Back Cover
Horror Thriller by Stuart R. West
An embittered farmer. A New York corporate raider. Two teenage high school girls. A failed small business owner. Past and present collide, secrets are revealed. These disparate people gather at a desolate Kansas farm for a hellish night not everyone will survive.
Godland is a dark psychological suspense horror thiller. A Midwestern nightmare. Farm noir.
Godland © 2014 by Stuart R. West
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 permission in writing from the publisher.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, or events, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
MuseItUp Publishing
14878 James, Pierrefonds, Quebec, Canada, H9H 1P5
Cover Art © 2014 by Charlie Volnek
Edited by Tanja Cilia
Copy edited by Erin Liles
Layout and Book Production by Lea Schizas
eBook ISBN: 978-1-77127-581-1
First eBook Edition *September 2014
Again, I’d like to dedicate this book to Cydney and Sarah
for their constant support, belief in me,
and for simply putting up with me. It can’t be easy.
Also by Stuart R. West
Tex, the Witch Boy Series
Tex, The Witch Boy
Tex and the Gangs of Suburbia
Tex and the God Squad
Stand Alone Books
Elspeth, the Living Dead Girl
Neighborhood Watch
Godland
GODLAND
STUART R. WEST
MuseItUp Publishing
www.museituppublishing.com
Chapter One
A blast sheared open the night sky. An ear-piercing shriek followed. Bats and birds fled trees, draping a transient veil across the face of the moon. A moan gained in intensity—not quite human, not quite animal—and rumbled across the cornfields like a runaway train.
For those gathered at the small Kansas farm, the long night of survival had begun.
Five Days Earlier
The old dog lay on the steps seeking comfort from the heat. The door flew open. Before the man could kick him into the yard, the dog raced for shelter.
Edwin Lewis Quail stepped out into the sunlight and stretched, painfully thin. Weather-beaten crevices and sun damage marked his roadmap of a face. His cold eyes stood out in stark contrast, like two ice cubes in a Bloody Mary.
He took in a deep breath and coughed. Probably not a healthy cough. But, goddammit, it didn’t matter. Things were going to get better now.
Edwin’s farm hadn’t brought in money for a long time. Too long. His cornfields were dry. The remaining livestock looked sickly and wouldn’t fetch much in the town market. The liberals and Democrats blamed something called “global warming” for destroying his crops. Nothing but lies and political propaganda. Edwin knew better. Nobody helped him out, nobody gave a damn. After fifty years of farming, Edwin had given up on waiting for government aid. The government forgot about him out here in Godwin, Kansas; too busy with its own money-grabbing agendas.
Well, fine and dandy. God put Edwin on this earth for a reason. To take what he could and better his position in life. All up to him.
Edwin squinted into the early morning sunlight, appraising his dying cornfields. All this land—this pretty much now worthless land—had been a struggle to maintain. Nothing he could do to save it. A lost cause. But he had one thing left to do before he put it all behind him.
Like clockwork, the moaning from the room upstairs began. The sound rattled through the windows, permeating Edwin’s aching joints. It could wait, though. Edwin intended on enjoying his morning.
For the first time in quite a while, he smiled. A new day was coming. Time for the meek to inherit the earth, as the Good Book says. His laughter grew into a low, guttural growl, born from the pit of his stomach. Soon, he was howling madly at the injustices God had showered down upon him.
The old hound dog crawled into the cornfields, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the beast on the porch.
Lindsay Bellowes unstrapped her backpack and dropped it onto the cafeteria table.
Shannon looked up from poking around today’s mystery meal. “Excuse me,” said Shannon. “Some of us are trying to figure out what we’re eating today.”
Lindsay sat down across from Shannon. “And some of us shouldn’t be eating at all.”
Shannon knew Lindsay’s ways, her constant teasing a part of their daily routine. Nonetheless, Shannon couldn’t help feeling self-conscious about her looks and her weight. She tossed the fork onto the plate and wiped her mouth. Meal over. “Lindsay, are you going to do that thing at the American Royal this year?”
Lindsay grimaced. “I don’t think so. It’s so redneck city with all the cowboys and creepy old guys. Ewww.” Lindsay kicked her feet under the table, fending off imaginary cowboy suitors.
“You know, not everything has to be about cute guys. Besides, you were actually pretty good.” Lindsay’s mother had always considered herself quite the equestrian, as she’d grown up riding horses. Last year, she pushed Lindsay into a group called The Young Kansas City Cowgirls. The Cowgirls received a spot at the American Royal—an annual Kansas City celebration of everything country, cowboy, and just plain cows—and entertained the audience with showmanship and trick riding.
“Says you,” said Lindsay. “But I did look pretty damn cute in my Cowgirl outfit, didn’t I?” Lindsay jumped out of her seat. She sashayed around the table, fluffing her hair and batting her eyelashes.
“Gag. I would’ve never been caught dead in that outfit.” The outfit had consisted of a short, light blue dress, laced with white trim. A Stetson and high-heeled white boots completed the eyesore. “The latest in cowgirl hooker apparel,” Shannon added.
“Whatever. You’re just mad ’cause you couldn’t bring it off.”
The girls’ high-pitched giggling prompted Miss Swanson to rush over and rap her knuckles on the table.
“That’s enough, girls,” said Miss Swanson. “Settle down.”
“Sorry, Miss Swanson.” As soon as Miss Swanson scuttled off to hold court over another table, Shannon and Lindsay broke out in laughter again.
“Hey, can you give me a ride home tonight after play practice?” asked Shannon.
“Cool,” said Lindsay. A tall boy with unruly dark hair slouched by them, grinning. “Oh my God, he’s so hot!” Lindsay gripped her lunch tray, anchoring herself to the table.
“Who? Gavin? I don’t know. He seems like kind of a douche to me. Isn’t he a stoner anyway?”
“With a body like that, who cares?” Both girls watched him walk away. Shannon snuck a glimpse at his bottom, lending credence to Lindsay’s assessment. “I think he likes you, Shannon.”
Shannon’s fair complexion burned crimson. Another thing she hated about herself. Her pixie hairstyle emphasized her blushing cheeks, blonde arrows of hair pointing toward them.
“Lindsay, you think every guy likes me.” Shannon appreciated Lindsay’s attempts at building her self-confidence. And truth be told, she wasn’t totally oblivious to some boys eyeing her on occasion. But her shyness held her back. Lindsay, on the other hand, was blessed with a great figure and a fearlessness in her sexual pursuits. Sometimes Lindsay scared boys away with her aggressiveness. Other times, she didn’t. She regaled Shannon with outrageous stories of sexual conquest and brazen behavior. Shannon reacted with appropriate prudish horror. But truthfully? She found herself
wondering about sex, jealous of Lindsay in many ways. Shannon paid no attention to her best friend’s less-than-stellar reputation. It made her more fascinating. And since sex was a strictly taboo topic with Shannon’s mother, Lindsay remained her only lifeline to the mysteries of sex.
Shannon ran her fingertips along her eyeglasses frame. A dimpled corner of her mouth curled up as she pondered making out with bad-boy Gavin.
Lindsay’s laughter jolted her from her daydream. “Hello! God, you’re such a geek sometimes, Shannon.”
Seven years ago, Shannon Wolters met Lindsay in grade school, around the same time Shannon’s parents separated. Not the best of times. First, she lost her father, and then she moved with her mother to a different school district. A fresh start but not in a good way. Lindsay had been the first to befriend Shannon. More than a friend, Lindsay was her salvation. Literally. If not for Lindsay, Shannon doubted she would have made it. In high school, girls rarely sustained long-time friendships, but they’d remained best friends for seven years.
For the first time since her dad left, Shannon felt in control of her life. Not much, but it gave her hope. Everything would be all right. An awesome best friend, boys noticing her, good grades. God must be smiling upon her.
Peter Brookes sipped his scotch, savoring the smoky, woody aftertaste. He left his leather chair and strolled to the window, gazing out at the nighttime city skyline. His kingdom—New York City.
Hell, he practically owned New York City, or at least most of it. And why not? He’d earned it. His successful stockbrokerage firm brought in a lot of capital to New York. Things hadn’t always been that way, of course. Twenty years ago, he’d arrived in New York with nothing but an empty wallet and emptier lies on which to fall back. Not even a high school diploma. However, he did possess unlimited charm and a knack for persuasion. The only tools he’d ever needed.
During his initial days at Kobler, Cannon & Steele, Peter soaked up everything he could from his coworkers. Then he stole their clients. He acted promptly upon several inside trading tips, making hollow promises to the insiders for a percentage of the gains. By planting rumors, lies, and falsified documents, he had several troublesome (to him at least) coworkers fired. He thrived on the competitive spirit of capitalism; it’s what makes America great.
It had all been so simple. He fought, lied, forged, cheated, and screwed his way to the top of the food chain, stopping only to gather the acquisitions of war from his fallen comrades. Soon, Brookes Financial Consulting Services was born.
Peter had made his first million by the time he was twenty-seven. He had his pick of any woman money could buy. Lackeys showered top-notch cocaine and designer drugs upon him—people who wanted a part of the pie. His pie. The one he baked with his own hands, no thanks to the lowly kitchen staff. Peter acquired his fortune utilizing drive, intelligence, and raw talent. Fuck the naysayers who said he was lucky. You take care of yourself; that’s all there was to it.
Perhaps Peter owed a little bit of his good fortune to Peter Brookes. The original Peter Brookes. “Brookes” hadn’t always been Peter’s true name. But Peter didn’t want to over praise Brookes’s contributions to his meteoric rise. Besides, Brookes wasn’t alive to share in his fortune. No, this Peter accomplished everything on his own.
Peter took another swig of scotch. He wondered if his new secretary—his current sex toy—had left yet. He buzzed her number. After four rings, he hung up. No matter. He needed to fire her soon anyway. It was always best not to let his affairs linger around the office too long. You needed to cut them loose after a couple of months, before they started growing bothersome. Or worse—before they considered blackmail.
He sighed and called his wife. “Barbara, I’ll be home soon. Are the kids still awake?”
“No, they waited up but finally had to go to bed,” she said.
Good. “Okay, don’t wait for me.” He hung up without any further pointless blather. His family drained him. It pleased him that he wouldn’t see his two children tonight. They were good enough kids, he supposed, but what more could they possibly offer him? How many times could he feign enjoyment reading those monotonous books or watching films about flying elephants?
Then there was Barbara. Once a damn good-looking trophy wife, the years had caught up on her. He no longer took pride in showing her off at business functions, his tolerance for her fading.
Quite simply, boredom had set in. Even the first love of Peter’s life—money—no longer thrilled him. What do you do after you have everything?
His upcoming business trip was just what he needed. It definitely would not be boring. He looked down at the bulging front of his tailored suit pants. “Well, I’ll be goddammed!” He smiled and polished off his drink.
With a sigh, Matt Strothers locked the door to his store. All the other businesses in the small strip mall were closed for the night or vacant. The dull, flat storefronts were ugly, almost painful to look at. The cheap, flat roof appeared ready to fly away at the mention of a tornado. Prefabricated suburbia at its worst.
Above the window, the electric sign flickered off. “Village Video,” it should have read. However, several bulbs burned out long ago, the resultant message now, “Vile Video.”
Hanging by a thread. Just like his life.
Nineteen years ago, Matt had dreamed of applying his doctorate in film studies to good use. His brief sojourn in Los Angeles made him realize how worthless his degree was. No one wanted to take a chance on an inexperienced film director.
Matt retreated to Kansas City, believing it an opportune place for a good video store. Large video chains dominated the marketplace. He harbored a naïve notion that people accepted spoon-fed, popular films because they were unaware of other options. If he could enlighten the movie-going public, broaden their cinematic horizons, surely his store would be a grass-roots success. After acquiring the financial setup and backing, Matt lived comfortably on his proceeds for a while. The best years.
Matt pulled into his driveway, stepped out of his car, and looked at the other houses along the street. All of them superficially attractive, but incredibly homogenized. Matt worked in suburbia, lived in suburbia, and lived the American Dream. Although it didn’t feel so dreamlike now.
Jason, the one good thing in his life these days, greeted him at the front door with a kiss. “Hey, honey. How was work today?”
“Not bad.” Matt didn’t want to burden Jason with his financial concerns, so he’d been less than forthcoming about where they stood. “What’s cookin’? Smells great.” Matt tossed his jacket onto the coat tree.
“Chicken cordon bleu.” Jason wiped his hands on a kitchen towel. His demeanor was typically upbeat, but Matt noticed suspicion in his eyes. Matt never could fool Jason. “Okay. Now, really…how was your day?”
“I had maybe five customers; most of them bored refugee husbands from the shoe store next door.” Matt smiled, hoping his joke would outrank financial issues.
“We don’t need the video store. I make enough money to support us both. Until you find something you like to do.”
Matt couldn’t help it. Call it a matter of pride, but he felt Jason relished the fact he made twice the salary Matt did. And that was during the store’s prime years. “Best Video won’t even take my calls any more, Jay. Even they’re hurting for business. I should’ve sold the store to them when I had the chance. Now, with downloading…no one goes to video stores anymore.”
“Should’ve, would’ve, whatever,” said Jason. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll get by.”
“I guess.” Matt mustered a weak smile. “I suppose we will.”
Matt used to believe God had a plan for everybody. At least that’s what he had been taught. But if this was God’s plan for him, God had lost the blueprints.
Chapter Two
The televangelist blathered on, but Edwin wasn’t in a religious mood this morning. Too excited about his future. He looked about his living room. It felt more like a prison. The musty, flor
al-patterned sofa—the springs long given out—plunged him deep into the worn cushions. A threadbare, burgundy-colored rug lay over the warping floorboards. Gretchen’s children figurines, lined up on shelves like so many soldiers, smiled angelically at him. Everything in the room reminded him of Gretchen, from the empty flower vases to the permeating odor of decay. The smell lingered like burned fried chicken.
Nearly eighteen years before, Gretchen had passed on. Her impending death dragged on for almost a year. During that endless period, he had to cook for her, bathe her, and feed her in bed. He grew to despise her. When he finagled her into the bathtub, he couldn’t scrub the stink off her. It became a death house. He kept a deathbed vigil, praying to God to give him release and take her.
Doc Collins stopped by on occasion to check on Gretchen. He told Edwin she needed professional medical care.
Edwin just shook his head and laughed. “I don’t have any insurance, can’t afford no insurance. My folks never had any neither, and what was good enough for them is good enough for me.”
“What you’re doing, Edwin, is inhumane.” Collins flipped on his hat and raced for the door.
“You just keep judging me, Doc,” Edwin called after him. “The Day of Judgment will be upon us soon and then we’ll see where we end up!”
Edwin always considered himself a righteous man. He lived by the teachings of the Lord. But he couldn’t stand others, standing in their ivory towers, casting judgment down upon him.
Edwin pulled himself out of the sofa and turned off the television. He hated the room, the house, the farm, his land. All his life he spent here, toiling in the fields, providing for his family. With nothing to show for it.
He leafed through the ancient travel magazine next to the television. Florida. That’s the dream. After suffering the cold, harsh Kansas winters for so long, he thought about living his twilight years in the warmth. Fully prepared to leave everything behind. Yes, the bill collectors would come calling, but let his son handle it. After all, Edwin inherited the farm from his daddy, along with all outstanding debts, just as several generations had done before him.
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