Elements of the Undead: Fire (Book One)

by Esmont, William

  Fire

  Elements of the Undead, Book One

  by

  William Esmont

  eBook Edition 1.8 December 2012

  Copyright © 2011 by William Esmont

  All rights reserved.

  www.williamesmont.com

  Also by William Esmont:

  Elements of the Undead (Horror):

  Air: Elements of the Undead - Book Two

  Earth: Elements of the Undead - Book Three

  Elements of the Undead Omnibus (Books One - Three)

  The Dispossessed (Science Fiction):

  A Wasting Time

  The Reluctant Hero (Espionage Thriller):

  The Patriot Paradox

  Pressed

  Bio-Thriller:

  Self Arrest

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Getting a raw story out of my head and onto paper is only the first step in a months-long process before it becomes a story worth reading. Countless people are involved in the process, and they all deserve a mention. First, I’d like to thank my wife Robin. She puts up with the countless hours I spend hunched over my laptop, writing and researching, the endless discussions of characters and plot, cover designs, and most of all, the periodic bouts of self-doubt inherent in such an endeavor. Next, I’d like to thank my beta readers: Chris Merhige, Mark Jaggers, Don Query, and Dan Moore – you guys are lifesavers! You were gracious enough to read my mostly-finished manuscript and provide brutally honest feedback. It’s a better book because of you. Next up is Glendon Haddix of Streetlight Graphics. Glendon came up with the cover design of Fire, as well as the interior layout of the print version. He’s a master at taking a sparse description and turning it into something that leaps from the virtual bookshelves, grabs potential readers by the neck and screams, “Read me, damn it!” Thanks, Glendon! And last but not least, my editor, Lynn O’Dell. Lynn, from “Red Adept Editing Services,” took my self-edited manuscript, complete with changes from my beta readers and sanded off the rough edges, swapped chapters around, and generally made it a better book. Thank you, Lynn!

  The Undoing

  Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

  Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

  The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

  The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

  William Butler Yeats, The Second Coming

  One

  Megan Pritchard stretched and yawned. She was only two hours into the graveyard shift, and she had already served three customers. The first had been a laid-back, beer-drinking trucker, the second, a German who reeked of tequila and had trouble keeping it up, and the last, a wild-eyed, fifty-something man who smelled like a dirty ashtray and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Number four, another trucker, was in the bathroom washing up. She sighed and ran her hand across the bed, smoothing the comforter. The toilet flushed.

  Any second now.

  She arranged herself in a seductive pose, angling her leg to show a hint of pubic hair and squeezing her breasts together like her roommate Heather had taught her. The door opened, and a bear of a man strode in wearing only a stupid grin and a faded black cowboy hat.

  “You ready to play, baby?” he drawled. West Texas.

  Megan smiled and beckoned with her right index finger. She looked at his crotch. “I’m not sure I can handle you, Ray.”

  He blushed at the lie. In truth, she was disappointed in what he brought to the bedroom. At six-foot-three and two hundred and sixty pounds, she figured he’d be packing something more than the tiny sausage poking from the nest of gray hair between his legs. Whatever. I get paid either way.

  Ray stepped toward the bed, but she held up her palm. “Hold on, big boy. We need to settle up first.”

  His smile faltered for a heartbeat, then was replaced by a boyish flash of uncertainty. He recovered quickly. “Right. Of course.” He picked up his pants from the wooden footstool beside the bathroom and dug out his wallet. Counting out a thick stack of twenties, he placed them on the bedside dresser and took a step back.

  Megan scooped up the cash and inspected it, rubbing each bill between her thumb and forefinger to verify its authenticity. She raised an eyebrow as she realized there was an extra hundred dollar bill on top of the pile. “What’s this?”

  Ray leered. “A little incentive...”

  The bills went into the lockbox bolted to the headboard. She winked. “We’re all set.”

  At a hair under five-foot-seven, Megan had the bright-eyed, girl-next-door look that turned men into drooling school boys. She had her mother’s genes to thank for her figure and her father’s for her lustrous black hair, her perky, upturned nose and luminous gray eyes.

  She waved him to the fake French-baroque dresser beside her bed, and pulled open the top drawer, revealing a kaleidoscope-colored collection of condoms.

  “Take your pick.”

  He scratched his chin in thought, and then chose one. Magnum. Of course.

  Megan always kept a healthy supply of the king-sized condoms on hand. It was all about the ego; she had learned that early on. And if that’s what got him off, who was she to complain?

  She held out her hand. “I’ll take care of that.”

  Ray surrendered the package. With an expert touch, she tore open the wrapper and slid the rubber between her teeth and lips. A few seconds later, he was wrapped and ready to go.

  She gave him a few quick strokes and pulled him onto the bed. Gazing into his eyes, she asked, “Where do you want me?”

  “Let’s start out regular and see how things go.”

  “Sure.” She drew him in. This one’s going to be quick, she thought. Hoped.

  Top.

  Bottom.

  Behind.

  Top. Again.

  Pop!

  Another two hundred dollars in her bank account. Easy as pie.

  He rolled off and collapsed beside her with a contented smile plastered across his fleshy face.

  “Better?” she asked.

  Ray grunted and started to check his watch, but she caught his arm and gave his knuckles a kiss, distracting him. Her room, like all the others in the brothel, was a clock-free cocoon, engineered to support an ancient fantasy. With no way to tell time, customers tended to be far more willing to pay for more when it ran out.

  He was playing with himself, rubbing against her leg.

  What’s this?

  She glanced at the digital timer tucked out of Ray’s direct line of sight beside the bed. He had three minutes left in his twenty-minute session. A second round wasn’t out of the question, but it required more cash, something she suspected he didn’t have.

  “Let’s cuddle,” she said, resting her head on his chest. His chest hairs tickled her ear.

  “Come on, sweetheart. What do you think the extra hundred was for?”

  Megan batted her eyelashes at him, put her hand on his, and mirrored his stroking motion.

  Gotta run down the clock, she thought.

  “If you had a little more money...”

  Ray cast his eyes away, mumbling something under his breath. She moved to get up from the bed. He touched her elbow, a desperate, but tender, gesture. “I’m all tapped out...”

  Despite her better judgment, Megan felt a twinge of pity. He seemed like a wannabe high roller, the kind of guy that hit it big every once in a while, but was never able to keep it going.

  She softened. “I’ll tell you what, we only have a few minutes left…”

  “Really?” He perked up.

  �
��How about I...” She nudged his hand aside and took its place. Slow at first, then she picked up the pace as his time grew short.

  Ray closed his eyes. “Don’t stop...” She counted in her head: Five, Four, Three. He finished at Two.

  He exhaled, long and slow. “You’re amazing, baby, you know that?”

  Megan pecked him on the forehead. “I do.” She scooted to the edge of the bed and dangled her feet over, searching for her slippers. “It’s time to go now, big guy.” She gave his belly a playful pat.

  Ray let out a groan of protest, but hoisted himself up and joined her. He gathered his clothes and dressed quickly before slinking out of the room and back to whatever life he led outside.

  Megan fell back on the bed and lay staring at the ceiling, counting the peaks in the acoustic popcorn finish. She only had a few minutes to clean the room and prepare for the next lineup.

  As she was about to get up, a stabbing pain blossomed deep within her gut. She winced, and her eyes teared up. Trying in vain to hold back the inevitable, her hand flew to her mouth.

  She barely made it to the bathroom before the contents of her stomach erupted from her mouth in a hot torrent, splattering the rim of the toilet with the half-digested remains of the burrito she had eaten hours earlier. The nausea rolled through her like a raging tsunami; hot waves of uncontrollable agony drained her energy, leaving her whimpering on the floor like a young child.

  And then it was gone. Her stomach stopped heaving, her vision cleared, and she felt human again. It was as if the sickness had happened to someone else.

  Megan got to her feet and stared down at the toilet in disgust. She pulled a towel from under the sink and wiped her mouth. The room stunk. Rolling out a handful of toilet paper, she wiped down the edges of the toilet, then flushed the sopping paper and floating clumps of half-digested food to oblivion.

  Her throat burned, and her diaphragm ached from all of the heaving. She went to the sink, washed her hands, and rinsed her mouth, gargling afterward with a shot of peppermint Scope to banish the vile aftertaste. It didn’t work. She gargled another shot. That’s better.

  She turned on the bathroom fan to suck out the smell of puke, and then padded back into the bedroom.

  The house doorbell chimed.

  Damn it. Already?

  With a tired sigh, Megan stripped the cum-soaked sheets from the bed and stuffed them in the hamper, preparing the room for her next client.

  Two

  Alicia tucked an errant strand of strawberry-blond hair behind her ear and bumped the drawer closed with her hip.

  “Seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen is twenty,” she said, handing a fistful of bills and coins to the frazzled housewife on the other side of the counter. The woman shot her a grim smile and pushed her cart into the stream of people heading for the store exit.

  Alicia checked her watch. Five minutes until break time. God I need to get out of here. She glanced over her shoulder at the next cashier station. Her best friend Brittany frowned back at her and mouthed the word ‘help!’

  Four minutes. Fuck it. I’m out of here. She reached up and flipped off her light, signaling a closed lane. She spun and started walking toward the door.

  “Wait! Miss!” Despite her desire to keep walking, her responsible side took over. She stopped and turned.

  “I’m on break now. One of the other lanes can help you.” She held firm.

  “But you were open just a second ago,” the customer whined, gesturing at the light.

  “I’m sorry,” Alicia said, trying to sound sincere. She had no intention of sacrificing her precious fifteen minutes for this pushy bitch.

  Technically, she was required to take her break in the rear of the store in the kitchen area, but she wanted to spend her time somewhere a little more interesting. She waved at Dave, the receipt checker, as she breezed past. He ignored her. Dork.

  Her Subaru was in the far corner of the parking lot, out of sight of the surveillance cameras. She beeped the car as she approached, and the headlights flashed once.

  Once safely ensconced in the car, she popped open the center console, took out her iPod, turned it on, and cranked up the volume. As an afterthought, she pushed the central door lock, sealing herself in. Digging around in her backpack, she pulled out a small Ziploc bag. With dismay, she realized her pot supply was almost exhausted. The ounce she had purchased only a week before was no more than seeds and a few lonely buds. Shit.

  She broke the seal on the bag with the tip of her finger and inhaled, reveling in the pungent aroma of the remains of her Super Skunk. She reached into her backpack again and pulled out her bowl, a compact swirled-glass favorite she had had since junior high school.

  Someone rapped on her window, and she jumped in surprise. Cupping her pipe in one hand, she put on her most innocent face and peeked out, prepared for the worst.

  Fuck me. She relaxed. Brittany stood outside the car grinning like a maniac. Alicia exhaled a sigh of relief and pressed the unlock button.

  Brittany slid in beside her. “Thanks. Can you believe the crowds today?”

  With a noncommittal shrug, Alicia locked the doors and retrieved her pot. She chose the plumpest bud from her bag and crammed it into her bowl. “Sucks in there.” She lit up.

  Brittany eyed her. “It does. I couldn’t take it anymore.”

  Alicia snorted, smoke jetting from her nose in twin streams and passed the pipe. They spent the next ten minutes smoking and refilling until only shake remained in the baggie, and they had run out of things to talk about. Alicia laughed to herself.

  “What?” Brittany asked, tapping the ashes of the bowl into an empty Diet Coke can.

  Alicia shook her head. “It’s nothing.” She checked the clock through heavy-lidded eyes. Three minutes until her break was over. Her life was supposed to have started by now. Instead, here she was, stuck in this shitty Costco in Tempe.

  “Are you ready?” Brittany asked, shattering Alicia’s reverie.

  “Sure. I guess.” She wasn’t. She could spend all day out here.

  She stuffed her pipe and the empty Ziploc into the bottom of her backpack, tucking them under a spare pair of panties. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  The girls got out of the car, surrounded by a billowing cloud of smoke, and began the long walk across the hot parking lot. As they neared the front door, Alicia stopped and took Brittany by the elbow. “Do you ever think about leaving here? I mean…”

  Brittany gave her a puzzled look. “Not really... Why? What’s wrong?”

  Alicia shuffled her feet. “I’m just…tired of this place.” She looked at the ground.

  Brittany laughed. “You’re moody because you’re stoned. You always get like this.” She had a point. Brittany arched a perfect eyebrow. “Are you going out tonight?”

  Alicia shrugged. “I don’t know. It depends—”

  Brittany cut her off. “Call me if you do. I want to get out for a little while.”

  “I will.”

  They entered the store and went their separate ways. Three more hours, Alicia thought with a pained expression.

  Three

  Jack leaned on his shovel and ran the back of his hand across his brow, wiping off the accumulated sweat. He stole a glance at his wife Becka and waited in silence as she dumped a shovelful of dirt. “Something to drink?”

  She dropped her shovel with a thud. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Jack groaned. His arms tingled, and his shoulders burned. He needed a glass of tea and a few minutes to relax if he had any hope of finishing the job today. Or maybe even a beer.

  “Okay. I’ll be back in a minute.” He sank his shovel into a mound of dirt and took off across the yard toward the front porch.

  The hole, seven feet long by six wide and a little over a foot deep at the moment, was intended for a koi pond, a surprise birthday present for their twin daughters, Maddie and Ellie. As usual, they didn’t have enough money to hire an excavator, so this had become yet one more in
an endless procession of do-it-yourself projects.

  The idea had been born two weeks before on a routine trip to Home Depot. He was browsing the tool aisle when she called out to him. “Jack?”

  “Huh?” He held a shovel in each hand, trying to decide if the shiny stainless steel model warranted an extra twenty dollars.

  “I’ve got an idea,” she said, her voice full of mischief. Uh oh. He knew that tone. Trouble. He gave her his attention. “You know how the girls are into fish…”

  Jack nodded. The girls were in the midst of their first small pet phase. From bettas to goldfish to species he couldn’t even pronounce, the house looked like an aquarium, with tanks covering every horizontal surface. Becka’s idea consisted of a second shovel—stainless, he insisted—along with a large, black plastic pond insert and a cheap solar pump.

  He suppressed a groan. “Are you sure? What about winter? Won’t it freeze?”

  Becka rolled her eyes, took the shovel, and threw it in their cart.

  Half an hour later, they were on their way home with the tools in the bed of his pickup along with an eight-by-ten pond.

  He strolled into the kitchen, got two glasses from the cabinet over the sink, and then went to the refrigerator. A refreshing wave of chilled air washed over him when he opened the French doors. Damn.... He held them open and wedged his entire six-foot-two frame in as close as possible, savoring the coolness. He stayed in that position for a full minute, eyes half-closed, fantasizing about a mythical afternoon of leisure, a distant memory from the time before the girls. Finally satisfied, he took a half-full pitcher of iced tea from the top shelf and filled their glasses.

  On the way out, he grabbed two oatmeal cookies from a plate on the counter, stuffing one into his mouth and pinching the other between the fingers of his free hand. Pushing through the front door, he smiled. Becka was lying in the grass, her eyes closed, her legs dangling into the hole. Covered in dirt and grime, with her dirty-blonde hair plastered against her head, she looked at peace with herself, completely in her element. Her white cotton halter top, the torn one she always wore when working outside in the summer, clung to the curves of her body, leaving little to his imagination. He descended the stairs and crossed the yard with a lascivious grin, fantasizing about what he was going to do with her later in the evening after they put the girls down. That was, if he could stay awake after all this digging. Becka heard him approach and opened her eyes. He handed her a tea and the uneaten cookie.