BURNING BRIDGES
A Renegade Fiction Anthology
by Various Authors
Copyright 2012 – All Rights Reserved
Cover Design ~ McDroll
Cover Image ~ Idea go / FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Editor ~ Heath Lowrance
Formatting ~ Benjamin Sobieck
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Editor's Note: The Flames Behind Us
Dead Weight ~ Allan Leverone
The Beginning of the End ~ Paul D. Brazill
Unforgettable ~ Julia Madeleine
A Freeway on Earth ~ Heath Lowrance
Horse Clock ~ K.A. Laity
Disciple ~ Mark Cooper
Punishment/Lola ~ Darren Sant
Asylum ~ George S. Geisinger
No Turning Back ~ McDroll
The Importance of Blood ~ Edith M. Maxwell
The Last Injustice ~ Benjamin Sobieck
An Idea for Murder ~ Tace Baker
Safety First ~ Joshua J. Mark
Killing Deities ~ L. Vera
A Gift ~ B.R. Stateham
Editor’s Note: The Flames Behind Us
Most folks tread carefully through life. They like to keep their options open, you know, just in case. That’s the wise and judicious way to do things, after all.
But sometimes you need to go ahead and burn those bridges behind you, just so you’re not tempted to back-track, chicken out, blink. If you’re a writer, it can be quite useful to shut off the path behind you and keep barrelling forward.
Burning bridges can be a sign of commitment.
And commitment is what this anthology has, in spades. This is a collection of stories as wide and varied as the writers who produced them, but they all have the fire of conviction.
All the contributors DO have something in common, however—they’ve all been burned by an experience that was unfortunate, but could have happened to anyone. Instead of compromising their integrity, though, each one of them lit a match, threw it over the shoulder, and shot away as the flames caught on the bridge behind them.
I had the honor of putting this thing together, more as a compiler than an editor, and I’m proud of the diversity and power of these stories. You’ll find that there’s no real theme to it; rather, it’s an object lesson about how writers who are truly committed to what they do can put the past behind them and continue to put out solid, uncompromising work.
And not be afraid to burn bridges behind them.
~Heath Lowrance
Dead Weight
~ Allan Leverone
I grabbed the kid when he came out of Sal’s Tavern in Boston. It was easy enough to do; two a.m. after a night of heavy drinking would dull anyone’s reflexes. Plus, I knew the punk suffered from the incurable disease afflicting nineteen year old tough guys everywhere: he thought he was invincible.
He was wrong.
I slipped out of the shadows and trailed along inconspicuously as the small pack of losers weaved along the sidewalk in the general direction of their cars. The kid I was after had parked illegally on Commonwealth Avenue, but of course hadn’t risked the ticket you or I would inevitably have found on our windshields had we parked around Boston University. Daddy’s influence and all.
His punk-ass friends continued walking as he peeled off toward his car and when he slid behind the wheel, I eased up behind him and stuck my Sig in his ear. Simple. He kept his mouth shut and I tried to determine whether his silence was due to smarts, knowing I’d ventilate his worthless head without a second thought, or stupidity, not being bright enough to think of anything to say.
I never found out, although I had my suspicions. Either way, it didn’t matter. I had him where I wanted him.
***
Julie was just a kid. Thirteen, cute as a button and smart as a whip. Every day she reminded me more of her mom, who had died way too young. I wasn’t much suited for the life of a single parent, or any kind of a parent when you got right down to it, but it’s not like I had a whole lot of choice in the matter. Cancer came knocking and Sheila answered the door and then it was just Julie and me.
So I tried the best I could, but the problem with earning a living by washing dirty mob money is that the hours suck. Bankers hours they ain’t, and as Julie got older she began to suffer from my lack of oversight, getting in a few scrapes here and there. What can I say; I guess the apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree.
But she was my life; I would do anything for my little girl.
***
I eased the punk’s car—a late-model Mercedes; you’d think the son of Boston’s most notorious mob boss would drive something a little hipper—into my garage, careful to keep the Sig trained on his empty head the entire time.
“What the fuck you think you’re doin’, Chief?” The punk called everyone “Chief” and I wondered whether he even knew my name. I had been part of his old man’s inner circle since before the little shit was born, but that didn’t mean much. This kid was as ruthless as his father, but with a sense of entitlement a mile wide.
“Shut up Sammy.” I wasn’t ready for a conversation yet.
“I go by Sam.”
“Oh, sorry about that. Shut up Sammy.”
I parked the car and forced him out at gunpoint, making him take a seat in a kitchen chair I had set up in the other garage stall, the one which had sat empty since Sheila died. You don’t need two cars when there’s only one driver. My own car I had already parked someplace else.
I duct-taped his arms and legs to the chair, making sure to wrap each limb until he was nice and secure. He looked like a fucking mummy. Now I was ready to talk.
“So,” I said. “You really like the ladies, huh, Sammy?”
He smirked. “Doesn’t everyone?”
“Good point. I just have one question for you, but it’s a fairly important one, at least to me. And since I’m the one holding the gun, that makes it pretty important to you as well. In fact, I think it’s safe to say your entire future is riding on your answer to this one question.”
I gazed at him and he stared back, all smug insolence and misplaced confidence. I wanted so badly to shoot him right then and there I could almost taste it.
Instead I asked him my question. “How long have you been doing my daughter, Sammy?”
“How do you—”
“—Just answer the question.”
This kid was so easy to read it was pathetic. He thought for roughly six seconds about denying it, then a smirk crossed his ugly face and he said, “Why don’t ya ask her, genius?”
“She’s pregnant, asshole.”
A look of shock crossed his face and I had my answer. He hadn’t known. I’m not sure why it mattered to me, but I needed him to know. Now we could proceed.
I picked up the greasy rag I had been using to change the oil in my car for as long as I could remember and stuffed it into his mouth. Then I pistol-whipped the little bastard just because I could. I wanted to remind him of the pecking order in his new reality.
I grabbed the duct tape—what a great invention—and began rolling it in long strips around his head, north to south, then east to west, back and forth, until he looked like some kind of ugly silver alien. By the time I had finished, not only could he not open his mouth, his head must have weighed five pounds more than it did before I started.
I made sure to leave his nostrils uncovered, though. I didn’t want to risk smothering the little prick.
***
When Julie told me, she looked younger and scareder than she had since the night she found out her mom was dying. I had always hammered into her head she could tell me anything, and I guess this was the ult
imate test.
She wasn’t ready to be a mother—what thirteen year old kid is?—but she had already decided she was keeping the baby. I didn’t bother trying to talk her out of it. For one thing, I knew that once she had made up her mind nothing I could say would be able to change it, and for another, I would never force my little girl to do something she would spend the rest of her life regretting, even if I could.
And I would do anything for my little girl.
***
I think the cocky little fuck began to realize he was in big trouble when I took my Sig and walked around the back of his Mercedes, pausing every couple of feet to shoot a new hole in the trunk.
“You should have,” Bang—
“—stuck to,” Bang—
“—hookers and sluts,” Bang—
“—your own age,” Bang—
“—and left the children,” Bang—
“—alone.” Bang!
By the time I had finished, a dozen new holes adorned the gleaming German sheet metal and my boss’s punk kid had begun turning a little green around the gills. Shooting up his car was probably a bit of dramatic overkill, but I wanted him to be able to see what was coming.
I checked my handiwork, and while the design wouldn’t win many awards, I didn’t much care. Sammy and I were the only ones who were ever going to see it.
I popped his trunk and walked to the corner of the garage, where I had placed the portable battery-powered lamp, all charged up and ready to go. Carrying it back to the car, I noted with satisfaction the kid couldn’t take his eyes off me. I wondered whether he was starting to get the gist of what I had planned.
Probably not. But he would soon enough.
I crawled into the trunk and secured the lamp in the corner, flipping the switch to make sure the entire trunk would be visible from the inside. It was.
I smiled at the oily little bastard after I climbed out. “You know,” I said, “I’ve been thinking about effecting a career change for quite some time now, and while I hate to leave your old man in the lurch, I’m sure he’ll be able to find a new accountant pretty easily.”
I grabbed my utility knife and began slicing through the duct tape binding him to the chair. “What you did to my little girl just served to focus me, that’s all. It’s important to take stock of what really matters in this world every now and then, you know what I mean?”
His wide eyes told me he knew what I meant.
“Anyway,” I said, “I know I’m burning some serious bridges here, but as is undoubtedly sinking into even your mostly brainless skull by now, I would do anything for my little girl, and I refuse to see my grandchild grow up in this life, surrounded by losers like you. So you’ve become dead weight. In more ways than one.”
He took a swing at me with his now-free hand and I clubbed him for a second time in the head with my Sig. He crumpled like a folding chair and I shoved him into his trunk, taping his wrists and ankles together after he landed. Then I made sure he was still conscious. I had gone to a lot of trouble to make my point with the little prick and I didn’t want him to miss the grand finale.
Then I slammed the lid of the trunk and we went for a drive.
***
It only took about forty-five minutes to get from my home on the outskirts of Boston to my lake house in southern New Hampshire. It was nothing fancy, but was nice and secluded and featured a long, wide wooden dock leading out into a surprisingly deep lake. I knew I’d miss the place, but when you need to make a clean break, sometimes you have to sacrifice.
I drove onto the dock and shifted into park. Got out and opened the trunk. Flipped the switch on the lantern, flooding the trunk with blessed light. Winked at the punk. “See ya around,” I said, a little disappointed in myself for not coming up with something better, but dawn was approaching fast and it was really time to finish this thing.
I closed the trunk for the last time, thinking about Sheila and wondering whether my grandchild would look anything like her. I walked in front of the car and checked the front wheels, made sure they were aimed straight out the length of the dock. I sat back down in the driver’s seat and picked up a long screwdriver I had placed on the floor.
Then I set the parking brake before shifting into Drive and jamming the screwdriver between the seat and the accelerator. The engine screamed and I leaped out and pulled the handle on the parking brake and the car shot down the dock, sailing gracefully into the lake. It bobbed on top of the water like a gigantic bath toy before beginning to sink, slowly at first, then picking up steam.
I imagined I could hear my grandchild’s father screaming, but of course, that was impossible, what with my greasy rag stuffed into his mouth. I pictured him watching the crystal-clear lake water streaming into the trunk through all those bullet holes and smiled.
Eventually the Mercedes sank out of sight and I hurried to my car for the drive back to Saugus. Julie and I had a lot to do. It was moving day.
The End
Allan Leverone is the author of the Amazon bestselling thriller, THE LONELY MILE (StoneHouse Ink), and the thrillers, FINAL VECTOR (Medallion Press) and PASKAGANKEE (StoneGate Ink), as well as the horror novellas DARKNESS FALLS and HEARTLESS (Delirium Books).
Allan is a 2012 Derringer Award winner as well as a 2011 Pushcart Prize nominee. His short fiction has been featured in Needle: A Magazine of Noir, A Twist of Noir, Shroud Magazine, Morpheus Tales, Mysterical-e and many other print and online magazines, as well as numerous anthologies.
He lives in New Hampshire with his wife Sue, three children, one beautiful granddaughter and a cat who has used up eight lives. Connect with Allan at https://www.allanleverone.com as well as on Facebook and Twitter, @AllanLeverone.
The Beginning of the End
~ Paul D. Brazill
The metallic February morning gasped for life and the sun crept furtively over the city skyline. Its sharp rays ricocheted off the windows of the tower blocks, momentarily blinding Sylwia Morgan who, naked, except for a studded dog collar, was smothering her drunken husband with a scatter cushion.
She paused for a moment to catch her breath, before soaking his body with the remains of a bottle of cheap supermarket vodka and half a bottle of gin, and then showered.
After she dressed, Sylwia made herself a light breakfast, finished off the last of the orange juice, and washed her hands for what seemed like the one hundredth time.
Then, she stuffed her duffel bag with cash and paperback books, struck a match, threw it onto the stained sofa and whispered a last goodbye.
As an old advertising jingle corkscrewed through her thoughts, Sylwia checked her passport, carefully closed the front door and walked out onto the cold, granite balcony, her breath trapped tight within her.
The piss-stinking lift rattled slowly to the ground floor and she fought the urge to run through the rusty doors as soon as they creaked open.
She took a few little nips from a bottle of water and walked briskly toward the railway station.
As the long black train eased its way along the tracks, fire engines wailed in the distance and sleep came easy to Sylwia, for the first time in many years.
***
The sunny March afternoon dawdled towards evening and daylight melted slowly into an inky black night. Lighting flashed, thunder boomed and the heavens were ripped apart, just like the corpse at Bobby’s feet.
Acid bubbled and burned in his stomach as he threw his brother’s body into the freshly dug grave.
He plucked the mobile phone from his leather jacket and pressed redial, holding his breath as he waited for Cath to answer.
‘Harry’s worm food and you’re next,’ he said, quickly hanging up before he could hear his wife’s screams.
***
Carlos had seen it all.
Twenty years as head barman at The Alhambra Palace Hotel in Granada gave you plenty of experience of human beings at their best, and at their worst. You learned to read people like a book, too.
But the Polish woman that was sat on the balcony, gazing out into the sun drenched hills, her thoughts clearly elsewhere, well, she was a puzzle. A riddle.
Ms. Nowak, Anna, mostly kept herself to herself although she was friendly enough, and pretty too, on the rare occasion that she took of those big round sunglasses. She said she was there for the sights but she spent most of her time gazing off into the distance. Like a war widow waiting for her husband to come back from the trenches.
The arrogant Englishman with the shifty, shifting gaze. He was another one.
Well, he was as clear as day when he was trying to pick up the waitresses. But, apart from that, Mr. Lawrence wasn’t your typical tourist. Certainly not here for the sights- he’d never even been to the Palace- and he wasn’t one of the many writers that stayed, for sure. Too lacking in curiosity. Maybe he was a businessman but what sort of business, Carlos really wouldn’t like to hazard a guess.
He sniffed disapprovingly as he saw Lawrence heading toward Anna.
***
Sylwia could see him watching her and her heart pitter-pattered but it wasn’t out of attraction, that was for sure. She’d seen the Englishman around the hotel plenty of times, trying to chat up the waitresses in some painful hybrid of Spanish and English. Flashing his over-stuffed wallet around. Not that he ever got anywhere.
He was scary looking. Like some East End gangster trying to get a bit of culture inside him. Or a retired detective. Or maybe even Interpol. That was what worried her.
There had been nothing about the fire in any of the English papers that she’d managed to find. She hoped that everyone would have put it down to a drunken accident. But she really couldn’t be sure that the police weren’t looking for her.
She’d bought an iPhone the last time she went into the centre of Granada and was pleased to find that almost everywhere had Wi-Fi, so she could check the news reports regularly. And of course, although there was no bad news, the sense of unease didn’t go away.
***
Bobby had always had a thing for the mousy ones. Librarian types.
He’d heard that they were wild in the sack, too. Not that Cath had been at all mousy. Far from it. She looked like a footballers wife. Fake tan and fake tits. Fake everything.
That suited his image, though. You couldn’t run protection rackets without a flash car and glam WAG, that was for sure. People need to respect you. Want to be you. And Cath played the part perfectly. Until Harry blasted out of the past. Bobby soon enough blasted him back there, mind you.
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