by JG Faherty
Waiting until the bikers were drunk wasn’t easy. All of them could hold their booze – including the girls – and Eddie knew it would take several pitchers each before they even got buzzed.
Then he remembered how he’d experienced everything through Jethro while possessing him.
Why should Butchie have all the fun?
This time Eddie was prepared for the transformation when he placed his hand on Butch’s shoulder. The sudden burst of white light followed by pure darkness, like a camera flash going off in a lightless cave.
And then that amazing, wonder-fucking-ful feeling of being….
Alive!
He’d entered Butch in the middle of eating a chicken wing. Caught mid-swallow, Eddie found himself choking on fiery hot sauce. Christ, I never realized how hot he liked his food! Ignoring the laughter of the others, he grabbed his beer and chugged half of it down, relishing the explosion of bitter flavor across his tongue while the cold liquid diluted the lava heat of the wing sauce.
Able to breathe again, Eddie leaned back and forced Butch’s face into a sheepish smile. “That one was hotter than a donkey’s ass.” It was something he’d heard Butch say before. Butch’s one redeeming quality had always been his seemingly endless storehouse of good-old-boy quotes, most of them obscene. This one made the whole table howl with laughter.
The waitress came over, a cute girl Eddie remembered from high school. Rhonda something. It came to him that as Butch, he could get away with all sorts of shit he’d have never tried while alive. Things the other guys never worried about, because their families were either just as rude and obnoxious as they were, or because they simply didn’t care what people thought.
So when Rhonda approached him to take his order, he took the opportunity to give her nice, tight ass a squeeze.
With a surprised squeal, Rhonda raised her hand to slap him.
“I wouldn’t do that,” he said, showing her his fist. His response surprised him as much as her. He’d never hit a girl in his life, but his hostage body had responded almost instantly, like an instinctive reaction coded into his genes. “Jes’ get our food and be quick about it.” Eddie forced the fist down to the table, two thoughts foremost in his head.
Gotta keep better control. Can’t have pieces of Butch sneaking out like that.
And….
What the hell kind of home life did Butch have?
He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
Eddie was half-afraid Rhonda would bring the manager back, but when she returned it was just to place more beer on the table.
“I’m sorry.” The words were whispered in his ear as she passed by him. At the same time, she dragged one hand slowly across his shoulder.
Jesus. She wasn’t just apologizing to him, she was coming on to him. He didn’t know what made him feel sicker, that everyone was so scared of the Hell Riders, or that so many supposedly nice girls got turned on by being frightened. He’d never thought about those kinds of things when he’d been part of the gang.
Fear does some fucked-up shit to people, but that doesn’t make it right.
Hank Bowman stood up. “Time to water the garden,” he said, giving Sandy’s shoulder a squeeze. “Don’t miss me too much, baby.”
Sandy laughed and smacked him on the ass. Eddie found his attention focusing on her to the exclusion of everything else. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed touching her, being touched by her. Since leaving the Hell Riders, he hadn’t been with anyone else. He’d thrown himself into his work and family to forget the pain of her publicly cursing him out and dumping him right on the courthouse steps following Ned’s trial.
The next day she’d taken up with Hank.
Lousy bitch. I oughtta take care of both of them right now, like they did to me.
He pictured Hank and Sandy lying in the morgue, their bodies charred and unrecognizable. The image made him pause.
What the hell is wrong with me? Getting pissed off was nothing new, not with his temper, which had always been as much a part of him as his eye color or his love of heavy metal and southern rock. But he’d always managed to keep in mostly under control. Now it seemed like the rage inside him had grown from a simmering pool of lava to a full-blown volcano, ready to erupt at the slightest provocation – and sometimes without any warning at all.
Even weirder, despite his anger, he still wanted her. Was, in fact, growing hard at the thought of it.
Why not? It would sure piss Hank off, and be more fun than just killing them.
He commanded Butch’s body to stand up and walk around the table. No one paid any attention to him, not even when he sat down in Hank’s empty seat.
But they all took notice when he grabbed Sandy, pulled her close, and planted a huge kiss on her mouth. The table went silent, except for one of the other girls, who whispered, “Oh, my God!”
Sandy resisted the kiss at first, but after a moment, her tongue snaked into his mouth and she stopped struggling. His hand crept up her shirt and cupped one braless tit, the nipple hard and pointed between his fingers. Her fingers slid down to his crotch, started squeezing his cock through his jeans. She moaned into his mouth, reminding him of all the times they’d done it at the garage or in the back of the Hell Creek Movie Theater, which her daddy happened to own. He knew just by the way her hips wiggled that she was already getting wet.
Goddamn. She’s getting off on this. Right in front of Hank’s buddies. She’d probably fuck me right here.
How many times did she cheat on me?
That brought his resentment back in full force, a thunderhead of fury that rolled in like a hurricane. By then he had both hands up her shirt, kneading her breasts like fresh dough.
Fuck you, you little whore.
He grabbed both nipples and twisted as hard as he could.
Her hand clamped down on his cock and he came as she screamed.
“What the fuck?”
Eddie turned at the sound of Hank’s voice. His rival stood in the doorway, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. Something hit Eddie’s face with a stinging blow; it took him a moment to realize Sandy had slapped him. She jumped away, tugging down her shirt, tears of pain flowing down her face. Tears she immediately put to good use.
“Hank! He fuckin’ attacked me!”
Eddie nodded. “Couldn’t help it,” he said, savoring the look on Hank’s face. “I been wantin’ to get my hands on them titties for a long time. Little bitch liked it, too.”
Hank’s face turned bright red. “You motherfucker. I’ll fuckin’ kill you.” He grabbed a steak knife off the table and advanced on Butch/Eddie.
Eddie stood up and spread his arms, laughing. “You already killed me once, dick wad. See if you can do better this time.”
Hank stopped at Eddie’s words and all the color drained from his face. “What did you say?”
Drawn by the noise, other diners gathered by the doorway to watch the fight. Someone yelled for the manager, and another voice called out to get the police. Eddie glanced over at the crowd and realized he needed to finish things in a hurry. He wanted someone hurt before the cops came.
Someone like…Sandy. She deserves more than a twisted nipple. Plus, it’ll piss Hank off even further.
Two quick steps brought him within grabbing distance. He took hold of Sandy’s arm and yanked her forward, then quickly put her in a headlock. She struggled and kicked at his legs, leaving painful bruises that just fueled him further. The pain was good! Feeling anything was better than being a ghost.
With his free hand, he unzipped his pants, pulled out a cock way larger than a dumb shit like Butch deserved, and wagged it at Hank. “See this? Your little bitch had her hands on it right under the table. Made me cum like a bastard. I almost forgot how good she was.”
Duck Miller made a move toward them and Eddie yanked harder on Sandy’s neck, making
her gasp. “I’ll snap her fuckin’ neck like a chicken,” he said. “Stay right there.”
“Who the fuck are you?” Hank asked.
“Your worst fuckin’ nightmare.” Eddie was about to add, ‘I’m the guy you fuckin’ burned to death,’ but a commotion behind Hank stopped him.
“Let her go.” It was Dave Martin, the manager. In his hands was a gleaming double-barreled shotgun.
Eddie laughed. This keeps getting better!
Dave raised the gun. “I said, let her go, Butch.”
That’s when things went very wrong for Eddie.
For the second time in less than an hour, Butch’s body betrayed him. His muscles clenched and his arm tightened more than he’d planned.
The crack! of Sandy’s neck was no louder than someone snapping their fingers, yet somehow it drowned out all the other sounds in the room.
What did I do? I didn’t mean to— His grip loosened and she hit the floor like a sack of laundry, her head flopping side to side. Before Eddie could raise his eyes from her, a tremendous explosion filled the air and what felt like a speeding car hit him in the chest and slammed him into the wall. His legs collapsed under him and he tumbled over.
Jesus Christ! He motherfucking shot me!
Eddie stared at the gaping hole where his stomach had been. The pain was so intense he couldn’t move, couldn’t even think.
Visions of lying across Diablo came back to him and he was dying in the fire all over again. The room slid sideways and he found himself surrounded by distorted faces that seemed too high up in the air, a forest of people-trees towering over him. Some of the trees parted and he caught a glimpse of a face he recognized.
Carson! Jesus, not again. He reached out to his brother, who seemed a mile away and fading fast. Goodbye. This time it’s for—
The world swiveled around him again and he stumbled, disoriented by the return of physical sensation. A warm hand grabbed his arm and steadied him.
What the—?
He was standing in a crowd of people. Across the room lay Butch Franks, his blood and intestines all over the floor. The wall above Butch resembled a piece of modern art, a melting tulip painted in crimson. Next to him lay Sandy Powell, her head resting completely parallel to her shoulders. The stink of gunpowder mixed sickeningly with the odors of greasy baked cheese, hot sauce, beer, and fresh shit.
Eddie’s stomach did a slow flip and he fought the urge to puke.
Where…who did I—
“Carson, c’mon, let’s get out of here. I don’t want to see this.” The hand on his arm tugged at him.
Carson? Eddie turned and saw Kellie Jones staring at him.
Holy shit, I never realized how beautiful she was.
On the heels of that thought came another.
Jesus, I’ve possessed my own brother.
Eddie took a step and almost fell again. The differences between Carson’s sixteen-year-old body and the adult bodies he’d used since his death – which had been much like his own in how they worked – were astounding. Energy simmered in every muscle, aching for release. He felt anxious and excited and horny and confused all at once. When Kellie pulled his arm, her touch sent shivers through him that ended in his groin, which started to sprout an erection.
“Are you okay?” Her voice was a wonderful song that only he could hear.
Christ on a cross. He’s head over fuckin’ heels for her. And somehow I’m feeling it.
“No.” It wasn’t a lie. Between struggling with Carson’s body and dealing with the after-effects of dying again, Eddie knew he needed someplace to just sit down and get some goddamn air or he’d pass out. He’d thought that when he possessed people, he had total command. But now he wasn’t so sure. Did a part of them remain, a part that could take back some control if he wasn’t careful? Maybe Butch’s body had just done what came naturally to it.
An even darker thought rose up.
What if it’s not them? What if it’s me?
The voices of the people in the room blended into one giant roar, like an audience at a concert, and the bodies became colored blurs whose faces he couldn’t distinguish.
“Let’s go outside. The fresh air will help.” Kellie steered him away from the crowd.
They were halfway to the door when everything went black.
Chapter Fourteen
“Jesus fucking Christ.” Police Chief Johnny Ray Jones stared at Butch’s corpse while Doc Holmes signaled to the EMTs that it was okay to put the remains into a body bag. The ambulance with Sandra Powell’s body had already departed.
“No problem determining cause of death for this one,” Holmes said.
“The question isn’t how he died, but why.” Jones looked at the notes he’d jotted down in his pad, hoping there’d be something new there to explain the massacre.
Holmes stripped off his bloody latex gloves and tucked them into a biohazard bag while one of the EMTs, Roscoe Jackson, who also served as Holmes’s assistant when needed, began the unenviable task of scooping pieces of organs and flesh into evidence bags.
“I figured that was pretty straightforward, too. Butchie finally lost his last marble, attacked the Powell girl, and got himself a stomach full of buckshot for his trouble.”
“See, that’s what doesn’t make sense.” Jones pointed his pencil toward the outer room, where Officers Moselby and Dennis were questioning Hank Bowman and his cronies. “Franks was a lowlife. Everyone knows that. And probably borderline crazy.”
“Borderline?” Holmes snorted. “That boy was nuttier than elephant shit at a circus.”
“Whatever. Why now? What triggered it? What did he have against her? Or Hank, for that matter? Even attacking her is goddamned strange. Witnesses say she was all over him before he….”
“Killed her.”
“Yeah.” It was still hard to believe. Despite Sandy’s habit of dating bikers and other creeps, the Powells were a respected family in Hell Creek, not the kind of people who got murdered in the middle of the dinner hour at the Pizza House. And there’d be a shit-storm coming down from on high because of that, too.
Of course, I never expected anyone to get murdered in this town. And now I’ve got three in two weeks.
Not for the first time since Eddie Ryder’s death, he found himself wondering what the hell had happened to his normally quiet town. It was like they’d been cursed or something.
“I know what you’re thinking, Johnny Ray.” The Chief turned and found Holmes staring at him, his left eye squeezed almost closed, a sign the doctor was dead serious about something. “Weird shit going on in town these days. And you’re wondering if it’s all related somehow.”
“And you’re going to tell me to stop being so foolish, right?” Just saying it made Jones feel a little better. After all, what could murdered teenagers, random power surges, and vandalism possibly have to do with each other?
Holmes shook his head. “Just the opposite. Like I said, weird shit is going on these days. Odds are it’s all related. You just need to figure out how. But I’ll tell you one thing.”
A cold feeling snaked its way up Jones’s back. “What?”
“You better find out fast. I got a hunch things are gonna go from bad to worse real soon.”
* * *
From the corner of his eye, Hank Bowman watched the EMTs wheel Butch’s body out the back door. He felt cold and empty, like a refrigerator with no food inside. The fact that Butch and Sandy were dead wasn’t affecting him nearly as much as the circumstances of their deaths. Hell, he’d only let them hang around ’cause they entertained him. One with his jokes and the other with her mouth and pussy. Neither of them meant much to him.
But before they’d died….
That was the fucked-up part. The part that had him shaking so bad Doc Holmes had asked him if he wanted something to calm him down. Ordin
arily he’d have jumped at the chance for a free high, but this time he’d said no.
Something told him he should stay straight.
He’d answered all the cops’ questions honestly – another thing he normally wouldn’t have done, although for once he didn’t have to worry about getting in trouble for telling the truth – but the whole time they talked to him he’d really been thinking about what had happened, replaying it in his mind.
Walking into the room and seeing Sandy makin’ out with Butch and rubbing his crotch like a fuckin’ two-bit whore. Yeah, she’d said Butch attacked her, but Hank knew better. He’d seen what was going on before Butch gave her that titty squeeze.
That was fucked up enough, but what’d you expect from a slut? And then….
“You already killed me once, dick wad. See if you can do better this time.”
You already killed me once. It didn’t make sense.
Unless….
Eddie’s coming.
Eddie was here.
It was impossible. But who else had they killed, had he killed?
How, though? People don’t come back from the dead. There’s no such things as ghosts, no matter what they say in the movies.
“That’s all for now.” Ted Moselby – who was big and tough enough that no matter how they felt, neither Hank nor the other Hell Riders had ever dared utter the word nigger in his presence, let alone to his face – closed his notebook. “Get yourself home, Hank. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Hank jerked in surprise at the words, but retained enough composure to scowl. “Ain’t no such things as ghosts.”
If only I believed it.
PART TWO
The Road to Madness
Empty roads leading to empty souls
The Dark underground swallowing whole