Carlos raised the food to his mouth. He stopped, frowning.
Through the sauce, he spied something, possibly a hair. He examined it closer. The thing was thicker than a hair, it looked more like…
A spider leg?
Carlos wiped the contents of the fork on his remaining fries, shifting some of the thick, brown sauce.
Curled, almost into a marble-sized ball, a dead cockroach was impaled on the prongs.
He dropped the fork.
“Shit, man!” he cried, bolting up. His stool fell to the floor.
The man continued to wipe the counter, his head bowed.
“Blattellaquinone,” he said with a flourish. “They tend to positively gush with it when in pain. He tends to bake them straight in. Such a delicate oaky tone…”
Carlos retched, bending over the counter.
The man looked up, his eyesockets dried, raw pits.
“Can I get you something to wash it down with, sir? More coffee perhaps? I think you have a long journey ahead of you.”
Carlos leapt back, nearly tripping over the fallen stool.
The door to the kitchen opened, and a mountainous shadow separated from the darkness.
“He like the pie?” said a deep, powerful voice. “Everyone a critic now, oui?”
The Jukebox continued to sing, now accompanied by the louder radio in the kitchen. The two sang the same hymn in unison in a sweeping choir of angels.
Carlos turned, jumped off the stool like a fleeing gazelle and crashed into the door, rattling the glass in its frame.
Outside, the heat of the evening hugged him, trying to wrestle him to the ground. Fumbling for his keys, he reached the car and quickly opened it to leap inside. He slammed down the lock and gripped the steering wheel.
He screamed, shoving the key into the ignition and giving it hard twist.
The engine clicked.
“Come on!”
Another firm twist and the car grumbled to life, a mechanical old man roused from his afternoon nap.
“Yes!” Carlos yelled in triumph and shifted the gear into reverse.
Through the window of the diner, he saw the towering figure emerge from the kitchen. Joining his shorter partner, they seemed to be discussing something. Diner guy then lifted something and placed it on the counter.
Carlos squinted, trying to see.
The box.
“Shit!” he cried and punched the steering wheel.
The horn blared, drawing the attention of the men inside. They looked his way.
“Shit shit shit!”
Carlos sagged in the driver’s seat. What do I do now?
As if in reply, his stomach growled.
Carlos licked his lips, suddenly hungry.
THE END
If you enjoyed ‘Critique’, then you’ll enjoy Daniel I. Russell’s new novel ‘The Collector Book One: Mana Leak’, due out from Dark Continents Publishing in May 2012. Continue reading for a sneak preview.
About the Author
Daniel I. Russell has been featured publications such as The Zombie Feed from Apex, Pseudopod and Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine #43. He was nominated for two Tin Duck Awards in 2011 for best novel (Samhane, from Stygian Publications) and best short story. Author of Come Into Darkness, Critique and The Collector, Daniel is also the current vice-president of the Australian Horror Writers’ Association and special guest editor of Midnight Echo.
Special Preview: The Collector Book One: Mana Leak
by Daniel I. Russell
PROLOGUE
DARTMOOR, DEVON. 1980.
The landscape appeared prehistoric as the rising sun cast a golden hue across the ancient piles of rock. The tors resembled stone dinosaurs, jagged and huge, crossing the bleak terrain. The gently warmed dew had risen in a low mist.
Stanley Bennet yawned. He’d witnessed the majesty of the moors countless times. He shivered, despite a thick coat and tight blanket.
Beside him, Swanson dozed on.
“I’m getting too old for this shit,” said Stanley and reached for his pipe and tobacco tin. He opened it, pinched the brown shreds and poked them into the head of the pipe. Tobacco fell onto the camera that hung around his neck. The bulky piece belonged to Swanson. Stanley clamped the pipe between his teeth and lit up. He puffed and sighed, leaning back against the stone wall.
The two cold and wet men had camped beside a narrow road that wove a meandering route through Dartmoor. On one side spread the expanse of the moors. On the other, woodland seemed to lurk behind the wall.
Stanley stood, stretched his legs and looked to the forest. The first morning rays failed to penetrate the closely packed trees, and mist rolled out between the twisted trunks.
Swanson yawned and half-opened an eye. “What time is it?”
“Coming up to five,” said Stanley without looking at his watch. The words steamed before his face.
“Crap,” said Swanson, sitting up. “I guess I dozed off.”
“I guess you did.”
The two men looked out across the moors.
“I miss anything?”
“I would’ve woken you.” Stanley drew another puff from the pipe. “Looks like this has been a waste of a night. I could’ve been at Jane’s grave again instead.”
“Jane’s grave? A loved one?”
Stanley chuckled.
“More an obsession. It’s a local legend. A few miles from here, there’s a grave in the middle of the road. Every morning, fresh flowers are placed there by unknown persons.”
“How can they be unknown?” said Swanson and snorted. “Surely someone has staked out the grave.”
“I have,” said Stanley, “many times. If you so much as glance away, there they are: fresh flowers.” He chewed the end of the pipe. “Another little mystery that makes life more interesting.”
“Sounds good,” said Swanson, rummaging in the confines of his jacket. “More interesting than being stuck here.”
“I can’t believe we haven’t seen anything. The sheer number of reports, I thought we’d find ghosts queuing up to be photographed!”
Swanson sniggered. “Maybe they’re shy. They’re children, after all.”
“Show some taste, Swanson.”
“Sorry.”
Stanley turned away from the young man. The bus crash at the site a week ago had been full of children – fourteen to be exact. All of them had been mangled as the roof of the bus crumpled in on them. Swanson was right; the spirits of the dead should be young children. But the journalist had no right to make light of it.
“To be honest,” said Swanson, “I’m kinda glad the sun’s coming up. The things I’ve read…” He whistled. “Enough to make your skin crawl.”
“Voices…figures playing in the road…childlike screams?” said Stanley. “Yeah, I can see how that could freak an amateur out. Looks like the paper will have to run another story.”
Swanson nodded.
“I suppose. What about you? I thought this was going to be the feature investigation in your book?”
“It was, but now? I’ll have to come back. The Encyclopaedia of the Unexplained will have to wait. There has to be some kind of presence here. Too many people have seen too many things.”
“What about Bovey Tracy?” suggested Swanson. “I hear that castle is full of ghosts.”
“Old news,” Stanley replied. “This is something new…something special.”
“It might’ve been,” said Swanson, finding his cigarettes and lighting one. He blew out a cloud of smoke. “Whatever it was, it’s gone now.”
Stanley tapped his pipe against the stone wall, knocking out the spent ash. He groaned as he stepped away, his knees sounding like firecrackers.
“Ouch!” said Swanson.
“Oh yes, these old bones don’t like the cold.” He walked into the empty road, hands on hips and a pained grin on his face. “God, I’m stiff.”
Swanson rolled his eyes and took a drag of his cigarette.
&
nbsp; Stanley turned, looking down the road.
“Swanson,” he hissed.
“What?”
“Get up here. Now!”
The young man climbed to his feet. “We got through the night without seeing a thing,” he said, walking over. “I don’t think that now…whoa…who the hell is that?”
Down the road, just around the first bend, a man in a black suit crouched by the wall. Shadow, cast by a bowler hat atop his head, concealed his face. He waved his hands over the road.
“What the hell is he doing?” whispered Swanson.
“You think that’s weird? That was the exact spot where the bus crashed,” said Stanley. “They moved the cards and flowers yesterday. I camped up here for the better view. What is he doing?”
Swanson nodded to the camera hanging around Stanley’s neck.
“Snap him!”
“What?”
“Snap him! Take a photo.”
“Why? He might be some crank. He might not be doing anything at all!”
The road in front of the stranger burst into flames.
The two men jumped back.
“Oh shit!” cried Swanson. “You see that? It’s…it’s…”
“Yes,” said Stanley, his mouth hanging open. “It’s a blue fire…”
“Snap it,” ordered Swanson, his eyes not moving from the lone figure. “You know what this is? It’s a man in black. The stuff of modern alien legend. Snap him!”
Stanley fumbled with the camera, raising it to his eye. He centred the man, still waving his arms over the strange flames, in the viewfinder.
“Do it!” said Swanson, almost bouncing with excitement.
Stanley pressed the button.
Click. Whir!
The man in black looked up, revealing blue, glowing eyes set into a pale, narrow face.
“Shit,” cried Swanson again. “He’s seen us.”
“Whatever he’s doing, I think we should go. Right now.”
“Agreed.”
They turned away from the figure and, leaving their few possessions behind, fled up the road. Stanley ignored the heavy camera bouncing against his chest.
“Quick!” shouted Swanson, glancing over his shoulder. “He’s following!” His words echoed across the otherwise silent plain.
Stanley looked behind. The man in black walked up the road after them. The blue fire had vanished.
“The woods,” Swanson cried. “We can lose him in the woods!” He bore left, his frantic footfalls slapping against the road.
Stanley leapt against the wall, his legs kicking and propelling him over. Landing with a grunt in the dirt and twigs, he jumped straight back up.
Swanson, younger and more limber, leapfrogged the low wall and carried on running.
Stanley followed, entering the dark cover of the forest. He gasped for breath as the leaves whipped him. Twigs and branches scraped against his face. He stumbled, kicking up small stones and musty detritus.
Ahead, Swanson hurtled through the woods and disappeared within the darker shadows.
“Swanson,” Stanley called after him. “Wait!”
He pushed himself up and carried on, chest and legs burning.
Deeper into the trees, Stanley stopped. The woods appeared the same on all sides, with no sign of the reporter. He pulled the camera from around his neck and threw it on the floor, glad to be free of the weight.
“Swanson,” he shouted. “Swanson! Where are you?”
The forest answered with a series of clicks and chirps.
Stanley froze.
“Swanson?”
More noises echoed through the trees.
A cry rang out, and fingertips of ice scraped down Stanley’s back.
He ran in the direction of the scream, bolting through the trees on his left. Ahead, the trees thinned out into a clearing.
“Swanson!”
Stanley fell through the foliage into the small patch of open land. A stream trickled through the clearing. Beside it, several large rocks lay in a heap, as if neatly stacked by a giant putting his toys away. A small groan sounded from behind them.
Stanley dashed towards the rocks. He skidded to a halt on the leaf-covered ground.
Swanson lay on his back, arms by his sides. His fleece jacket had ripped down the middle and hung open, spread out like wings. Entrails hung out, like thick, bloodied worms. A patch of crimson spread from the reporter and stained the leaves around him.
“Oh God,” said Stanley.
Swanson lifted his head. Deep lacerations criss-crossed his face, and blood erupted from between his lips.
“Stanley…” he gurgled.
“Don’t move!” Stanley dropped to his knees beside his companion. “Don’t speak!”
Swanson coughed, spewing out a red geyser.
“Behind…”
“I told you!” Stanley shouted. “Keep still and don’t speak!”
“Behind…you…”
“What?”
Stanley turned.
The shadows between the trees moved, sliding over each other. More chirps and chattering echoed from within.
Stanley swallowed, his body trembling.
Hundreds of eyes, large and white, opened in the woods.
“Oh God,” he moaned again. “We have to get out of here!”
Swanson stared up into the dull morning sky, unmoving. Blood trickled from his lips and off his chin.
Stanley stood and backed away from the body.
The eyes watched from every direction.
“No!” he screamed.
The darkness flowed out of the trees, accompanied by a tremendous clicking and snapping.
“Nooo!”
Table of Contents
CRITIQUE
ENTRÉE
MAIN COURSE
SIDE DISH
BACK TO THE MAIN
SANDY
JUST DESSERTS
About the Author
PROLOGUE
Table of Contents
CRITIQUE
ENTRÉE
MAIN COURSE
SIDE DISH
BACK TO THE MAIN
SANDY
JUST DESSERTS
About the Author
PROLOGUE
Critique Page 13