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Stories Included are: AUTOPSY - They were tasked with finding out what was causing the dead to reanimate. If only the corpse would cooperate. BREAKFAST WITH EMORY - For more years than I can count, Old Man Hunley came into the store every morning for breakfast. He always bought the same thing--a quart of milk and two pieces of toast from Mom. Then he'd go sit at his favorite table in the corner, pull a package wrapped in wax paper from out of his pocket, put the contents on the toast, and make a sandwich out of it. That was Emory Hunley's routine for years, day in and day out, regardless of the weather, until the morning came when he didn't show. UNCLE BUFORD'S WORLD FAMOUS BAR-B-QUE - On their way to Boston, Jeff and June stopped at the rundown-looking establishment sitting off on the side of the road because they were both hungry and intrigued by its sign. To their surprise, the food was as good as advertised. They just weren't ready for the "after taste". |
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EXCERPT from "Autopsy"
It was clear the body once belonged to what appeared to have
been a beautiful woman, but death and reanimation had robbed her
of any semblance of humanity. What lay before them was a
mishmash of putrefaction and near perfect embalmment. The body
was pockmarked with festering wounds that never should have been
there in the first place, and subsequently would never heal. It
also bore fresh wounds. Carl pointed out one such bloodless gash
on the thing’s left leg where a good three to four inches of the
tibia was exposed. “That looks like an ax wound,” he remarked.
“Or a machete.” “So does this,” Badgette commented from
where he stood by the thing’s head. Curious, Carl walked over to join him, and
realized the head wasn’t attached to the body. It had been
severed at the neck. But when the creature had been placed on
the table, the head had been strapped down to make it appear to
be all together. They weren’t prepared when the thing
suddenly jerked on the table, as if trying to free itself from
its restraints. |
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EXCERPT from "Breakfast with Emory" By ten o’clock I was ready to shut down the store for the night. I grudgingly gave change to a last-minute trucker passing through who needed a pack of smokes, then followed him to the glass doors to lock up behind him, when I spotted the familiar brown car pulling into the parking lot. Seconds later, two county sheriffs in an unmarked patrol car followed it in. I waited until Rannington had parked directly in front of me. “Bill.” He slid out from under the steering wheel,
a very dark and disturbed look on his face. Car doors slammed
almost in unison as four more men emerged from their vehicles.
One other gentleman was definitely green around the gills. They
came inside the store, and I locked the doors behind them to
give us some privacy. Just to be sure, I turned around the sign
on the door so it read Closed. Rannington wasted no time getting to the
point. “Bill, you said Emory Hunley ate breakfast here every
morning for the past twenty years?” “Ever since I was eight years old. Why?
What’s going on?” One of the other men spoke up and
introduced himself. “I’m Agent Wallace with the FBI.” He flashed
a wallet and a badge at me. “You said you last saw Mr. Hunley
yesterday morning?” “Yes, sir. Same as always.” “What time was this?” I pondered for a moment. He was here;
that’s what I usually took note of. “I can’t exactly say. He
would show up anytime between seven and nine in the morning.” I
tried again to picture him in my mind, but twenty-odd years of
mental images just flowed all together into one big hazy fog.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t put an exact time on it.” “Do you remember what he ate?” Bill
inquired. What he ate? I chuckled. “You tell me and
we’ll both know,” I smiled. “Why’s that?” Agent Wallace asked, wholly
serious. “Because the man’s been eating the same
thing for the past twenty plus years. A quart of milk, two
pieces of toast, and whatever filler he brought with him that he
had wrapped in wax paper.” Bill cocked his head. “Filler? What do you
mean, filler?” |
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EXCERPT from
"Uncle Buford's World Famous Bar-B-Que"
A little after noon, June commented she was hungry, surprising
her husband. He’d been happy to see her eating better than
normal once their trip had begun, but this confession elated
him. She’d lost so much weight, especially after the
chemotherapies. She’d also lost so much of her hair, she chose
to wear a wig when she was out in public. “Get out the map and let’s see how far we are from the
next town,” he told her. After finding sporadic, if any cell
phone coverage in several spots during their trip, they’d
purchased two state highway maps from the convenience store the
last time they’d stopped for gas. June tried to unfold the multi-folded paper but gave up
after a brief wrestling match. Sighing, Jeff pulled over at the
next semi-straight stretch of road and extricated his wife from
the paper’s clutches. “Sorry,” she half-whispered in apology. “No problem. Let’s see… We’re on sixty-one right now,
right? Ummm… It doesn’t look like there’s a town anywhere near
here until we get to Titusville.” “How far is that?” “Probably another thirty-five or forty minutes. Can you
wait that long?” His wife took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as she
contemplated. “And then we’d have to find a place to eat, then
there’s the waiting while they fix it…” She trailed off. “What about those snacks you bought at the gas station?” “I didn’t buy that much, and I’ve already eaten them.” “We could look for a nearby hamburger joint, if you’re
needing something now,” he suggested. He knew she still suffered
from the effects of her treatments, plus her medications often
played havoc with her system. Like a diabetic, if she needed
something to eat, she needed it immediately. As they meandered through the beautiful scenery, Jeff ran
through his mental nooks and crannies, trying to remember if he
had a spare candy bar stashed somewhere. Because he was only
partially concentrating on the road and his driving, he nearly
passed the place until June’s shout and finger pointing
surprised him back to attention. Backing slowly along the gravel parking area, they stopped to stare at the building and then at the sign. If the place had ever seen a drop of paint in its lifetime, it had to have been decades ago. It was as gray as wet cement. Showing every crack and droop, the building sagged its jowls like an old lady too tired to raise her head. The front steps angled off into the dirt. Windows dangled half-open. Even the front doors dragged on their hinges. There had to be at least a two-inch gap between the frame and the jamb. Amazingly, however, the place looked clean. There wasn’t a scrap of trash to be seen, not even in the parking lot.Somewhere at the rear of the building, smoke curled up
beyond the roof and into the sky. Hanging from the eaves was a
hand-painted sign on a chipped and warped board. UNCLE BUFORD’S WORLD FAMOUS
BAR-B-Q Come on in! |
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