Horror/Thriller
Date Published: 10-23-2021
Publisher: Didactic Cafe Press
Can you survive the night when a murderous competition arrives in a small East Texas town with one road in and no way out?
The Invitation…
The stark white lightbulb swayed
ever-so-slightly on its bare cord in the dark room, casting strange shadows on
the shape bent over a workbench. It was
vaguely human, but contorted as it worked on something intently. Something that would be deadly and vile and
monstrous.
Someday.
So far, the shape had only
planned. Planned death, destruction,
murder, torture, and terror. Planned to
bring forth a darkness that would shake people to their core. To make death art, and to make it
prolifically.
But no blade had split flesh, no
bullet had puckered skin, no bomb had charred and blasted bone from bone. No
victim had experienced absolute terror as they breathed their last.
Yet.
A single ping made the shape turn
its head, and the slight movement of the stark bulb momentarily illuminated a
youthful face, the face of a man who was barely that. But it also showed eyes that were dark and
devoid of hope or joy or even life. They
were the eyes of a man who would kill you- if only the opportunity presented
itself and his will was strong enough.
He moved over to the small monitor
rigged up by his own hand, connected to a port that allowed him access to the
blackest of black on the dark web. It
had been in the recesses of the black pits of evil that he first dared share
his dream of malice and mountains of blood.
It was there he found...dare he say it?
Friends. And that distinct ping
told him that a particular friend had just sent a message.
Those blank eyes scanned over a
simple message, while his fingers idly played with the object he had been
crafting- a six-inch blade with sharp wings going in all directions for maximum
carnage when inserted into a person.
The eyes ran back and forth over the
simple words and numbers glowing white against a black background. He read it
again and again, a tiny bit of drool beginning to form and ooze from the corner
of his mouth.
They read:
“Killtown”
Sundown tomorrow.
Kingston, TX
11:57:42
The countdown continued to tick away. After a minute or so, the white letters began
to wash in a blood-red shade.
He smiled, and for the first time, those dead eyes showed
life.
His moment had come.
11:56:52
11:56:51
11:56:50
Chapter 1
The sun bounced brightly off the
yellow roof of the bus as it wound through the trees into a clearing. It was headed to the tiny town that lay just
ahead, an unremarkable hamlet known as Kingston, Texas. It had two claims to fame- a little bar that
served legendary cheese fries (Guy Fieri had been there once; they say) and an
amazing six-man football team.
The bus was coming for the latter,
as the former would not admit minors.
The third thing it might have been famous for- but would
most definitely soon be famous for- was its isolation. Kingston sat on an island in a man-made lake
in East Texas. Only one road led into
the town, and that same road was the only way out. Unless you wanted to swim for it. The high school sat on a hill in the middle of
the island, like a modern day Acropolis where footballs were thrown about
instead of philosophies. A quaint downtown was just down from the school, and
it was surrounded by modest homes and pine trees. Sitting on the edge of the water- a lake
created when a nearby river was dammed a century earlier- was a massive
sawmill. Aside from being a bedroom
community for oil rig workers, the mill was the main reason for Kingston’s
existence. And the only reason it had a
law enforcement presence at all.
Alas, Tommy Hanover had no idea about any of those
interesting (a term loosely applied) facts.
As the bus flew past him, he knew only that his feet ached from walking,
and that this would be the town he spent the night in.
Tommy was no stranger to sore soles
and strange towns. Since returning from
Afghanistan a few years earlier, he had lived a nomadic lifestyle. He would wander the countryside, doing odd
jobs here and there, always moving.
Never still.
Still was bad.
Tommy had never been diagnosed with PTSD-
not formally, anyway. He knew he had it,
though. How could he not? He had seen half a dozen friends slaughtered
by insurgents before his very eyes.
Tommy had done his job, returning the favor to those same twenty men
with stolen American weapons they had taken from the corpses of countless and
nameless other soldiers. He had not
killed them alone. Not at first. But as the battle wore on, he found himself
driving deeper behind the enemy lines and beyond the safety and support of his
squad.
That was when he found three of them
hunkered behind a dune. They were
surprised to see him. But he was ready
for them. And what he did to them…
Tommy snapped his consciousness back
to the present as the deep rumble of a V-8 engine approached quickly. Tommy could tell it was a truck, an old one,
and it was not in the best condition. He
turned his head, raising his hand to the brim of his black cap to block the
sinking sun so he could confirm his suspicion.
The truck was two-toned gray and rusted. A high-pitched whine was just barely audible
from where the nearly bald tires met the asphalt. White smoke belched from the mufflers (that
were most definitely not living up to their name) and a large and probably human
shape hunkered over the wheel. The truck rumbled past Tommy as they both
crossed onto the bridge going over the lake below, and he saw a tarp flapping
over the bed. He imagined it to be some
local hunter coming back with the day’s kill. It was deer season around these
parts, after all.
Tommy knew things about the places
he traveled to. He saw it as a survival
instinct born from his time in the service.
Tommy always got the lay of the land to make sure there was no ambush
waiting, and to make sure he had an exit strategy.
Kingston- population 616, according
to the green sign Tommy was passing- was a quiet town six days of the
week. Friday nights were the exception
because almost every citizen turned out to cheer on the Spartans. Tommy figured the mascot was a nod to the
isolated nature of the town- one road in and out, surrounded by dense East
Texas forest and murky water on all four sides.
And, maybe, the fact that it was a town that made tough warriors.
Or they thought they were tough.
Tommy guessed you had to be tough to
survive out here, with little work available, and the poverty rate so
high. But people rarely left the
town. The few that did often found their
way back before long.
It was a Friday night, and so the
small town would swell in size as a local rival came to face off on the
gridiron. Maybe Tommy would catch the
game- he had some cash left over from his last odd job. He was thinking this
prospect over when a green sedan idled up beside him and stopped. A young guy with dark eyes leaned over and
raised his voice over the sound of the clicking motor. “Ya need a-a lift?” The kid’s voice was
shaky, nervous. Tommy made a mental
note- probably a local scared of strangers.
“I’m almost there, but thanks. I
think I’ll take you up on it. Think you
could point me to a local food joint?” Tommy asked, running the mental
calculations to see if he had the money for dinner even as he asked.
The kid shook his head, “I’m not
from here- just in town for the game.”
The kid looked around sheepishly, and Tommy thought the boy was watching
out for traffic. As he climbed into the
old car, he could smell sweat and a subtle hint of alcohol. Was the kid even old enough to drink? Tommy thought that might be a question that
would come his way soon. Hey, mister, I don’t know where to get food,
but I do know where to get booze. Buy me
some in exchange for the ride?
But
the question never came, and the kid put the car into gear, and they headed
toward the town proper. Tommy was
stretching his feet in his shoes, thankful for the respite. He noticed the kid was actively sweating,
despite the cool of the night air swirling in through the open windows. “First hitchhiker?” Tommy asked.
“Huh?” the kid replied,
startled. Tommy saw the boy’s left hand
drop down between his seat and the door and stay there. The kid shot a glance at Tommy, and chuckled,
“Y-yeah. That obvious?”
“Relax, kid, I only kill bad guys,”
Tommy said good-naturedly.
The boy’s hand tensed on the wheel,
almost imperceptibly, and the vein in his neck strained. Tommy narrowed his eyes at the kid and tapped
the patch on his jacket that indicated he was Special Forces. “Or, at least, I used to,” Tommy said as the
kid eyed the patch. The vein calmed
down, and Tommy reasoned silently that the kid was probably not going to the
game, but to the house of a girl whose parents were. That would explain the nerves.
Nevertheless, Tommy had a bit of a
sixth sense about situations that seemed off.
This was one of those. That bar that
was famous for cheese fries appeared on the right, and the neon sign that said
“Hot Food!” caught Tommy’s attention.
“Hey kid, let me off here.”
The kid nervously looked over to
where Tommy was pointing, and asked, “You sure?”
Tommy nodded. “Yeah, I need to eat. Thanks for the ride…?”
He extended his hand to the kid as the car slid into park.
Tentatively, the kid shook the offered appendage, “S-Sean.”
Tommy looked in the back seat and, for a second, thought he
saw an odd-shaped knife under a piece of black cloth. Then he turned his gaze
back to Sean. “See ya around, kid. Enjoy the game.”
Sean blinked quickly, then added, “Y-you too!” His hand finally released whatever he had
grabbed by the seat, then he drove away.
Tommy turned and started to walk into the bar- the Drunk
Monkey. One thought kept running through
Tommy’s mind:
Man, that kid had dead eyes.
About the Author
Chad Lehrmann is the author of numerous novels and also finds time to teach AP History to high school students. The product of a small town in Texas, he knows all too well the secrets that live in those supposedly idyllic villages.
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