with the news at times. The dog, a terrier named Sydney, rolled along on screen, its tongue wagging in the breeze. Nonsense, he thought.

He glanced at Isabel. His wife was sleeping on her side, her breasts pushed up in the lace nightie. He considered nuzzling her neck and seeing where it went. Their boys were staying with her parents for the night, which meant a rare evening alone.

He was amazed by her beauty. The dark hair and flawless olive skin. Even more amazed that she had fallen in love with an average long-haul trucker.

He was about to make his move when a knock came at the door. It made him flinch.

Who the hell was here at this hour?

Donald got out of bed and threw on a faded terrycloth robe. The thing was so ragged Isabel threatened to burn it every so often. He tied the belt, intent on telling the person at the door to politely fuck off.

They did get the occasional visitor. They were a few miles from the nearest neighbor. Visitors usually came in the form of stranded motorists. Probably someone looking for a jump or help with changing a flat.

As he opened the front door, he heard himself gasp. A man with a bouncer's build stood on the porch. He wore a pair of coveralls that strained at the seams. His long, dark hair partially obscured his eyes, making the man hard to read.

“You break down?” Donald asked.

“I need a place to say,” the man said. His hands were jammed in the coverall pockets.

“This isn't a Motel Six. I'll bring the phone to the porch, if you need to call someone.”

“Your place will be fine.”

Donald felt his face start to flush. “Take a hike, huh?”

He started to close the door, but the stranger pulled a semiautomatic pistol from his pocket. Donald froze.

“Who else is in the house?”

Donald's heart jackhammered. “My wife.”

“We're going inside. If you try and run or call for help, I'll shoot you between the legs. Got it?”

He'd been a fool for opening the door. He wanted to lunge at the man, gouge his eyes, but he didn't. Getting shot here wouldn't help Isabel. “Okay.”

“Good man. Now let's go meet that wife of yours.”

Concept Art

Here's a cover concept I came up with for my first book in the John Childress series. Let me know what you think. I'm looking at a late April release for this one. The description is below.

In the blink of an eye, a corrections department van crashes, unleashing one of the nation's most feared serial killers. Sentenced to life in a Supermax facility, John Raven is turned loose on an unsuspecting population. He has only one thing on his mind: getting revenge on those who punished him.

John Childress is an ex-Navy SEAL. While at home one night, men in black fatigues close in on him and his family. Taken to a government compound, he's given an ultimatum by an organization known as The Agency: track and kill Raven or never see his family again. It's the Agency's business to eliminate internal threats, and Raven is on their radar.

Teaming with an ex-cop and one of the Agency's best operatives, Childress must hunt down a brutal killer and secure the release of his family.

If he fails, there'll be Hell to Pay.

An action-packed thriller from Anthony Izzo.

Sneak Peek at Book Description

I finished up the edits on the latest novel, for which I still don't have a good title. That will come. I have  a few in mind, but nothing that thrills me yet. I thought I'd post what will eventually become the book description on Amazon, etc. I'm not in love with calling my shadowy government organization "The Agency," so that will likely change. This is an extremely rough draft, but I thought I'd share.

Childress appears in my short story "Underworld," which I wrote under the Jack Vincent pen name. He's teaming up with Cody Garrett, an ex-cop who readers will recognize from The Hollow.


In the blink of an eye, a corrections department van crashes, unleashing one of the nation's most feared serial killers. Sentenced to life in a Supermax facility, John Raven is turned loose on an unsuspecting population. He has only one thing on his mind: getting revenge on those who punished him.

John Childress is an ex-Navy SEAL. While at home one night, men in black fatigues close in on him and his family. Taken to a government compound, he's given an ultimatum by an organization known as The Agency: track and kill Raven or never see his family again. It's the Agency's business to eliminate internal threats, and Raven is on their radar.

Teaming with an ex-cop and one of the Agency's best operatives, Childress must hunt down a brutal killer and secure the release of his family.

If he fails, there'll be Hell to Pay.

An action-packed thriller from Anthony Izzo.

Escape From NY

My wife and I just spent three days in New York City. We stayed in Manhattan and did roughly a hundred-and-fifty miles of walking. We had a blast. There's no place like NY, at least not that I've been.

Highlights were the fossils at the Museum of Natural History and the Arms and Armor display at the Met. The nerdy kid inside me could've spend all day reading the descriptions of the different suits of armor. The armor designed for King Henry VIII was particularly cool. The displays of armor, axes, maces, and swords also provided a ton of inspiration for future stories.

There were also two geeky-looking guys who looked like twins (right down to matching suits). I had some interesting thoughts on how to work them into a novel.

We had great Italian food in Hell's Kitchen and some terrific Turkish food at a restaurant called Parsha.

Most of the stereotypes I've heard about New York were false. We stayed in Manhattan the whole time and I never felt unsafe. The people were friendly and I didn't feel like I was playing Russian Roulette every time I crossed the street. In fact, it's probably safer crossing the street there than it is in Buffalo. I'll definitely be going back.

On the writing front, edits continue on the yet-unnamed thriller. I'm looking at a release later this month, and I'll really be pushing this one, promotion-wise. I'll be posting an excerpt in the near future.

Forgotten Now Available

The 40th birthday has come and gone. I had a terrific weekend with friends and family. My wife did a bang-up job with the birthday dinner (beef enchiladas and salted caramel cupcakes for dessert). She also surprised the hell out of me by getting me a Kindle Fire and Amazon gift card. I spent the gift card last night and have enough reading material to keep me busy for a couple of years. Looking forward to reading books by Nate Southard, Victor Gischler, and Jack Ketchum.

Forgotten, my latest horror novel, is available for Amazon. Nook and Kobo versions will follow in the next few months. It's also available to borrow for members of Amazon Prime. Here's the description from Amazon.com:

A 60,000 word novel of terror from the author of The Hollow and The Dead Land Trilogy.

For as long as anyone can remember, The Dwellers have lived on the mountain near Forgotten. After remaining dormant for years, they've returned. Hungry. Demanding sacrifice.

The locals have their eye on unsuspecting travelers, intent on sacrificing them to the Dwellers. As visitors to the town discover, Forgotten is not kind to strangers.

Three groups of travelers are in for a hellish visit to Forgotten. A father's teenage son disappears on the mountain. A pair of vacationers are ambushed on the road outside town. A private investigator delves into the disappearance of a college student, only to become trapped in a nightmare scenario.

Forgotten. Plenty come to visit. Not everyone leaves. You can pick it up here

New Novelette Coming Soon

I'll be putting up a new novelette, roughly 10,000 words, for sale on Amazon in the next day or two. I'm also doing a print version through Createspace, which I thought might be cool to give away for contests, etc.

It's called One Crazy Night.

It started with a noise in the attic.

Then the strange footprints appeared on the stairs.

Soon, a young couple will find out just what is hiding in their attic, and it will lead to a night of terror they'll be lucky to survive.

The Best Writing Advice I've Read In A While

Perhaps truer words were never spoken, at least in the context of writing advice. Courtesy of E.B. White:

"A writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a word on paper."

Updated Cover Art

So I decided to play with the cover art for No Escape. This was my first e-book and I felt an update of the cover was due. I like the new cover and think it's appropriate. A clandestine military unit plays a large role in the book. Plus I just liked the image.

From the book's description page:

It started with an experiment gone wrong...

A ship carrying the military's latest weapon in the war on terror ran aground...

Now it's loose...


Jack Hammond is an ex-Special Forces soldier who has returned from the war. He's looking to take a peaceful island vacation with his family and forget about the horrors in Iraq and Afghanistan. Soon after the Hammonds' arrival on the island, a military ship runs aground. It's carrying the military's latest weapon in the war on terror, bloodthirsty creatures trained to kill terrorists. And now they're loose. Soon bodies begin piling up, and a clandestine military unit arrives on the island to deal with the threat. Jack must battle the creatures and hostile soldiers to get his family off the island before it's too late. Before there's no escape.

A novel of terror from the author of CRUEL WINTER, EVIL HARVEST, and THE DARK ONES.


Pick it up for $2.99 at Amazon

A Few Updates

I have one more scene to finish in Forgotten, then I'll let it sit for a week or so before editing begins. I'm about ten pages into writing a novella called Above (working title). It's about a serial killer that hides out in a young couple's attic. It was inspired by the Villisca Axe Murders. I've read accounts where it was believed the killer hid in the house and waited for the family to go to sleep. I found that idea pretty creepy, and decided to do my own take on the scenario.

In December, I'll turn my attention to writing the final book of The Dead Land Trilogy.

Tonight's Survivor and Criminal Minds night in our house. The fam is requesting Paninis for dinner. Good food on a cold night. While we watch TV, I'll be typing away on the laptop.

Corrupting The Youth of America

The other day, I spent my morning molding impressionable young minds at one of our local high schools. A good friend of mine is an English teacher, and twice a year I speak to his classes about writing. The kids in his classes are always funny, smart, and observant.

I usually have a favorite question. This year it was: "Do you feel like a psychopath when you write?" My immediate reaction was to laugh. Horror writers have that reputation. As if we have a basement full of corpses. That's not true. They're really in the attic.

I choose topics and stories that get under my skin. Write scenes that disturb me, bother me. Hopefully that creates the same reaction in the reader. And the greater and more disturbing the evil, the greater the triumph when the good guys win in the end (at least with some of my endings).

A few of the kids always want to be writers. They ask for my best advice. I always tell them to write a lot and read a lot. Sitting down and putting words on the page is the only way I know to become a writer. A thousand words per day nets you a first draft in two or three months.

I'm going back next week to talk to another class. We'll see if I get the psychopath question again.  In the meantime, I'll practice my dead-eyed stare and creepy laugh.

Excerpt from Forgotten - Chapter Two

So far I've posted the Prologue and Chapter One from my work-in-progress, Forgotten. As I write this blog post, the family and I are re-watching some of The Walking Dead episodes from Season One. Poor, stupid Merle still gets left on the roof.

Here's the excerpt. It's uncorrected copy. Please don't redistribute. Copyright 2012 Anthony Izzo.

Chapter Two

Jess Armstrong pulled her Dodge Durango into a slanted parking slot at the Forgotten Diner. It was a low-slung white building. The lights inside glowed bright, given the restaurant the qualities of a beacon in the dark night. It was along the town's main drag and she got out of the Durango and walked inside. 

The counters continued with the theme of gleaming white. She'd expected to inhalde the aromas of meatloaf and fresh coffee, but she smelled nothing of the sort. The front counter was empty, and there were a dozen red vinyl stools lined up. She had driven all night to get here and her stomach ached from hunger. There was a piece of pie in a clear glass pie case sitting on the counter. That and a cup of coffee would do it.

She took a seat at the counter. A greasy menu was tucked between two napkin holders on the counter. She took it out and looked over it. If the grill wasn't closed, a burger actually sounded good, something with bacon and blue cheese that wouldn't help her abs one bit.

She'd come here working a case. A private investigator, she'd been hired to track down a missing college student, a kid named Martin Vega. Two weeks ago, she'd gotten a call from a tearful woman asking for a meeting. She'd agreed to meet with Emily Vega and discuss the case.

Her office was in an old feed mill that had been converted into offices. The heavy beams and ductwork had been left after the renovation, giving the building an industrial feel. Emily Vega entered Jess' office, a slim Latino woman in a down vest and jeans. Her eyes were red-rimmed and she carried a crumpled tissue in her hand.

“Are you good at finding missing persons?” Vega asked.

“I've done it before,” Jess said, taking out a yellow legal pad and gel pen. “Who are you looking to find.”

“My son.”

“What's his name?”

“Martin. He's a student at The University of Buffalo. He called and told me he was taking a break from college. He wanted to be a photographer,” she said, wiping her nose with the tissue. “He liked to photograph abandoned places.”

“So he cut class to go take pictures?”

“That's right.”

“When's the last time you heard from Martin?”

“Three days ago. He called from a town called Forgotten. It's in Montana.”

“A long way from home,” Jess said, noting the name of the town. “What did he say?”

“He was going into an abandoned mining town to take pictures.”

“How do you know he's gone missing?”

She shifted in the chair, reached in her pocket, and took out a cell phone. She flipped it open and punched in a code. Then she put it on speaker.

A young man's voice said:

“Mom, there's someone after me. I'm up in the mountains. I'm lost. I called the cops up here and they told me to stop bothering them. Call for help if you get this.”

“Did you call the police up there.”

She folded the phone back up and stuck it in her pocket. “They said there was nothing they could do. The local police said there wasn't enough to make them think he was missing.”

“So you came to me.”

“Mrs. Vega, I'm sorry.”

“Will you do it?”

“I get half my fee up front. The other half when I find him.”

“So you'll find him?” she asked.

“I'll do my best.”

So here she was, halfway across the country in Big Sky Country, hoping to find a college kid who decided to blow off school. Before she looked for Martin Vega, she needed something to eat. “Hello?”

No answer came from the diner, so she went behind the counter and entered the kitchen. The counters were spotless and free of food. It didn't have that lingering greasy smell that seemed to linger in every diner. “Anybody?”

A door slammed shut in another part of the kitchen and a gaunt kid in white cook's clothes appeared. His t-shirt hung on his bony frame. “Customers aren't allowed in the kitchen.”

“I was looking for a waitress.”

“We're closed.”

“The sign said open. Plus your lights are on.”

“Doesn't matter. We're closed. Now leave.”

“I've come a long way. How's about a piece of pie out there?”

“It's no good. I need to throw it out.”

“I'll buy it.”

“Do I need to call the Sheriff? I said we're closed, you dumb bitch.”

Jess felt her temples start to throb. At thirty-one, she didn't have high blood pressure, but she could feel her blood start to cook. It was apparent she wasn't getting a meal. “So much for small-town hospitality.”

She left the kitchen, feeling the kid's gaze on the back of her neck. As she moved through the diner, she was half-tempted to grab the piece of pie, but she didn't. Might need the local law to cooperate. As she climbed into the Durango, the kid was standing in the doorway of the diner, his stare boring into Jess. If looks could've killed, she would be pushing up daisies.

She arrived at the Three Pines lodge. The lodge was constructed of logs, a main building in the center and two wings jutting off to each side. A stuffed grizzly bear on hind legs stood outside the door. After getting her bag from the rear of the Durango and making sure her shoulder rig was concealed, she went inside. Looking around, she saw the walls were lined with the heads mounted animals. Deer. Elk. The head of another bear. Maybe it was the other bear's relative.

A red-haired woman stood at the front desk, which was constructed of a polished piece of rough wood built on top of logs. She was typing something on a keyboard.

“I have a reservation,” Jess said.

“Name?”

Jess told her. The woman checked her in, swiping her credit card. She gave Jess a room key. “Two eighteen. I'm sure you'll find it.”

“Thanks for the hospitality. Is there a restaurant in the lodge?”

“There is. It's closed. If you're hungry, there's vending machines over there.”

“Doritios for dinner. I've had worse,” she said, gathering her bag and key. She stopped at the vending machine and purchased a package of Oreos and a bag of chips. Then she went up to her room, intent on having the gourmet dinner provided by the Lodge.

After stumbling around in the woods, Ray found his way back to their campsite. The fire had died down to a dull orange. The cold bit through his clothes and his body ached from the tumble down the hill. He didn't know what to do, so he could at least gather more wood for a fire.

He threw some more wood on the fire, but it only smouldered, refusing to light. He scanned the woods, looking for any sign of Pete. There was only darkness.

He didn't know what he'd do if he lost the boy. Pete had grown into a good young man. Gone were the days when he idolized Ray, when the simple act of Ray fixing a broken toy truck was deemed heroic. But they still had moments: like going to the occasional Buffalo Bills' game, the two of them grilling steaks in the lot before kickoff. It made his chest ache to think Pete might be gone.

He cursed himself for coming back to the campsite. Should be out looking for Pete. Ann Marie's voice echoed in his head, his wife sometimes exhibiting an almost casual cruelty: Maybe someday you'll find your spine, Ray. He shouldered his pack. If he died out there, at least he would die searching for Pete.

Heading in the direction of the footprints, he managed to find the trail. They certainly were fucking strange. Some type of animal. He continued into the pines, trying to follow the general path of where the footprints might have gone. He was rewarded by finding snapped brush and branches, meaning something large had come through.

After moving through the woods, the moonlight his only companion, he spied a shiny object on the ground and hunkered down: it was Pete's pocket knife.

There was no blood on it, and he found that somewhat comforting.

He continued to follow the footprints as they wound through the broken branches left by Pete's abductor.

After travelling another couple hundred yards, he came to a clearing. In the clearing was a domed structure constructed of sticks and leaves. It stood around ten feet high and gave the impression of a makeshift shelter.

Circling around it, Ray listened to determine if anyone was inside. There was an opening tall enough to admit a man of seven feet tall. He took out Pete's pocket knife and clicked the blade open, thinking some weapon was better than nothing.

The same sour, musky smell that he noticed before Pete's abduction came from the doorway of the thatched structure. Ray crept inside, the ground spongy under his feet.

He squinted to see, the darkness near total. He didn't hear anyone inside. “Pete?”

This place was empty. But who the hell built it?

As he turned to go, he stepped on something squishy and wet. He kicked at the unseen object and it clung to his foot and he stumbled out the door. He managed to unstick the mess from his shoe, and in the moonlight he got a better look at it: pinkish gray and slicked with blood. The rest of it trailed inside the shelter and he realized it was a loop of entrails.

He fell to his knees and fought the urge to vomit. Jesus, please don't let that be Pete.

Stomach churning, he stood. His hands shook and he looked at the viscera on the ground at his feet. What if Pete's clothes were inside? There was only one way to tell.

He ducked back into the shelter and felt around, crawling back and forth on the ground. He found no clothes but did manage to stick his finger in something. He was glad it was dark.

When he climbed out of the shelter, he wiped his hands on some leaves. “Maybe it's from an animal.”

He continued through the woods, following the broken branches until he came to a cliff. From down below came the gurgle of water. Ray looked at the ground and saw the footprints ended at the cliff. He peered over the edge and saw the cliff went down to the riverbed. There were a series of rock shelves on the way down. It was possible someone could climb down, resting on each shelf.

The footprints definitely ended here.

The first shelf was about twenty feet down and he figured it was the only route the abductor could have taken. He lowered himself, belly pressed against the rocks. He found some footing and managed to climb down to the first shelf, sweating and panting.

He searched the rocky shelf for any sign of Pete but found nothing.

After another ten minutes of climbing, he reached the next shelf down. This time he found Pete's brown leather wallet. Still no blood on it, which he took as a good sign.

Climbing to the floor of the ravine, with resting, took him another forty-five minutes, and when he reached the bottom, he was minus half the nail on his right fingernail. He sucked on the wounded nail as if it would help but was rewarded only with the tastes of blood and dirt.

His throat felt as if he'd sucked dirt through a straw and swallowed. The water was long gone.

He knelt at the riverbank, scooped up some water, and swished it in his mouth. Then he spit it out, the water silty and brackish.

After searching the riverbank, he found the footprints. They headed down river and he follwed them for another quarter mile.

As he slogged along the riverbank, the hairs on his neck prickled. He got a tight feeling in his guts, like he might let loose in his drawers. Fear. Someone watching him.

As a shriek echoed through the woods, he took out the pocketknife.  

Forgotten Chapter One - Excerpt

Here's an excerpt of my work-in-progress, Forgotten. I had previously posted the prologue. This is Chapter One. This is uncorrected copy. Please do not redistribute. Copyright 2012 Anthony Izzo.



Forgotten By Anthony Izzo

Chapter One

The day had started off full of promise, just Ray and his son hiking in the mountains. Seeing the West, the Big Sky country. They had started off at eleven this morning, stopped to eat turkey subs near a clear blue stream, the sun pleasantly warming their faces. They had headed further into the hills and it wasn't until around three o'clock that Ray realized they were lost. He hadn't told Pete, who at fifteen, was up for anything and would've accused his old man of being a worry wart.

Now it was four o'clock and being fall it meant dark would be coming soon. The shadows had started to lengthen and Ray felt a tiny bit of panic start to well up inside him. Being lost in the mountains with very little survival gear didn't appeal to him.

They had been heading downhill, Pete up ahead of Ray. The air had grown chilly. They were on a narrow trail flanked by scrub pines, the smell of the trees thick in the air. “Hold up Pete.”

Pete, tall and lanky and looking nothing like the little boy Ray rembered, turned. He gave Ray a goofy grin. “We're lost, aren't we?”

“How'd you know?”

“We've just sort of been wandering,” he said, and adjusted his back pack.

“I think the stream is back that way. Where we had lunch,” Ray said, unsure.

“I don't think so, Dad.”

Ray took a compass from his pocket, fiddled with it. He couldn't figure the damned thing out and put it away after a moment. He didn't want to admit to himself that he had no damned business going this deep into the wilderness without help. They had spent the first few nights of their trip in a little tourist town called Forgotten. It was named after an abandoned mining town a few miles from the tourist place. They had been staying at a place called the Three Pines Lodge and had set out on a hike. He hadn't told the clerk at Three Pines about their trip, for he'd expected to be back that same day.

Seeing a log, he sat down. His head swam. It wasn't just him up here. He had Pete to worry about. “Hold up.”

“I'm not going anywhere.”

It seemed as if the shadows had crept out of the woods. As they had descended the trail, Ray had heard birds chirping on a regular basis, but now he heard none. “Dammit. Maybe we should backtrack.”

“How about we find a spot to set up camp? We hunker down for tonight and find our way down in the daylight.”

“Hold on. I'm an idiot,” Ray said, reaching into his pocket and taking out his cell phone. He had the phone number for the Lodge in his contacts. They'd planned this vacation for months, and he'd had to make several calls to the Lodge. “Help is on the way.”

He brought up the Lodge on the contacts menu and hit Call. Prayed for a signal up in the mountains. The phone rang three times and a female voice answered. “Three Pines Lodge. Lisa speaking.”

Lisa. Good. That was the clerk they'd seen before leaving. She would remember them. “Lisa. My name is Ray Hansen. I'm staying in room three-fifteen. Look, my son and I are lost up in the mountains and I was hoping you could call for help.”

“Let me look you up in the computer,” she said.

“I don't see why that matters,” Ray said.

“I'll determine that, sir,” she said, voice growing cold.

He could hear her fingers tapping a keyboard. “Sir, I'm afraid I don't show you in our system.”

“How can I not be in our system? You rented me a room. I talked to you this morning.”

“I'm afraid I don't remember.”

Ray felt his face start to flush with anger. “Is this a joke?”

“Sir, I wonder if you're the one joking. You're wasting my time.”

“Look, can you please call the local authorities. It's getting dark up here.”

“You shouldn't have gone up there.”

“What?”

Lisa repeated, “You shouldn't have gone up there. You belong to the mountain now.”

The connection ended and he tried to dial again but the phone rang for nearly a minute with no answer. He felt like throwing the cell phone against a tree. He didn't let his anger take over and shoved it in his pocket instead.

“What happened?” Pete said.

“She acted like she didn't know me.”

“You dialed the right number?”

“No Pete, I called the damned Dairy Queen in town. What do you think?”

Pete's eyebrows knitted together in a frown. “Don't have to get pissy about it.”

“I'm sorry. Of course I dialed the right number.”

“So now what?” Pete asked.

“We'll find a spot and camp for the night.”

They hiked down the mountain until it had grown almost too dark to see. It had been blind luck that they'd found a small shelf ledge with an overhanging rock. They would be able to use it for shelter. They set their packs underneath and sat down. Ray had a few granola bars and bottled water in his pack and they downed the granola bars and half the water.

They were both wearing long sleeves, but Ray's was thin flannel and he was already shivering. One thing he did have was flint, and they were able to gather enough kindling and wood. After setting up a fire teepee, Ray got the flint to spark and got a fire going. Thank goodness for small favors. “Not exactly the Hilton, but it'll do for the night.”

“We'll survive. It's been a great trip.”

“You mean that?” Ray asked.

“I mean it. It's been cool.”

Ray had suggested the trip after Ann Marie had decided she wanted to start bar-hopping at forty-three. She'd been hanging out with a crew of single people, all of them under thirty. Several of them male. Most nights she wasn't home anymore and he wondered what had become of the woman who used to spend her nights knitting and watching Seinfeld re-runs with him. Pete needed a mom. Ray needed a wife. Right now, Ann Marie was being neither. “I'm glad. I'm having a good time, too. Even if we're lost.”

Pete waved it off. “We'll be fine.”

The fire began to crackle and he felt a pleasant warmth on his face. Maybe things would be okay, after all.

The fire had died down to embers and Ray had curled himself into a ball, a stone digging into his side. He was using his pack as a pillow and a huge crick had formed in his neck. Ray checked his watch. Two ten a.m. He glanced at Jake, who was snoring, and he envied his son's ability to sleep.

“Best build up the fire,” Ray said to himself.

He crawled out from under the rock shelf, stood up, and stretched. His back gave a crack and he rolled his neck, attempting to get out the mess of knots that had formed in the muscle. Sticking to the edges of their campsite, he gathered up wood. He was about to go back and place it on the fire when he heard branches snapping in the darkness.

He shrugged it off as a deer and continued gathering wood. As he approached the dying fire, he heard the rustling noises coming closer. Critch-Crunch. It sounded like someone on two legs. Not an animal. Icicles seemed to form on his spine. He wanted to curl back up under the rock shelf and wait for the unseen thing in the woods to go away.

Instead of curling up, he nudged Pete, who woke up. In a whisper, he said: “There's something in the woods.”

“What is it?”

“I don't know. Sounds like a person.”

“Who the hell would be up here?” Pete said.

“Keep quiet.”

Ray glanced at the fire and wished for the first time that the fire had gone out and had not attracted the unseen person in the woods. Branches snapped and leaves crackled. A sour, pungent smell filled the air, and Ray worried that it was a grizzly bear. They wouldn't stand a chance if a bear wanted to take them.

Ray spied a large stick on the ground near the fire. Ten feet away. Four inches in diameter, it appeared solid, and although it wouldn't be a perfect weapon, it was better than nothing. Still crouched, he moved out of the rock shelf and reached for the stick.

Pete cried out from behind him and he saw something massive and dark tear from the woods and snatch up Pete. It had to be eight fucking feet tall. Moved like a panther. Pete's cries echoed from the darkness. Ray scrambled to his feet and blindly ran after Pete, stumbling into the woods.

He got about twenty yards and realized Pete's abductor had disappeared. But how was that possible? He had given chase right away and didn't think it possible for the kidnapper to disappear that fast. Glancing around, all he saw was the shadows.

“Pete?”

He strained to listen and heard branches crunching somewhere in the distance. It was vaguely to his right and he took off in that direction. Had to find Pete, no matter what.

Soon he had traveled a few hundred yards and it didn't take long before he was lost. Turning, he tried to locate the glow of the fire, but saw nothing. He stopped and listened, but heard nothing. Taking a chance, he called Pete's name, but no answer came.

He moved where he thought their campsite would be located and as he slipped between two tall trees, the ground gave out, as did his footing. Pitching forward, he lost his balance and was aware of skidding down a hill. Ray clawed the dirt on the way down, but he couldn't grab hold and his slide down the steep hill continued. He rolled twice before landing at the bottom, a stinking puddle soaking his shirt.

Getting to his feet, he felt like he'd taken a beating. His back ached and he'd scraped his elbows and knees. His shirt had ripped at the elbow, and his jeans had torn at the knees. He looked up at the hill and determined it too steep to climb. He had to get help. Someone to help locate Pete.

What the Hell had taken him? It was big. He saw that much. But it had moved too quickly for him to get a good look. He didn't even know what he'd tell the cops.

He picked a direction and started walking. Part of him wanted to scream. The other part wanted to cry, as he'd utterly failed Pete.

Five minutes after he started walking, a high-pitched wail echoed through the night.

The wailing noise came from the top of the hill, where Ray had tumbled. Pete had to be up there. He began to scramble up the hill, legs aching. He peered upward and was aware of someone standing at the top of the hill, and it had to be seven feet tall. He flattened himself against the ground and crawled behind a medium-sized boulder.

The breeze blew, bringing with it the scent of something rotten and dead. He glanced up again and saw the figure move away. His heart felt as if it might explode in his chest, and then Doctor Matthews would be right, the prick. He'd been telling Ray to lose weight for years.

It took him fifteen minutes, but he climbed to the top of the hill. When he reached the top, his fingers were bleeding from clawing roots and rocks. His legs burned from lactic acid buildup in the muscles, as if he'd just done a thousand squats. He looked around but so no sign of the abductor. The smell still hung in the air, gagging him.

He looked down and saw evidence of the abductor. A three-toed footprint nearly eighteen inches long. It appeared there were claws jutting from the toes.

A series of the strange footprints continued across the ground and then disappeared. He followed them and discovered the just stopped. Gone. Like Pete.

Updates and The Writer's Toolkit

I have about twenty to thirty thousand words left to write on the current novel. It's called Forgotten. It involves some flesh-eating mutants, messed-up townspeople, and a vacation spot you might regret visiting. Look for a late October or early November release.

I've recently gotten hooked on Breaking Bad. Going back and starting the series from Season One on Netflix. Outstanding performances and storytelling so far.

Also been thinking about writing on the go and carrying a writer's "toolkit."

I carry mine in an Army Engineer's bag purchased at the surplus store. Here's what I've got in mine:

Laptop

Multiple notebooks

Multiple pens (I like the Sharpie-style pens)

Kindle (if you're writing, you need to be reading, as well)

Sketchpad and pencil kit (even if you don't consider yourself artistic, you can always sketch out diagrams of fictional towns, buildings, etc. to keep things straight)

Index cards (for plotting, storyboarding)

As I've posted before, be ready to grab those extra moments in waiting rooms and such.  Words have a habit of piling up over time. Even if you spend a few minutes outlining or making story notes, it's time well spent.

Sneak Peak of Forgotten

Getting back on track with writing. My oldest son was in the hospital last week with a bout of gastritis. Hats off to the nurses at Children's Hospital of Buffalo for the great care they gave him.

I'm about halfway done with Forgotten, the latest novel. I'm shooting for a late October/early November release. Once Forgotten is out, I'll write the third Dead Land book and finish up the trilogy.

In the meantime, here's a snipped from Forgotten. It's from my first draft and should be considered uncorrected copy.

Excerpt from Forgotten. Copyright 2012 Anthony Izzo

Prologue

Griggs had gotten the call from dispatch: report of a possible intruder out on Pine Top Road, please investigate. Apparently someone's dog had started going crazy and the owner had seen someone out by their shed.

He'd been Sheriff in the town of Forgotten for fifteen years and calls like this were far and few between. It was mostly peaceful. They got a lot of tourists who came to get a taste of Big Sky Country and the mountain air.

He pulled the Crown Vic up to the house, a brick ranch with white trim around the windows. It was the beginning of October, and the family had placed a trio of pumpkins and a dried cornstalk on their porch.

Griggs radioed that he was on the scene and got out of the cruiser. Once at the front door, he rang the bell and a middle-aged couple in matching white robes opened the door. The man was balding and his belly strained the belt on the robe. The woman was pretty, even with some crow's feet around her eyes.

“Officer, we're glad you're here.”

“Sheriff. We got the complaint about an intruder?”

“Yes, come in.”

Griggs stepped into the living room, where a girl of about nine slept on the couch.

“You're Mr. Hardin?” Griggs asked.

“Eric. This is my wife Theresa.”

Theresa said, “Shadow, our German Shepherd, started going nuts. I had just let him out. When I went to see what he was barking about, I saw a large man in the woods.”

“What happened after you saw him?”

“He slipped back into the woods.”

“Okay. Stay here and I'll go investigate.”

Shadow came bounding into the room, gave a hearty bark, and sat at Theresa's feet. His ears went back and he began to whine. The Shepherd attempted to bury it's head in Theresa's leg. Some watch dog. Something must have spooked him.

“Is he normally timid?” Griggs asked.

Eric said, “Usually he's fearless. Something got him scared.”

“All right. Where did you see the intruder exactly?”

“Out by the shed. Back of the property,” Eric said.

“Stay here. I'll go around and have a look,” Griggs said, taking a flashlight from his belt.

He rounded the house and started down the driveway. The rotten-sweet smell of garbage came from trash cans left by the side of the house. A girl's bike with tassles on the handlebar grips had been left on its side.

The yard contained a patio near the sliding glass door, and a table and chairs had been wrapped in a blue tarp, stored for the winter. He saw the shed, its white siding illuminated in the moonlight.

He shined his light on the shed and then the woods beyond. The breeze picked up, causing the pines to sway. Something tipped over and banged. He shined the light and saw it was a spade that had been leaning against the shed.

Moving forward, he swept the light back and forth. He kept his other hand on the Glock. The old-timers in town, the men that hung around the diner and drank endless cups of coffee, spoke of strange things happening up in the mountains. Some of them he believed. Some he didn't. No doubt these stories fed the imagination of the homeowners.

He drew closer to the shed and was beginning to think the dog had been barking at shadows.

A pile of pressure-treated lumber lay on the ground behind the shed. He checked the ground and saw no footprints. The shed had two front windows and he peered in both with the windows. After determining there was no intruder in the shed, he was ready to head back to the house.

A branch snapped, sounding like a whipcrack. It had come from the woods.

He crept to the edge of the woods. The beam only went so far before it was devoured by the shadows.

“Police. Come out,” he said, drawing his Glock. He'd only fired it on the range. Firing on a person was completely different.

Another branch snapped, this one sounding like a gunshot.

Something walked between two trees. Its head brushed a branch that had to be seven feet off the ground. His heartbeat began to pick up and he took a deep breath to steady himself. The huge man appeared to be dresed in rags. A huge rock or club hung from one hand. The head was malformed, as if someone had squished a piece of clay into a nightmare form.

“Police,” he said, but the giant paid him no attention and bounded into the woods, branches crackling as it went. The legends spun in diners just might be true.

He backed away from the woods, sweeping the Glock back and forth in case the intruder returned. It wasn't until he got within ten yards of the house that he turned his back on the woods.

He leaned against the side of the house and let out a huge breath. If he told the family what he'd seen, they'd never believe it. Something less-than-human trolling in the woods.

Once his hands had stopped shaking, he holstered the Glock. Then he went back to the front door and rang the bell.

Eric came to the door, his face hopeful. The bathrobe had come open, revealing coarse black chest hair.

“Find anything?” Eric asked.

“Just some broken branches. I think your culprit was probably a deer.”

Eric let out a huge sigh. “Thank you. We were so startled we brought our daughter to sleep downstairs. Shadow never gets upset. I'm sorry we wasted your time.”

“All part of my job,” Griggs said. “Call if there's any other trouble.”

One Week Later

Josh Elliott was aware of the men watching him. He could feel their gazes searing into the back of his neck like a branding iron. He had no beef with them. Hadn't exchanged words or dirty looks, but still he felt them staring.

Seated at the bar in the Forgotten Pub, he was working on a brunette in a low-cut mauve sweater. She had freckles on her cleavage. Hair was a little too big and out of style, but he could live with that. Liked the way she threw her head back and laughed like she didn't give a shit who heard. And she had approached him. Her name was Jamie.

She was a nice surprise. He'd only stopped in Forgotten for a few nights as part of his road trip. He'd graduated with a mechanical engineering degree from the University of Buffalo but was in no hurry to get a job. Figured he'd see the country. Center himself before settling into a desk job for the next forty years. A modern-day Kerouac.

“You want another beer?” Jamie said.

“Why not?” he said. His head spun and he felt a little disconnected from the noise in the bar. But his gaze kept going back to her chest. He had a chance with her. Right?

She ordered him another Stone IPA. There were five empties in front of him. Shit, had he downed those since meeting Jamie?

She raised her hand and the barkeep came over, set down a beer, and popped the top with an opener. Jamie continued working on a vodka and cranberry.

“So how long are you staying in Forgotten?” she asked.

“I told you until this Saturday. Going hiking tomorrow.”

“I have a place around the corner. Wanna go?”

“Yeah.”

“You keep looking at my chest.”

“That's right.”

“You like what you see?”

“That's a silly question,” Josh said.

“Come on,” she said, and held out her hand.

He took it, her skin smooth and cool on his. She led, her Guess jeans hugging all the curves. From the corner of his eye, he saw the men who'd been watching get up and follow. There were three of them, dressed in denim and sheepskin jackets.

“I think those guys are following us.”

“Don't worry about 'em,” Jamie said, leading him into the cool air.

She stepped onto the sidewalk and led him to a Range Rover parked at the sidewalk.

“Hop in.”

He got in, the interior smelling of cigarettes and heavy perfume. She got in the driver's seat and slid her hand around the back of his head. She pulled him close and kissed him hard, tounge flicking in his mouth. She tasted of vodka and cigarettes, but still his cock grew hard. The cigarette taste didn't matter. It had been a month since he'd banged his buddy's sister in a bar bathroom. He was ready to go.

He kissed her back, slipped a hand up and squeezed her breast. She moaned.

A moment later he felt something hard dig into his belly. She pushed him away and he looked down. A silver revolver. Her finger on the trigger. “What are you doing?”

“That's a nice gold watch you have, Josh,” she said, giving a smile that could charm the devil.

“You're robbing me?”

“No. This is something much worse.”

The car door was ripped open and rough hands pulled him from the car. He banged his ankle on the curb and pain shot up his leg. Josh flailed, looked around. His assailants were the men who'd been watching from the bar and he realized he'd been set up.

He got his arm free and blasted one of them in a face, a big bastard with a full blonde beard. The guy's head snapped back but it didn't really move the guy. He countered with a right hook that caused Josh's vision to dim. Knees buckling, he felt himself slinking to the ground.

As he fell to his knees he saw Jamie coming around the Range Rover. She tucked the revolver into her purse and knelt in front of him. “You didn't really think you had a chance with me, did you?”

A gruff voice said, “Get him up.”

They hauled him to his feet. Jaw aching, Josh looked around for any sign of someone who might help. The streets were bare. He could hear muted country music coming from the juke inside the pub and the low murmur of the bar crowd. But the streets were empty and there was no one to help.

They dragged him to the Range Rover. Jamie opened the passenger door and they shoved him inside. The big blond guy got in the driver's seat. Jamie and the other two men piled in back. He heard something being unzipped and then felt the cold barrel of the revolver against the back of his neck.

“Fucking move and I'll spatter you all over the front seat,” Jamie said.

They pulled away from the curb, drove down the street, and made several turns, winding through side streets. They ended up on a road flanked by pines. “Where are you taking me.”

“Why would we tell you?” Jamie said.

They had to be taking him to the woods. And that would be the last of anyone saw of him. From the back seat he heard one of them talking on a cell phone. The man's voice was low, but Josh made out something about being on route. The man ended the call almost as soon as it had began.

The Range Rover continued along the road until it began to rise into the hils. They made another quick turn and they came to a driveway marked by a sign that said Hospital.

As they pulled up the driveway he saw a monstrous brick building that looked like it could've doubled as a medieval fortress. A series of turrets and pointed spires rose against the sky. The place had to have a thousand windows that gleamed like malevolent eyes.

“Why are you taking me to the hospital?” Josh asked.

“You'll see,” Jamie said.

They stopped the Range Rover in a roundabout near the hospital's front steps. There were twin concrete gargoyles flanking the steps, each with a sneer on their stone faces. Jamie got out behind him, opened his door, and held the revolver at her side. The other men got out and surrounded Josh.

“Up the steps and not a word.”

Jamie slipped behind him, digging the revolver into his kidney. One of the men went up the steps and opened the door. The other two gripped Josh's arm, their fingers digging into his flesh.

Inside, a faded checkerboard floor done in brown and white stretched out ahead of him. A circular desk took up a large portion of the lobby. To the left and right were a series of double doors. He saw a slim but muscular cop standing at the desk and breathed a sigh of relief. All he had to do was signal the cop and this would be over.

The cop approached. The name badge on his uniform read Griggs. He bore a flat expression on his face. He placed his hands on hips and looked Josh up and down.

“Officer, I'm glad to see you.”

“Shut up,” Griggs said.

“But these people...”

Before he could get the rest of the words out, Griggs slammed a fist into Josh's belly. He doubled over, stomach nearly heaving. The men pulled him back to his feet. He saw a set of double doors open and a nurse in pale scrubs and a doctor in a white coat approached with a gurney.

“What the fuck is going on!” Josh said.

Griggs turned to the doctor and said, “You ready for him?”

The doctor drew closer, hands in the pockets of the lab coat. He looked at Josh with a counterfeit smile. Josh started to flail, but the crushing grip on his arms only intensifed. Someone kicked him behind the knee and his leg buckled. They forced him to the ground, pinned his head down. He saw the doctor's polished loafers. Saw him hunker down. His sleeve was forced up and he felt the needle prick his arm.

They held him down for a few more moments until a warm feeling overtook him and soon he felt as if he were floating in liquid. His limbs got heavy and he felt incredibly relaxed.

“Get him on the gurney,” a voice said.