by William Bebb
“It must have been one tough snake.” Josey said, holding Maria's hand, as Cheryl kept an eye on her son chasing Boris.
Bo's face was bright red as he coughed then continued. “It probably was a tough snake at one time, but turns out it was dead before we even shot it. Fact of the matter is it didn't even have a head on its body.”
The laughter lasted for quite a while and Bo smiled along with the others nodding his head.
Maria looked at Bo, picked up a plastic fork and held it like a weapon. “Enough of this beating around the bush, Gringo. What about the man and the monkey?” She said, looking frustrated.
Bo sighed and shook his head. He took a deep breath and continued “His name is Charlie Farro. He's still alive, at least that's the last thing I heard. He nearly gave me a heart attack when I first saw him.”
The deputy's face faded from pink embarrassment to a disturbing paleness as he continued. “I've seen a lot of weird shit in my life, but nothing more terrifying and at the same pitiful as him. What made me look in his direction was a cute little monkey. After we shot the snake to tiny bits it was screeching and jumping up and down. The smoke from the shotguns was thick in the trailer and at first I had a hard time seeing clearly. Everyone reloaded and the other deputies searched the rest of the trailer as I considered the monkey. It took a turkey baster and reached up squirting water under a towel. That was when I realized it was on the lap of a man sitting in a beat up old recliner with a big towel draped over his head. The monkey finished squirting the water and sat back on his lap looking up at me.” Bo stopped and cleared his throat.
His eyes looked watery as he continued, “I pulled off the towel expecting to find a dead body, and I swear to God he really did look dead. And not just dead, but royally fucked up dead. It looked like someone had ripped off his face and shot off the right side of it just for good measure. Then I realized he wasn't wearing some kind of goofy hat that looked like a python. The fucking snake's head was embedded around his skull. I nearly threw up as the deputies came back into the living room and one of them, King I think, opened the front door and blew chunks. I don't know how I did it, but I kept it under control and was about to report another dead body to the command post when the man sitting in the chair looked up at me and gurgled.”
Bo stopped abruptly, wiped at his eyes with a paper towel and stood up quickly.
“Well, I gotta go back on patrol.” he said, in a choked and strained voice, turning away from the people at the table.
Cheryl stood and went over to where Bo stood and hugged him. He hugged her back, cleared his throat, and nodded weakly. “It's okay Bo.” Cheryl said, still holding him.
“I still see his face, or rather what remained of it, in my nightmares sometimes. And I know it's impossible he said what I thought I heard when he gurgled at me, but I still think about it. I mean it makes no sense and his voice was so garbled I must have misheard him.” Bo said, looking at the setting afternoon sun. A long pause stretched out awkwardly for almost a minute.
Josey finally broke the silence “You don't have to tell us Bo. We understand.”
Bo glanced at him with a half hopeful look, and then said “If you ever do understand please explain it to me. Charlie Farro, that poor pathetic bastard, looked at me with his one eye and gurgled seven words. He was hard to understand, but I'm sure I got them right. He said, I should have chose door number one.”
They all shared a bewildered look for a long time. Then Bo put on his hat and said, “I have one last bit of advice for you guys. Keep quiet. If you think someone might be listening at your phone calls, or reading your mail, or email, I think you'd be right. Take care, guys.”
“Thanks Bo. Be careful.” They called as he walked back to the cruiser and drove off.
“They can threaten us, sure, but I don't think they can keep it quiet forever.” Cheryl said, shaking her head.
“You're thinking about what happened at that town west of here, Laguna? They said it was just a gang warfare thing.” Maria said.
“Three hundred and twenty dead is what the newspaper reported. But you know what made me think it may be a lot more than they reported?” Cheryl asked, looking around the park until she spotted Boris and Billy walking slowly back toward the table.
“The heads?” Josey whispered.
“What gang kills three hundred and twenty men women and children, cut off their heads, and builds a bonfire at the high school football field to dispose of the bodies? Wanna know what I think happened out there? Wanna know?” Cheryl asked.
“No.” Josey and Maria said at the same time.
###
Closing thoughts and thanks
Storytelling. The very word conjures images of an old man, perhaps with a long white beard, sitting beside a fireplace sharing tales. Perhaps to a group of children, their faces upturned, eyes wide, listening with fascination. That is IF the story is any good.
What makes a good story?
I subscribe to the following recipe. Characters should be people the reader can identify with, facing challenges and circumstances outside the scope of everyday life. A logical progression of the plot along with actions that would make the most sense given the situation is also essential. Believability is perhaps the most overlooked of elements in many novels, yet it is perhaps the most important. Why would a character do something? What motivates them? Would their actions be successful?
The last ingredient is a sprinkling of humor. Note I used the word sprinkling- just a small amount, where and when it would make sense and be reasonable. Valley of Death is not a story made with the intent of getting you to laugh, but in the midst of life's tragedies and horrific events I believe humor is often present. Think for a moment of any major national or personal disaster and you will probably remember something that was funny about it. Not in all cases, but sometimes from tragedy comes humor.
Want an example? Sure you do. Back in 2002, about the time I first started on this novel, my wife left me. It was truthfully the hardest time in my life but something happened that still makes me laugh. My coworkers knew I was hurting badly and wanted to do something nice for me. Several of them chipped in some money and bought me a Playstation 2. I imagine the thought was something like- Gee sorry your wife left you. But now you can fill that empty hole in your heart with hours of video games. To me that was as sincerely touching as it was hilarious.
Valley of Death is a novel written, not as just another horror story. It has spent a very long time percolating in the swampy regions of my brain. The story was written with great care, love and frustration and I hoped you enjoyed it. But in truth, part of me, doesn't really care if anyone ever reads or likes it. It was a great deal of fun to create and to me that's the best part of this novel. It let my mind wander and hang out with a friend I rarely get to play with anymore. My sick and twisted imagination.
For those of you wondering who I am, here’s a quick biography.
Born in southern California in the 1960’s, William Bebb is a man of many talents. In the late 1980’s and early 1990’s, he earned scholarships for Forensic Speaking at two universities. William was also Editor of a University of Alabama at Birmingham newspaper from 1989 to 1991. Also, he won numerous awards for extemporaneous and other speeches at intercollegiate competitions across the country.
After graduating with a degree in Communication Arts & Broadcasting from The University of Alabama at Birmingham in 1993, where he worked in the exciting world of Academia till 1996. Recognized as an invaluable asset, William was recruited to a worldwide television network- where he has prepared programming for millions of people since 1997.
William Bebb is probably even now madly pounding away at defenseless keyboards, unleashing his prolific imagination on something.
When not beating on keyboards, William Bebb often enjoys the following authors: Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Brian Keene, J.K. Rowling, and J.R.R. Tolkein.
A few words of thanks also seem in order so here it goes.<
br />
Derek Stack has been a life-long friend and without his deviant mind's many facets Charlie Farro would have suffered far less. Thank you, Derek.
Jerry Shoemaker is a good friend who also has a twisted streak that is almost as disturbing as his freakishly long hair.
Hadden Smith IV, for his unwavering support and his most excellent cover art.
And Billie Bunn for being whatever he is.
And a special thanks to my children and all my friends who suffered through the birth of Valley of Death.
Feel free to visit my website for updates on future projects.
https://sites.google.com/site/williambebb/home
Or send an email to Hands on Productions & Publications and say “Hi” at [email protected]
Zombies of All Hallows Evil
William Bebb
This story is dedicated to my son, Billy. For it was he, who last Fall asked the question “What would happen if zombies attacked on Halloween?”
This novel is a Hands on Productions & Publication novel copyright 2011. All rights reserved. Any distribution of this novel without the expressed written permission of the author is illegal and subject to U.S. and international laws. This novel is purely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents described are solely the result of the author's overactive imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to actual real companies, products, events or people; living or dead, is a coincidence.
Preface
Zombies have a special place in the hearts and minds of those who love to fear them. This story is about the undead and people who do not love them. The characters will find themselves in a world where zombies roam the world in search of food- namely people. For the loyalists who proclaim only reanimated dead people constitute true zombies, I offer fair warning. A zombie, in my works can be either a homicidal maniac bent of mindless killing or the classic undead ghoul. The key distinction for both types of zombies is a lack of mental thought processes or put another way like my mom would say about certain people-“They isn’t right in the head.”
Okay, that’s enough of the preamble. I have never claimed to be a grammarian. I split infinitives with reckless abandon. I dangle participles like strands of noodles when Grandpa Joe comes over to eat with the family. Bad or inappropriate comma placement and gross violations of basic rules of writing that caused my English professors great gobs of angst are part of my charm. Deal with it or find another spinner of tales. It's the story that matters, damn it. Is the story understandable, is it entertaining, and is it worth reading? These are the issues I believe matter.
CHAPTER ONE, Dog day afternoon
Halloween, four months after events portrayed in The Valley of Death.
The streets were nearly empty as thunderstorms marched their way across central New Mexico. The rainwater gurgled down the gutters of the suburban streets as the sun peeked through gaps in the gray sky. Nearly identical houses lining the streets were hard to differentiate most of the year, but recently their owners had decorated them with plastic black cats, bright orange jack-o-lanterns, plastic tombstones, and bloody body parts among a plethora of other disturbing items on display. It was the last day of October, a time for most kid’s second favorite holiday of the year- Halloween.
A candy wrapper with a small smudge of chocolate on it bobbed along a rain swollen gutter until it was swallowed down the gaping maw of a storm drain. The drain was next to an alleyway that ran behind a row of houses. Drifting from the alley disturbing sounds were emanating. They were the sounds of pain and taunting laughter.
Three teenagers, wearing black trench coats, surrounded a little boy who was curled up in the fetal position on the ground. A torn plastic bag with a wide variety of sugary candy was scattered around the his body. The largest boy kicked the cowering child in the butt, while the other two laughed and looked both ways up and down the alley as they scooped up the wet candy and stuffed their pockets.
“Listen good, kid!” The biggest boy said, resting his foot on the badly beaten boy's hip. “Don't forget who rules this neighborhood. We own every kid around here. You try skipping out on paying your dues again and we might have to get mean. You understand me, Billy boy?”
I understand you're a pathetic douche bag who can only beat up little kids. Billy thought, as he tried to speak. He wasn't sure, but suspected his right arm might be broken. He coughed as he felt the big kid's foot press down harder.
“Boy, you better say something intelligent or your lesson in being a good neighbor is about to go into overtime.” Jessie snarled, and spit on Billy's head.
“I understand!” Billy yelled, as the spittle mixed with the rain and oozed across his face.
“Good boy. You may not be as dumb as I thought.” Jessie said, removing his foot and squatting down. “Now don't forget to tell your mommy who messed you up. Make sure she calls the cops too. I really want you to kid.” He said, joining his friends with their bulging pockets of stolen candy.
Billy looked up at Jessie. The bully had a Neanderthal-like sloping forehead and acne covered face that looked like a mass of pustulating pimples.
“You know why I want you to tell on us? Come on, you're a smart kid right?” Jesse asked, with his arms crossed in front of him.
“Because, if I tell you'll beat me up again.” Billy said, trying to keep from crying.
“Damn straight, boy genius. Now don't forget to bring us the candy you get tonight trick or treating. We'll be at our clubhouse, waiting. You know where it is.” Jessie turned and his friends followed him down the alley as Billy got slowly to his hands and knees.
Spitting out some blood, Billy slowly crawled over to a foul smelling metal trashcan. Grabbing onto the rim, he managed to stand up. He felt his right arm and was relieved to find no broken bones. If Boris had been here those fart knockers would be in a whole lot more pain than me. I wish I could take him to and from school. Better yet I wish mom had never moved here. Billy thought while looking at the crushed remains of the Halloween candy he had gotten at school.
After his grandfather had died, during the summer, his mother Cheryl had started dating and then moved in with Bo Autry. He was a retired deputy and now full time alcoholic, part time pain in the butt to Billy. He hadn't been such a jerk in the beginning. Billy had sort of liked him and his mother had been smitten by him. But in the months since the zombies, madness, and death in the valley he had grown more and more unstable. Bo suffered from recurring nightmares and depression which he had self treated with copious amounts of alcohol.
If he were the old Bo Autry I could tell him about the bullies and he'd understand, but now- Billy thought, shaking his head. But now I just don't know what to do.
His pants were torn and muddy from the beating and he hoped Bo was out drinking so he wouldn't interrogate him about it. Not that he noticed much of anything lately. Limping down the alley he felt like crying till he heard a familiar happy barking coming from up ahead.
Boris could smell the boy as a light breeze blew down the alley. The dog had gotten much chubbier since the days he had been a stray in the trailer park where Billy's grandfather had lived. He wasn't fat yet, but regular meals and being locked up in a suburban backyard had definitely added more than a few pounds.
The dog looked through the spaces of the six foot high wooden fence and could see Billy limping toward the back gate. Boris became more alert and sniffed the air for the smells of danger as the boy unlatched the gate and entered the backyard.
It was a typical suburban backyard, very small, rectangular, and boring. After closing the gate, Billy dropped to his knees and hugged Boris. The smell of wet grass mixed with a faint aroma of Boris's 'poop corner', as his mom called it. The dog licked Billy's face and within a few minutes the tears stopped and he was petting his sympathetic furry friend. He even found the strength to toss his backpack, filled with a wide variety of mind numbing homework, on the wooden patio table and sit in one of the ornamental metal chairs next to
it.
Boris placed his head on the boy's leg and looked concerned.
“It's okay Boris. I just had a bad day. I really don't even want to go Trick or Treating anymore.” He said, leaning back in the chair. “I mean, what's the point? The fart knockers will just steal my candy. Heck, they might even beat me up again.” He sighed and closed his eyes as Boris licked his hand and whined nervously.
“Of course if I don't go get candy they'll probably beat me up anyway. I wish grandpa was still alive, he'd know what to do. He wasn't like Bo; he'd listen to me when I was in trouble.”
Boris brought a dirty, well chewed, tennis ball over and dropped it in Billy's lap.
“I'm sorry Boris. I just don't feel like playing ball today. In fact, all I feel like doing is going to my room, doing my homework, and crying some more.”
Boris looked around the backyard trying to think of something to distract the boy from his problems. The boy smelled of fear and sadness. Billy's nose had stopped bleeding but bright red streaks were prominent of his small sad face. Unable to think of anything else to do he curled up at Billy's feet and looked thoughtful.
Staring out the small open window, over the kitchen sink, Bo Autry trembled. His mouth had a foul sour aftertaste of bourbon and his head felt uncomfortably heavy as he looked at the boy and dog. They might even beat me up again. He heard the words echoing in his head as he tried to think. The young former deputy stared out the window and noted the smears of blood on the kid's face and his torn pants. For the first time, in over a month, he felt something other than self pity. Bo's hands were clenched tightly in fists at his sides as he turned away from the window and walked stiffly to the staircase and climbed up.