Armand Rosamilia
Tim and I go on like this for hours and it turns into a meeting of the "mutual admiration society" so we decided not to subject you to any more. The bottom line is - we hope you enjoy the book and we love you all for supporting us...
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Water Hazard (preview)
By
Tim Baker
Prologue
The motor home glided along Route 40 toward the Ocala National Forest, effortlessly pushing the warm night air aside. In its wake, it left a turbulent mixture of dead lovebugs and diesel fumes.
From his perch in the driver’s seat, 76-year-old Herb Thomas watched the black carpet of Florida highway roll up to and pass beneath his wheels like the mat of a gigantic treadmill. The moonless night and unlit back country road prevented him from seeing more than a hundred feet ahead. His headlights preceded him through the solid wall of night.
Theresa stretched her arms over her head and yawned from the passenger seat. Herb looked over at his wife.
“Did you have a nice nap?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” she replied. “How long was I out?”
“Only about a half hour.”
“Where are we?”
“Coming up to the St. John’s River; we’ve still got an hour and a half to go.”
The RV was quiet inside with the exception of an oldies soundtrack coming from the satellite radio. As Herb gently guided the vehicle around a slight bend in the road, he spotted a set of headlights in his side view mirror. Either the vehicle had been riding very close to his rear end or it had come up quickly, because he hadn’t seen a car in the last thirty minutes.
Up ahead he saw the flashing red drawbridge light and noticed the gate arm was down. Lifting his foot from the gas pedal, he let the RV coast to a stop. The two halves of the draw bridge extended skyward like skyscrapers, tilting slightly toward one another.
The Searchers sang about “Love Potion Number Nine” as Herb waited for the bridge to lower.
In his peripheral vision, Herb caught the glow of headlights in his mirror as a vehicle came to a halt behind them. A few seconds later, as he watched a tugboat pull a barge along the river, he was startled by a tap on his window.
A well-dressed man in his mid-thirties stood on the street holding a road map in his hand and using the universal sign for Herb to roll his window down. Herb did so and politely asked the man if he needed help.
“Yes sir,” the man said in a gentle southern drawl. “I seem to have gotten myself good and lost.”
The man held up the road map and stepped closer to the RV as Herb put the shifter in park and climbed down to offer assistance.
“Where’re you headed?” Herb stepped up for a look at the map, only to see that it was a map of Minnesota.
As Herb attempted to make sense of it, he looked up to find himself facing the barrel of a semi-automatic pistol.
His first thought was that this man didn’t look like the type to be carrying a gun. He seemed like the quiet, polite type. He was well-dressed with neat black hair and handsome brown eyes. The only flaw in his face was the familiar scar of cleft palette surgery on his upper lip.
“Just get on back in the motor home, sir,” he told Herb in a polite tone that was totally contradictory to the gun in his hand.
Herb stumbled up the step into the vehicle as Theresa sang the final fade-out chorus with The Searchers. The man nudged Herb with the gun and told him to climb over the seat and sit on the floor next to his wife, then leaned back and signaled to the vehicle behind them. Herb heard a car door open and close and a second man trotted up behind the first. Herb could not see him from his position on the floor.
“All right then, Donny,” the first man said, “it’s all up to you now.”
“You got it, Mitch,” Donny replied.
Theresa looked over in confusion.
“Herb, what’s going on?” she asked with a slight tremor in her voice.
Herb raised a calming hand to her and said to Donny, “What is it you want from us?”
Donny climbed into the driver’s seat and smiled at Herb. The smile was totally devoid of humor; the smile of a scorpion about to sting an unsuspecting beetle.
“Y’all just sit there and be quiet,” he told them.
Theresa gripped Herb’s upper arm and began whimpering softly.
Donny settled himself into the seat and put the shift lever back into drive. Herb saw a .45 Colt pistol tucked into the waistband of his tattered blue jeans. Thick mud was caked on his battered work boots. There was a cigarette tucked behind his right ear, partially covered by his greasy brown hair. A tattoo of a spider perched in its web covered most of the right side of his neck.
After a few minutes the drawbridge lowered and the RV was moving west again. Several miles later, on a dark and desolate stretch of road, Donny eased the RV onto the grass shoulder.
“Awright folks, let’s go on back into the living room and get cozy, shall we?” Donny said in mock politeness as he drew the gun and pointed to the back of the RV.
Herb held Theresa by the hand and led her to the living area. Her hand trembled uncontrollably in his.
“Sit your asses down there on the floor,” Donny ordered.
Herb helped Theresa to the floor and sat beside her. He glared at Donny and his mind went back to a time when he was a twenty-year-old Marine, full of piss and vinegar; that Marine would have taken this redneck apart piece by piece. Now his body would not allow it. The voice of his platoon sergeant, a huge Texan named Roy Anderson, came back to him.
“We’re all gonna die—just make sure that when your time comes you die like a Marine.”
Herb put his arm around his crying wife’s shoulders and looked into pale brown eyes that once had the brightness of the sun.
“I love you, Theresa,” he said, causing her eyes to fill with tears.
He looked at Donny and sat up as straight as he could, taking a deep breath.
“Get it over with, you coward,” Herb said defiantly.
Confusion grew in Donny’s eyes as he looked at Herb. Herb could tell that Donny lacked the intelligence to know he had just been insulted by a man who knew he was about to die. After a few seconds of unproductive consideration, Donny shrugged, pointed the gun and fired two shots in quick succession.
He looked at the two bodies lying on the floor, the old man’s arm still around his wife’s shoulders, and shrugged again.
“I guess you really don’t know when to shut up, old man,” he muttered as he turned and left the RV.
Outside, Mitch was standing by the rear of the vehicle with a gas can and a rag. He handed the gas can to Donny, removed the RV’s gas cap and stuffed the rag into the opening. Donny spread gas around the perimeter of the RV and dumped the last of it on the rag hanging out of the fill spout. He heaved the gas can into the woods and walked back to the pickup truck. He took the cigarette from behind his ear and handed it to Mitch, who lit it, took a long drag and flicked it at the RV as he blew out a long cloud of smoke.
The mammoth vehicle was instantly surrounded by a ring of fire. The two men climbed into the truck and Mitch backed away, heading east on Route 40. Donny turned in his seat to see the show and Mitch watched in the rear view mirror.
The explosion was tremendous. It shook the ground and filled the night sky with an orange glow as flames shot fifty feet into the air. Pieces of the RV flew off in silent trajectories through the night, creating a one hundred-foot-wide field of debris.
As the furor subsided, the flames continued to devour the skeletal remains of the $300,000 Fleetwood motor home.
Donny picked up the pack of Marlboros from the dashboard and withdrew two. One he put behind his ear, the other he handed to Mitch.
The spotless white truck rolled silently away from the inferno and toward the black horizon.
1
Justin DiPrete pressed himself against the concrete block wall,
closed his eyes and tried to calm himself.
Heat that had been absorbed from the Florida sun during the day radiated from the wall, warming his back, while the crisp night air kept his face cool. The difference in the two temperatures, along with nerves that were on edge, gave him a slightly nauseous feeling. Looking skyward through closed eyes, he took a deep breath in hopes it would slow his racing heart and stop his legs from shaking. To his right, Russell peeked around the corner of the building.
In reality, it was not so much a building as it was a two and a half story concrete block skeleton with no roof. The soft, sandy ground around it was a dusty minefield of construction debris. Justin wished he was somewhere else—anywhere else.
“It’s cool, let’s go,” Russell whispered.
Without a sound, Russell was gone. Justin took another deep breath and trotted after him. They made their way to a dumpster and knelt behind it. Russell crept to the corner and peered around.
“Be all clear, let’s do it,” he said softly as he stood and sprinted away.
Justin followed him. They reached the car together and crouched against the flawless silver paint as they surveyed their surroundings. The sweet, new Lexus had been parked there all day and Russell told Justin if it was still there that night, they were going back for a smash and grab.
Justin often tried to figure out why he let Russell talk him into these things. Russell didn’t seem to care if they got caught or not, as if he were trying to ruin his future. Justin, on the other hand, was terrified of being caught and having a police record that could ruin his chances of going to college. Several times he tried to say no, but Russell would always manage to persuade him into going along. Maybe it was a loyalty thing. Russell was the first friend Justin had made when he came to Florida three years ago and for all intents and purposes remained his only friend. It didn’t take long before everybody in the school knew them as Ebony and Ivory. When Russell started going through his delinquent phase, Justin figured it wouldn’t last long. Now, it was looking as though Russell enjoyed it too much and had no intention of stopping. Justin truly believed his friend would get arrested before they graduated high school the following year. All too often it came down to a choice between a path to nowhere or losing his friend.
Russell raised himself up and looked inside the car.
“Look like a nice stereo,” he whispered to Justin. “Lemme have your sweatshirt.”
Justin pulled his hooded Florida Marlins sweatshirt over his head and handed it to Russell. Russell found a piece of concrete block on the ground and wrapped the sweatshirt around it.
Justin looked at the dark outline of the construction trailer twenty feet away. Even though there were no lights on or other signs of life, he prayed nobody was inside.
There was a large sign bolted to the front wall of the trailer that Justin had seen many times in the light of day. Despite the darkness, he could still make out the rendering of a golf course with a cluster of condominium buildings around it. Construction had begun on twelve of the buildings and they all sat in various stages of completion. According to the sign, there would eventually be fifty-one buildings and a community center with a pool house, not to mention tennis courts and a bicycle path. Huge green letters boasted “Stillwater Resort” would be “Another Golf Community by The Hall & White Development Corporation”. As he read about the amenities that would be offered for bargain prices, starting in the low 400’s, his thoughts were interrupted by a loud pop, followed by the sound of thousands of pieces of broken glass falling to the ground and into the car.
Both boys froze in place—neither of them so much as taking a breath. Like sprinters poised for the starter’s gun, they waited for the sound of an alarm. After three agonizingly long seconds, they let out their breath and went about business.
Russell opened the car door and slid into the driver’s seat, where he used the concrete block to smash the dome light. Justin scooted over and squatted by the open door. Russell handed him a black vinyl case full of compact discs, followed by a wrist watch and a wallet. As Justin put his sweatshirt back on and stuffed the pilfered items into the belly-pocket, Russell went to work on the stereo.
Justin waited impatiently while Russell struggled with the stereo, a visceral fear spreading through his body like wildfire. Something was wrong, he was sure of it.
“Almost,” Russell grunted.
Justin’s fear escalated to panic when a faint wash of light spread over the interior of the car and grew until Russell’s face was bathed in bright light. The sound of an engine came over the night air toward them. Two bright white orbs of light approached, not more than one hundred feet away.
The boys looked at the headlights and then at each other.
“Shit,” Russell hissed. “Time to de-ass.”
With no further communication, they sprang from their positions and bolted back the way they came. Russell was two strides in front of Justin when they reached the dumpster. Without looking back, they ran until they reached a dried-up retention pond. They followed the muddy edge that marked the former waterline until they reached a path that eventually brought them to State Road A1A.
From the shelter of the trees at the shoulder of the road, they scanned the highway in the direction of the construction site entrance. Seeing nothing to indicate they had been spotted, they darted across the road and ran through a parking lot past the burned carcass of a former restaurant. They continued running until the lot ended and they were on the beach.
With adrenaline still coursing through their systems, they ran for nearly half a mile. When they finally ran out of steam, they were in front of a set of wooden stairs. Climbing the steps up over the dune, they reached a small gazebo and stood scanning the horizon for signs of pursuit. They were at the intersection of State Road 100 and A1A in Flagler Beach and by all appearances their escape had gone undetected. Across the street, on the roof of a restaurant called Donnegan’s, a band played a cover version of Stevie Ray Vaughan’s “Crossfire”. The sounds of people having a good time drifted across the night air.
A wooden staircase climbed the side of the building like ivy, providing access to the rooftop bar area. A large, tattooed biker staggered down the stairs, leaving his friends behind to carry on the festivities. He called parting shots to them as he headed for his motorcycle at the back of the parking lot.
After waiting for two large tanker trucks to roll by, Justin and Russell walked as calmly as they could across the street and fell in about ten steps behind the biker. Justin took out the wallet from the car and examined the contents under the light in the parking lot; there was a decent amount of cash in it, which he pocketed before tossing the wallet aside.
“Yo,” someone yelled behind them. Both boys froze and looked at each other in terror. Justin felt sweat break out on his forehead.
“Shit,” he whispered to Russell, “we’re fucked.”
“Yo, Bam-Bam,” the voice yelled again.
The biker turned around and looked at Justin.
“You call me?” he asked in a drunken slur.
“What? No, it wasn’t me,” Justin stammered.
The biker looked past them and they turned around to see another biker, just as large and just as tattooed, walking down the stairs.
“You might need these,” the second biker called, holding up a key ring.
Bam-Bam tapped at his pockets. Finding no keys, he said, “Hey, thanks Todd.”
Todd tossed the keys to Bam-Bam, who dropped them. As he bent to pick them up, Justin and Russell scooted around him and exited the parking lot without looking back.
They disappeared into a neighboring trailer park.
Dying Days (sample)
By
Armand Rosamilia
One
Lazy Eye held the pistol to Darlene’s head and licked his lips. “I said to take your fucking clothes off.”
Darlene held her hands up and away from her body. “Is that a two-twenty six?”
> Lazy Eye looked confused. He shook the pistol and motioned at her with his free hand. “I won’t ask again.”
“I think you’re right about that.” Darlene slipped her head down and to the left, bringing her extended fingers up and into his throat. Before he’d even stumbled she had gripped his arm, dislodged the pistol and heard his shoulder pop out of its socket.
Lazy Eye went to scream but she covered his mouth, drove her knee into his stomach, and picked up the pistol in seconds.
“Shut the fuck up or I will shoot you, motherfucker.” She had no intention of actually shooting him, since they were surrounded by undead. None of them were close enough to be an immediate threat, but they were there. The gunshot would get them moving toward her for miles out here.
Under her the man struggled vainly. Darlene pointed the pistol at his head and he finally took the hint and stopped struggling. “This is a Sig Sauer 226 model, and a nice one at that. You don’t strike me as being a Navy SEAL or a Texas Ranger, so I’m guessing you found it. Too bad. It’s an excellent piece. Mind if I keep it?”
Lazy Eye didn’t say anything. His good eye focused on her face before looking down at her dangling boobs at eye level. He licked his lips again.
“Idiot.” She sat up, pulled a hunting knife from her boot and shook her head. “Here you go; the last thing you’ll ever see.” With that she pulled her dirty T-shirt top up and revealed her tits to the man, who openly drooled on the ground.
“Nice, I know.” Darlene leaned close to him and just as his fingertip brushed against her hard left nipple she plunged the blade into his stomach and twisted. He gurgled as she drove the blade deeper into him and Darlene closed her eyes and tried to think of happy thoughts. She couldn’t and began to cry softly. As much as a scumbag as this guy was, he was still living and didn’t deserve to die. “Better you than me,” she mumbled. She cursed herself for not hearing him sneak up on her to begin with. So busy scanning the distance for the dead she’d not heard the living until he was on her.
Dying Days Ultimate Box Set 1 Page 36