Before he started the climb, James spied an old pickup parked about fifty yards away from the bottom of the cliffs, next to it a small adobe house revealed a dim light just visible through a side window. The security guard must have been asleep or bombed, James passed by without incident.
The climb was exhilarating. The desert landscape was a surrealistic study of black and white tones in the ribbon of moonlight.
There was a path on the rim of the cliffs that led to a wide-mouthed opening about eight feet high and ten feet wide and inside three caves honeycombing an area that spread out into the body of the cliffs. James checked his utility belt to make sure he had all the gear he needed. There was the usual assortment: small hammers, picks, brushes, and leather pouches.
Nights were cool in the desert and so James had worn his heavy jeans and long-sleeved denim shirt. However, the temperature in the mouth of the central opening took a drastic rise to that outside, causing his clothes to stick and feel clammy. Then he reached the first cave and the darkness was an oppressive inky blackness in a dank pool of air that his flashlight’s high beam struggled to penetrate.
He was suddenly aware of slow movement to his left. The realization began to dawn on him even before he rolled over just what it was. It was her. She hadn’t left, though he wished that she had. He had done her, to be sure, exploring every part of her that she would allow, and even a place or two that he had had no interest in venturing to, but come the morning, he had hoped that the bitch would be gone.
Zombies were all the rage in 2009, and it seems that 2010 is shaping up to be the Year of the Angel. From television and Supernatural to film Legion, to the novel Angelology, angels are cropping up everywhere, and I thought I’d take this time today to share with you some of what I learned about researching angel lore for my own novel, Release, which I started writing in Fall ’08 and finished in Spring ‘09.
The man either ignores me or doesn’t hear me, for he crouches over the woman and draws the blade of the dagger across her exposed throat. Deep crimson blood spurts in a forceful, fifteen foot arc, spattering the cold, grey flags of the hall floor. The woman rolls over on her back, clutching uselessly at her severed throat as blood seeps thickly through her fingers. She turns her head and I am horrified to see that she is looking directly at me. I can actually see the light of life fading in her eyes as the spurting blood from her severed arteries slows to a trickle.
I can take no more of this carnage and I pull my hand away from the wall. Instantly I am back in the present and breathing hard. Back are the weapons, portraits and suits of armour.
My father warned me about the air in New Orleans, but I had to see the city, this growing metropolis, for myself, she thought as she walked down Bourbon Street. Before her visit to the city at the mouth of the Mississippi river, Miranda had thought New York City to be the height of cosmopolitan culture. She wasn’t certain if New Orleans could surpass New York in all the trade and commerce, but New Orleans had something New York didn’t …a soul.
Paul leaned over the counter. “You’re dead Kimberly.” His tongue was foaming. Then he laughed maliciously. He leaned closer, right up to her face as her expression soured. Her cheeks lost color. Her biffy braces vanished in a frown. She looked so stiff and icky that the tension almost launched several white heads from her face. Speechless, out of breath, the cashier stood there in awe. The calloused Nucker strolled away, snickering. “See ya real soon…Bitch,” he warned, barely catching an ear. Then he slid out past the sliding glass doors like a serpent.
She breathes hard inside the confined space, flinching with every sound she hears. There is the sound of what seems like chains above her but it’s hard to be sure, even with her abilities. Occasionally a loud bang startles her and it’s everything she can do to stop herself crying out. She tightens her hands into fists, nails digging into bloody palms as again, noises far too close for comfort, follow one after another.
As he sucked in a breath to start another verse, he heard the flutter of wings behind him, like a bird or maybe a bat, which was odd, as there was nothing to attract birds on this street in London. There were no trees or fences for them to perch on, just the unlit streetlamps, like the one he’d just bumped into, and the warehouses that kept wartime supplies, such as the plethora of gas masks that all London citizens carried, even the babies. When he thought about it, the warehouses were probably perfect places for bats to nest in. Yep, that had to be it.
Neil mused on how he’d never seen a bat before, and he wondered if perhaps they minded flying about in such cold weather. He thought about turning on his lamp; the cowl over the top of it made the light shine downward, so it shouldn’t attract too much attention. Then he remembered that bats might be attracted to light, and he didn’t want the bat to get caught in his hair. He’d heard that bats could be awfully nasty if they flew in your hair – they got caught in it so badly that the only way to get them out was to shave your hair off. He had a bad enough time with women as it was; he didn’t need to be bald as well.
Just as the bus pulled away she caught something out of the corner of her eye and she swung her head round and peered through the bus window. It was as though her eyes sought him out through the crowds, like some part of her deep down knew exactly where to look, exactly where to find him. For there, on the other side of the street and standing in the crevasse of a doorway, was the man who had tried to help her.
I pushed aside all negative thoughts as easily as I erased myself from mortal recollection and with an air of authority, only we the kindred possessed, strolled into the beating heart of London life, eager once more to murder my family again and again.
‘Untrue to myself. I have thoughts I dare not give platform to speak their evil. I know not what to do or how to proceed. I fear,’ yet another pause, pregnant with tension. ‘I fear I no longer know how to proceed with my own life. I beg the dear Father’s help, if he will oblige me?’
John planted them in his garden, enjoying his hobby. He spent his days stalking and his nights planting in the large vegetable plot. His wife had hated him gardening, but she was dead now. The police harvested his crop; John went to prison for a long time.
“I pulled into my parking stall late that first night and shut off the car. We don’t have a parking lot, just a few spaces in the alley: there’s only eight units in the complex anyway, so we don’t need much. I drive a 98 Mustang convertible; yellow with black lines and when I opened the door, something caught my ear.”
“Hannah.”
“It sounded very otherworldly, as if I heard it, but not really. More like I felt it. I thought someone was crying, and then realized that that wasn’t it, it was somebody calling. However, when I stopped to listen, it was gone. I stood there in the dark for a while to see if it’d come back, but it didn’t. I was tired and hungry, so I probably only gave it a few seconds before I finally turned and headed for my apartment.”
“I didn’t hear it again until the next night. I had just pulled into my spot and cut the motor.”
“Here, Hannah.”
“It scared the shit outta’ me! I must’ve been daydreaming or something. I even checked the back seat. That’s how close it was.”
“C’mon, Hannah. Come to big sister. Hannah?”
“So I jumped out of the car to see whether I might be able to catch them this time. I wasn’t thinking about ghosts or anything…”
The spinner of the tale paused a moment, slipping out of character. “I know. I love that, too,” he said, directing the comment to some of those who laughed.
Twinkle twinkle the undead
vegetarian an under fed.
never sleeping, sneaking in
bedroom windows, never sin.
The time was coming,
As I knew it would.
I had to get ready,
I knew I should.
