Deathbringer, p.1
Deathbringer, page 1
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i PRAISE FOR BRYAN SMITH AND HOUSE OF BLOOD
“Smith promises unimaginable brutality, bile-inducing fear, and unfathomable despair; and then delivers monumentally!”
—Horror Web “Bryan Smith is a force to be reckoned with!”
—Douglas Clegg, author of The Abandoned “A feast of good old-fashioned horror. Don’t pass this one up!”
—Brian Keene, author of City of the Dead “In the vein of Bentley Little and Edward Lee…sometimes scary, sometimes amusing, House of Blood is a quick, enjoyable read suitable for all fans of horror and dark fantasy.”
—Michael Laimo, author of The Demonologist “Bryan Smith has a knack for taking the standard horror tale and turning it inside out to show you the dripping viscera at its core.”
—Randy Chandler, author of Bad Juju ii ALIVE AGAIN
Dead eyes snapped open in absolute darkness.
At first there was nothing but the darkness. This void. Then, all at once, consciousness returned, and, with it, awareness. She felt something soft and plush cradling her body. Then her reawakened senses detected confinement. She lifted her hands and they met almost immediate resistance. She kicked her legs out and encountered more resistance.
A coffin, she thought, horror blooming within her regenerated brain. I’m in a coffin. But… why?
Then the memories returned. Her last memories. That awful girl. The gun. The bullets puncturing her flesh and taking her life.
I’m dead, she thought.
But now, somehow, she was back.
And there was something else. A smell, a scent marker as individual and damning as a fingerprint left at a crime scene. It was mixed with something else, sex musk, an aroma that awakened something wicked within her. Something that demanded satiation. That girl…her killer … she was nearby. Close enough almost to touch.
Somewhere … above her.
A scream tore out of Hannah’s mouth. She was aware of a new feeling now, something she’d never felt in her previous life. A bloodlust. An all-consuming need to have revenge. To kill.
She screamed again.
And then she began to claw frantically at the coffin lid.
iii Bryan Smith iv Other Leisure books by Bryan Smith:
HOUSE OF BLOOD
v DEATHBRINGER
BRYAN SMITH
LEISURE BOOKS ťNEW YORK CITY
vi This book is dedicated to two survivors:
My wife, Rachael Wise and Cherie Smith, my mother.
A LEISURE BOOKŽ
March 2006
Published by Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
200 Madison Avenue New York, NY 10016
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Copyright Š2006 by Bryan Smith All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
ISBN 0-8439-5677-1
The name “Leisure Books” and the stylized “L” with design are trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
Printed in the United States of America.
Visit us on the web at www.dorchesterpub.com.
vii ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d like to again thank my family for continuing to be a source of strength and encouragement. My brothers Jeff and Eric for being the two coolest siblings anyone could ever hope to have. My nephew, Dylan, for carrying the Smith horror fan legacy into a new generation. My mom and my wife for propping me up during the harder times and cheering me on during the happier times. My great friend Keith Ashley. My grandparents, Dorothy and Oscar May, and Ruby Smith.
Thanks also to authors Douglas Clegg, Brian Keene, and Tom Piccirilli for being so uncommonly cool. And I need to mention the Deathbringer first readers: Randy Chandler, Kent Gowran, Paul Legerski, Nick Cato, and Jeff Strand. Thanks, guys—your feedback helped decide between this one and the “other one.”
Finally, a Bryan Smith acknowledgments page would not be complete without again thanking all the rockand-rollers who keep me from going off the rails: Backyard Babies, GNR, Supersuckers, Iggy, Crystal Pistol, the Erotics, the Creeping Cruds, Wednesday 13, the Hellacopters, the Dead Boys, Sleazegrinder and Faster Pussycat.
viii Deathbringer
Prologue
Hannah Starke watched a fly make its slow way up the length of her slim, tanned leg. The little creature moved with the lethargy of a fat birthday boy stuffed full of cake and ice cream. Cake. Wedding cake. Hannah shooed the fly away and returned her attention to the pad of yellow legal paper propped in her lap. Her flowing script already filled some half dozen pages, which were folded over and tucked beneath the pad’s cardboard backing. At the top of this fresh page in neat block letters were the words, goddamned WEDDING CAKE!
Hannah heaved a sigh and reached for the pitcher of sweet tea on the small table next to the lounge chair. She tipped some more tea and ice into her nearly empty glass. The tea eased her thirst, but did little to shake the heat induced lethargy that had rendered her incapable of accomplishing anything productive for going on an hour. She knew she should get off her ass and seek the solace of air-conditioning, but the day was so lovely it kept her glued to this spot on the front porch of her husband-to-be’s modest ranch house.
Her peripheral vision detected a hint of movement to her far right. She glanced in that direction and smiled at the sight of a girl attired in the uniform of a St. Mary’s student. The girl was on the other side of the quiet street, maybe half a block down. The little plaid miniskirt the girl wore showed off shapely legs Hannah was certain made every dirty old man who got a glimpse drool uncontrollably. The girl’s long, shiny blond hair flopped about her head in pigtails.
Hannah sipped more tea and leaned back in her chair. She closed her eyes and felt herself edging toward drowsiness. She wished Mike were here to keep her awake and focused on the serious business of planning their wedding.
But Mike was at work. He was a rookie officer in the Dandridge Police Department. She’d met him in his last year at Middle Tennessee State University, where he’d been a criminal justice major. The chemistry between them was instant and intense. During those initial several weeks together, practically all of their spare time was spent engaged in a relentless quest to fuck each others brains out. It could have turned out to be just another short-lived but torrid relationship, but once that initial heat waned some, the chemistry was still there. They did everything together and it became a given that this was a relationship with the power to endure.
Then came Mike’s proposal on classic bended-knee the night of his graduation from MTSLJ. She joyously accepted the proposal and a date was set for a year hence. The way she saw it, she couldn’t imagine wanting to be with anyone other than Mike, so there was no reason to pussyfoot around.
She wanted to be Mrs. Michael O’Bannon.
And so she would be.
But her happiness failed to negate the worry Mike’s choice of career had instilled in her. She often wished he’d gone straight back into school after graduation to pursue a law degree. Not because the legal world was potentially many times more lucrative than what a cop could ever hope to make. No, she fretted so because of the danger inherent in a cop’s life.
Okay, so Dandridge was a smallish town, with a population of some twelve thousand. Murders were rare occurrences there. And as Mike liked to point out, no Dandridge cop had ever died in the line of duty. Which, okay, was a compelling argument. But neighboring town Brighton, which was similar in size and pace of life, had not so long ago been the scene of a tragic multiple murder. One night some drug-crazed lunatics—who admittedly had ranged far out of their home territory—robbed a fast-food restaurant and brutally murdered the handful of employees still on duty.
If it could happen in Brighton, it could happen in Dandridge.
But Mike would not be swayed, pointing out that the alleged offenders had been apprehended and were no longer a danger to anyone. The odds against anything similar happening again were astronomical. On a purely objective level, Hannah could see the logic in this. But logic and rational thinking mattered little to her when she slept alone at night and agonized over the safety of her intended. She could too easily imagine an intoxicated redneck pulling a gun on Mike and blowing him away after a routine traffic stop.
She shuddered and her eyes snapped open. Anxious to dispel the disturbing image, her gaze fell back to the legal pad and the words GODDAMNED wedding cake! With a derisive snort, she shook her head. Mike’s meddling mother had announced long ago that she would make the cake. Not pay a baker to make it, but make it herself.
The notion made Hannah livid, but because it was the one way in which Mike’s mother had offered to help she went along with it. Which she now regretted. With the wedding less than a week away, Marsha O’Bannon showed no signs of making actual preparations to bake the cake. So now Hannah was in the difficult spot of having to decide whether she should pay a baker an extravagant sum to produce a suitable cake on short notice. It would cause a rift in familial relations, no doubt, but it was looking increasingly like she would have no c hoice. A lilting voice called out: “Hello, there!” Hannah looked up from the page and saw the schoolgirl walking across Mike’s front lawn en route to the porch. She lugged a heavy book bag and in one hand clutched some laminated cards. The sight of the girl’s smiling face vanquished her own frown. She raised a finger, set aside the legal pad, and got to her feet.
“Just one minute while I fetch my checkbook.” The wattage of the schoolgirl’s smile amped up considerably. “But you don’t even know what I’m selling!” She giggled. “I could be hawking deeds to nonexistent bridges!”
The girl’s enthusiasm was infectious. Hannah smiled, too, forgetting for the moment the maddening matter of Mike’s passive-aggressive mother and the illusory wedding cake. “Oh, you can’t fool me. I went to St. Mary’s too, you know. I’ll be happy to buy some magazines from you.”
The girl shrugged her book bag off her shoulder and dropped it on the porch, where it landed with a heavy thump. She held out a hand. “Awesome. My name’s Molly. Molly Nelson. Jeez, you don’t know how much I appreciate this …” Her brow arched.
Hannah laughed and shook the proffered hand. “Hannah Starke. For now. In a week I’ll be Hannah O’Bannon.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “No! You’re getting married?”
Hannah laughed again, with less restraint this time. She liked Molly. The bubbly girl reminded her of a young version of herself. Molly seemed smart and well-adjusted. Hannah knew nothing about her, but she was unable to suppress the instinct to sketch out some imaginary biographical details. She couldn’t help it. It was the writer in her. That part of her always wanted to invent histories for every stranger she encountered. Molly, she was willing to bet, was an overachiever. A gifted girl of many talents who’d been raised right by loving parents. She would go on to great success in later life. It was a bio devoid of drama, but Hannah’s instincts told her there was nothing for it—this Molly was one of those fortunate ones God (or whomever was really in charge of these things) had decided to bless extravagantly at birth. Probably some of her less fortunate classmates were insanely jealous of her, which was understandable, but Hannah was pretty sure Molly was levelheaded enough not to let it get to her.
She grinned. “I am, indeed. To my college sweetheart. He’s a police officer here in Dandridge. Mike O’Bannon. I’m very proud of him.”
“Well, you should be. I bet he’s a hunk, huh?”
Hannah chuckled. “You know, he really is. But don’t say that around him. I wouldn’t want his head getting any bigger than it already is.”
The sound that emerged from Molly’s mouth now was closer to a cackle than a giggle. “Are you sure about that?”
Hannah frowned. “Um … what?”
Molly’s eyes suddenly widened again and she glanced at the watch strapped to her thin left wrist. There was a glint of sudden panic in her eyes. “Oh, I totally forgot! I have to go pick my little brother up from daycare in fifteen minutes. Oh, darn!”
Hannah’s smile returned. “Just a moment. I’ll be back with that checkbook.”
“Thanks so much!”
Hannah turned and entered the house. She walked through the foyer and dining room and into the kitchen, where her Kate Spade bag was propped against a fruit bowl on an island in the middle of the room. She opened the bag, located her checkbook and a pen, and turned to go back to the porch.
She stopped in her tracks.
Molly stood in the archway that separated the dining room from the kitchen. The book bag dangled from her right hand. It looked considerably lighter now, as if all the books had been removed from it. “I didn’t feel like waiting outside. Is that okay with you?”
There was a strange edge to the girl’s voice now, a
hint of something feral. Her posture was different, too. She slumped a bit now, with a hip cocked out and her breasts thrust forward. She was still smiling, but there was now something nasty about the expression. Something sinister and malevolent. The transformation so astonished Hannah that it undercut all her better instincts and sealed her fate.
“Molly … I told you I’d be out in a minute.” She raised the checkbook with a shaking hand, displaying it like a defeated combatant waving a white flag on the field of battle. “See … I was … going to write you a check.”
Molly snickered. “Oh, I’ll be taking your money. Whatever cash you have.”
She reached into the bag and advanced into the kitchen, swaying her hips in an exaggerated way. The book bag fell away and Hannah gasped at the sight of the revolver in Molly’s hands. The schoolgirl aimed the gun point-blank at the center of Hannah’s suddenly twitching and flushed face.
Her mouth contorted in a snarl: “On your knees, bitch!”
Hannah’s heart slammed in her chest. She fell to her knees without thinking about it, surrendering to the sudden lack of strength in her legs rather than Molly’s command. The girl stood before her, pushing the barrel of the gun against her forehead. Holding the revolver in her right hand, she swept the blond wig off her head, revealing a spiky, dyed-black do. Hannah’s gaze dropped and for the first time she glimpsed a barbed wire tattoo encircling the girl’s left ankle.
How did I not see that before?
How did I not sense there was something wrong with this girl?
Oh, Mike, help me, please …
“Look at me, bitch!”
Breath catching in her throat, Hannah raised her moisture-obscured gaze. Had she thought she’d detected something feral in that psychotic gaze before? Well, that wasn’t nearly close enough. Savage, that was a better word. And this was just fucking crazy. Even facing certain death she was still editing herself.
The thought made her laugh helplessly.
The inappropriate outburst inflamed her assailant, who loosed a scream and clubbed Hannah in the head with the revolver. Pain burst in Hannah’s head like a grenade, temporarily blinding and disorienting her. When she could see again, she was flat on her back and Molly—if that was her real name—stood over her, with one foot planted on either side of her prone victim. The barrel of the gun was still aimed straight at Hannah’s face.
And all Hannah could think about now was Mike. She imagined Mike coming home to find her bullet-riddled body splayed in a pool of blood on his kitchen floor. She could too easily see his easygoing grin giving way to abject horror, grief, and panic. It made her mad. It made her sad. All their dreams and plans of a perfect life together blown senselessly apart.
She made eye contact with Molly, unwilling now to wilt beneath the strange fury she saw there. “Why are you doing this?”
That cackling sound came again. “Because it’s fun. And because they dared me to.”
Hannah frowned. “They? But …”
Molly’s foot shot out and delivered a brutal blow to her crotch. “Shut up!”
Hannah wheezed and made a belated attempt to move away from her assailant, scooting backward on the slick kitchen tiles.
Molly laughed and moved with her. “Too late, you stupid cunt.”
Hannah found herself whimpering. The sound shamed her, but she couldn’t help it. “Please… please … I’m supposed to be married … please …”
Molly smirked. “Wedding’s off.”
Hannah felt the impact of the first bullet before she heard the gunshot. She looked down and saw blood welling between her breasts. No. She’d really been shot. She couldn’t believe it. This had to be a bad dream. A really bad dream. Not real. But then she felt the pain and knew it was real.
Another bullet nicked her collarbone and she ceased trying to move away.
And now she looked up and saw the barrel of the gun looming in her face.
She had just time enough to say a silent prayer and send a heartfelt thought through the ether to her beloved: I love you, Mike. Take care, honey.
In those last flickering moments she felt an odd kind of peace.
Then the next bullet punched a hole through her forehead and she felt nothing at all. Hannah Starke was dead.
10 10 Bryan Smith
Chapter One
O’Bannon’s house looked every bit as dead as the young woman who’d been murdered in it a week earlier. All exterior lighting was off and there was no indication of illumination within. Drapes were drawn shut over all windows not covered by shutters. To Dandridge police officer Kent Gowran they looked like funeral shrouds. This was a place of death, they announced, a place of finality and desolation.
