He finished his own cigarette, crouched over Ed Bright, watching the worn old man dream. He dragged Ed to one side and rested the man's head on his briefcase-pillow. He wasn't especially gentle, or rough. It was just a gesture, and like most gestures, probably empty. Then, flicking his cigarette butt end over glowing end into the murk, the strange man walked away from Ed Bright. He left the old man curled against a piss-stained wall with a children's mural on it.
Ed Bright lay unconscious, in the darkness of the subway. It was the middle of the day in the middle of a cold winter in the middle of a cityscape like so many others.
The stranger walked out of the subway as the first of the meteors hit.
The prelude to the big one, small fragments, outriders, striking all across Europe, before the big one and the reign of fire.
Before the setting skies.
He'd saved the old homeless man's life with a cigarette and a little liquid loving. The strange man smiled at that thought as a rock the size of a hatchback car hit the entrance to the subway, sending hot shards of rock through the air, concrete and meteorite alike.
The stranger didn't flinch, nor did he duck. He wasn't thinking about the meteors and the destruction raining down from the sky, but of the old, broken man he left beneath him, safe from the coming storm.
He hadn't saved him for nothing, though, but Mr. Bright and the briefcase were more like a deposit in a bank, he figured.
'Work to do yet, Mr. Bright,' he said as rock after rock tore into the city all around him. Not like I can do everything on my own, thought the man as he lit another cigarette from a smouldering piece of wreckage he passed. Ed Bright might not be the sharpest tack, but he'd do just fine.
'Just fine,' he said.
He began to feel the heat already. Snow fell, but flames were licking at his heels as he walked and he was breaking a sweat. The tarmac melted from the heat of the fires throughout the city. Ball sweat was dampening the man's pants. He stopped, shook his head and laughed.
He dropped his pants on the hot ground and they caught fire in the heat.
He walked on naked while the city burned and the people screamed. He looked up at the skies with their rain of fire, beyond the sky to something above, beyond.
'You had your turn, buddy,' he said. Nodded up at the sky, then walked on with a big grin and not a lick of clothing.
*
Three months earlier...
Frank Liebowicz weighed in at 250lb, there or thereabouts. Plenty of it was fat, but not all. He had muscle, too, and thick hard bones, and a forehead that had broken countless cheeks, noses, and teeth over the years.
Not strictly an enforcer, Frank wasn't really anything more than a big strong guy who didn't care what or who he broke. A grunt, maybe, for whoever needed a little work done. It didn't matter to Liebowicz what that work was, or who it was for, or if there was blood. He was a realist. People had blood in them. Sometimes it came out.
He was a simple man at heart, if he seemed slightly more complex on the surface. He listened to classical music in his home, read books with long words without the aid of a dictionary. He was simple, not stupid.
Not stupid enough to miss a trick. Like this current job of work he had on. It stank. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but Johnny Muller had sent him to the docks, so he'd gone and not kicked up a fuss.
Johnny had never steered Liebowicz wrong.
So far?
He wondered.
Liebowicz remembered why he was out this late at night; the small annoying man whose tie Frank held in his thick fist. That was why he was here.
Hard enough to smart, not hard enough to break anything, Frank pushed the little man against the metal siding. The resulting noise was loud in the empty market, but it didn't matter, because only the two of them could hear it.
The little man was wheezing and crying. Liebowicz thought maybe he'd just broken a rib or two, despite not putting much effort into the shove.
'Mr. Lowe. Please don't drag this out. For your sake. I don't care, either way, I get paid. It'll cover the cost of a new suit. Believe me. But come on...let's stop fucking around. You're wheezing, you're scared. I'm a big fucking bastard who beats the fuck out of people for a living. Eh?'
Frank wasn't particularly keen on cursing to make his point, but sometimes a little rage, a few swear words, could do the trick before he had to cause any kind of lasting damage and get a new suit mucky.
The little man - Mr. Lowe - wheezed some more. A trickle of blood came from his ear, probably ruptured when Liebowicz had first slapped him on the side of the head (getting some of the slimy man's hair product on his palm).
Maybe Lowe couldn't hear him out of that ear. Maybe. But no reason to be stubborn. He had two ears, didn't he?
'Going to count to three, Mr. Lowe. Then I'm going to hurt you. Something you won't shake off.'
Mr. Lowe wheezed some more.
Liebowicz wondered if he could pull off a finger. Not dislocate, or snap. Actually pull it free.
That'd probably work.
'One. Two...'
He paused slightly longer before getting to three.
Getting soft, he thought.
'Three,' he said, and pulled.
Turned out he could, after all, pull a finger off.
He held up the finger, skin ragged, pristine fingernail one end and gristly knuckle at the other, for Mr. Lowe's benefit.
He probably knows without show and tell, Liebowicz told himself.
Lowe was pale and he was screaming. It was a breathless kind of scream, but a good effort, nonetheless.
Liebowicz stuffed the finger down the little man's throat to keep him quiet, and, well, to drive home the point.
Unfortunately, Frank stuffed Lowe's dying index finger in a bit too hard, because as Lowe inhaled for a second round of wailing, the finger went right into the bastard's windpipe. Choking, Lowe began to turn a funny hue.
'Fuck,' said Liebowicz. You didn't kill people until you had what you wanted. Fucking schoolboy error.
'Fuck,' he said again, flipping Lowe around so it looked like he was going to try and take the little man from behind.
'Fuck!'
Frank squeezed hard a couple of times with his fists bunched up into Lowe's diaphragm. The finger popped out, covered in spittle.
Liebowicz let Lowe loose to breathe. But the man wasn't breathing. He was dead, which explained why the daft bastard fell straight forward, face into concrete, without so much as moving a hand to stop himself.
'Ah,' said the big man. 'Oops.'
Frank often spoke to himself. His was, largely, a solitary existence. He didn't even know he did it most of the time.
He didn't often have fully fledged conversations with himself, though, so when someone else behind him replied, he was back in the world, ready to roll.
'Oops? Fucking oops?' Muller. Muller was here, behind Liebowicz.
Frank's fists clenched. He'd known something stank. Fucking known it.
'You stupid fucking ape,' said Muller.
Liebowicz spun, ready to lash out. He didn't though, because Muller had a revolver. A big fat thing of dull metal, with a medium-sized barrel.
Frank Liebowicz didn't know much about guns - didn't have much call for them. But he figured if Muller decided he was going to shoot, it would probably be quite painful and most likely fatal.
Muller held the gun like he knew what he was doing, too. Not like some piss-pot gangster, but like a policeman in a TV show - two-handed, one elbow bent, one nearly straight. A shooter's stance.
'What the fuck, Johnny?' said Frank. He wasn't angry. Frank didn't really get angry. He never had.
'What the fuck, what the fuck? You killed Lowe.'
Liebowicz shrugged. 'So?'
'So? Fuck your so.'
'You Chinese now?'
'Seriously? Fuck you.'
'Johnny, that's not polite.'
'You think I'm here to stroke your balls? I'm holding a gun. Don't
be slow.'
'I'm not slow,' said Liebowicz as he threw the small blade he carried everywhere at Johnny. Just a Swiss Army knife, and not even open. A small, heavy chunk of metal.
Johnny did what was natural when someone throws a small, heavy chunk of metal at your face. He flinched, reflexes taking over, and moved his head back, out of the arc of the knife. For less than a second, the barrel of the fat gun shifted upward, away from Liebowicz. Liebowicz slid his left foot forward, driving from the right foot. His left hand knocked the gun higher still, and his right hand, fisted, knocked Johnny - a big man himself - out, and down. Frank's fist broke Muller's jaw, then, as his head bounced on the concrete (sideways, not face first like Lowe) Muller broke his skull, too.
Liebowicz wasn't an x-ray machine, and he didn't know what was broken and what wasn't. What he did know was that he was in all kinds of shit. He'd fucked up his job and killed the man who was basically his boss. Maybe not his actual boss...more like a kind of line manager.
Supervisor?
On that note, Frank figured if he was going to fuck a job properly, there was no point in half-arsing the bastard. So, he stamped as hard as he could on Johnny's prone head, just in case. Big feet, hard boots, and 250lb, plus a lot of heart and soul.
He nodded, looked at the two dead men. Nodded again, picked up the fat gun and didn't look back. Later, he remembered his little knife. But when you kill two guys hard like that, you don't go back for a little knife. You don't look over your shoulder, not even for a second. You pick up what you've got and you move.
Frank moved.
*
Way across London town, while Frank was busy killing people, a woman watched television. The woman watching the television (sporadically, at best) was called Dawn Graves. The digital receiver underneath the television was a piece of shit. The picture flickered whenever the weather was bad, and sometimes when it wasn't.
She seriously considered getting up and walking across the room to do something about the God-awful reception on the digital receiver. But it was that cheap hardwood flooring everyone thought they wanted, until they lived with it for a while. Cold, slippery, and dusty flooring. Poorly fitted, too, with gaps between the tongue-and-groove slats that would catch bare toes or socks. Dawn's husband, Robert Graves, wasn't much use around the house even when he was in.
Dark had settled in outside and Robert wasn't home from work. Dawn wondered if he'd be back soon, or if he was working late, or if he'd stopped off to bring her back ice-cream (this last thought was her favourite of the three options). If he wasn't going to be long, she could wait and get him to fiddle with the aerial or smack the digital receiver. If he was going to be really late, she'd have to do something about it herself.
But it was cold outside the snug little tent she'd built for herself with a blanket and all the cushions from both couches. The floor would be cold, and her feet were finally warm.
She figured she could wait a little while longer. While she waited, one hand on her big round belly, full of baby, Robert Graves fucked a young, new girl from work in the ladies' toilets.
You can grab your copy here:
United States
United Kingdom
Plea From the Author
Hey, Reader. So you got to the end of my book. I hope that means you enjoyed it. Whether or not you did, I would just like to thank you for giving me your valuable time to try and entertain you. I am truly blessed to have such a fulfilling job, but I only have that job because of people like you; people kind enough to give my books a chance and spend their hard-earned money buying them. For that I am eternally grateful.
If you would like to find out more about my other books then please visit my website for full details. You can find it at: http://www.iainrobwright.com. Also feel free to contact me on Facebook, Twitter, or email (all details on the website), as I would love to hear from you.
If you enjoyed this book and would like to help, then you could think about leaving a review on Amazon, Goodreads, or anywhere else that readers visit. The most important part of how well a book sells is how many positive reviews it has, so if you leave me one then you are directly helping me to continue on this journey as a fulltime writer. Thanks in advance to anyone who does. It means a lot.
Get Free Books
Sign up to my no-spam newsletter to get FOUR bestselling novels and a short story banned from sale, all for free. You will also get an update every time I have a new release or my books are discounted. Thanks.
http://eepurl.com/baDkyT
Free Books include: Animal Kingdom, Sea Sick, The Picture Frame, 2389, and D is for Degenerate (banned from sale)
About The Author
Iain Rob Wright is one of the UK's most successful horror and suspense writers, with novels including the critically acclaimed, THE FINAL WINTER; the disturbing bestseller, ASBO; and the wicked screamfest, THE HOUSEMATES.
His work is currently being adapted for graphic novels, audio books, and foreign audiences. He is an active member of the Horror Writer Association and a massive animal lover.
Check out Iain's official website:
http://www.iainrobwright.com
Add him on Facebook:
http://www.facebook.com/iainrobwright
Or on Twitter:
http://www.twitter.com/iainrobwright
He would love to meet you.
www.iainrobwright.com
FEAR ON EVERY PAGE
More Books by Iain Rob Wright
THE FINAL WINTER: UK US
Apocalyptic horror novel where it never stops snowing and something ancient stalks the earth.
ASBO: UK US
Innocent family man is targeted by a gang of sadistic youths.
ANIMAL KINGDOM: UK US
Animals turn on mankind and try to make humanity extinct.
SEA SICK: UK US
A deadly virus is unleashed on board a luxury cruise liner.
SAM: UK US
A young boy seems to be possessed. But is he?
RAVAGE: UK US
Apocalyptic horror that culminates in a fight for survival at a hilltop amusement park. Say goodbye to the world.
SAVAGE: UK US
Apocalyptic sequel to Ravage where the stakes are even higher at an abandoned pier. Sometimes being alone is better.
THE HOUSEMATES: UK US
Reality TV turns deadly. 12 competitors but only 1 winner.
SOFT TARGET: UK US
Nonstop Thriller where the future of the United Kingdom is at stake.
HOT ZONE: UK US
Sequel to Soft Target where a crazed doctor intends on infected the world with Africa’s worst diseases.
HOLES IN THE GROUND: UK US
Collaboration with J A Konrath. Some things should stay buried. And guarded forever.
THE PICTURE FRAME: UK US
A haunted picture frame that curses anybody whose photograph is placed inside it.
2389: UK US
Communication with the happiest place in the galaxy has just been lost. Time somebody went up to the moon to check things out.
A-Z OF HORROR, Volume 1: UK US
13 gruesome short stories in 1 terrifying collection.
Big Horror Box Set: UK US
Get Sam, ASBO, The Final Winter, The Housemates, and Sea Sick at a discount of more than 50%
The Horror Survivor Box Set: UK US
Get Ravage, Savage, Animal Kingdom, The Picture Frame, 2389, The Peeling Omnibus, and Slasher at a discount of more than 50%
Copyright
* * *AN SG HORROR RELEASE* * *
Part of the SALGAD PUBLISHING GROUP
Redditch
UK, Worcestershire
www.SALGADPUBLISHING.com
Copyright © 2015 by Iain Rob Wright
www.IAINROBWRIGHT.com
Cover Art Copyright 2015 Stephen Bryant
www.SRBPRODUCTIONS.net
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
BOOK SUMMARY
PART ONE
~ELIZABETH CREASY~
Devonshire, England
~RICK BASTION~
Devonshire, England
~MINA MAGAR~
Oxford Street, London
~TONY CROSS~
Iraq-Syria Border
~SAMANTHA SMART~
Central Park, New York City
~GUY GRANGER~
Lower Bay, New York
~RICK BASTION~
Devonshire, England
~MINA MAGAR~
Soho, London
~TONY CROSS~
Iraq-Syria Border
PART TWO
~GUY GRANGER~
Lower Bay, New York
~RICK BASTION~
Devonshire, England
~MINA MAGAR~
Mayfair, England
~GUY GRANGER~
Norfolk, Virginia
~MINA MAGAR~
Hyde Park, London
~RICK BASTION~
Devonshire, England
~TONY CROSS~
Eastern Plateau, Syria
~MINA MAGAR~
Slough, Berkshire
~RICK BASTION~
Devonshire, England
~TONY CROSS~
7 miles north of the Euphrates, Syria
~GUY GRANGER~
Cape Fear, North Carolina
~MINA MAGAR~
Slough, Berkshire
PART THREE
~TONY CROSS~
8 miles north of the Euphrates, Syria
~RICK BASTION~
Devonshire, England
~DAVID DAVIDS~
The Gates: An Apocalyptic Novel Page 32