Greasepaint (10 page)

Epilogue

The ER entrance of the hospital is silent one moment and erupts in fury the next. That is the cycle. The sirens announce the approach of that fury as an ambulance flies into the small parking area adjacent to the double door entrance. The sirens scream even as the ambulance screeches to a halt.

A paramedic, calm and urgent gets out of the ambulance and runs to the back. She opens the rear doors and another paramedic emerges. They unload a gurney loaded with someone having an incredibly bad day. Blood stains color the patient under the sheet from head to toe.

The paramedics waste no time in bursting through those double doors.

The paramedics, two nurses and a doctor race with the gurney down the hallway. They are picking up speed and the sheet flutters, but the amount of bodily fluids keep it in place.

The first nurse, in a tropical-themed pair of scrubs, holds an IV and runs alongside gurney. The doctor, pulling double duty, applies pressure to the victims head and chest.

The second paramedic walks and talks. “Massive trauma. CPR was performed at the scene and patient responded…”

The gurney flies down the hallway and through double doors reading Emergency Room and into a sterile operating theater. The doctor and both nurses attend to the patient.

Separated by a curtain, another sterile operating theatre with another doctor and two more nurses are working on a similarly blood soaked patient.

The paramedics have stepped back and watch. Doctors bark out orders to the nurses and the nurses respond with calm precision. As the two patients struggle, the orders and the responses blend into medley of medical expertise.

“Severe trauma, I need…” a doctor says.

“…don't have time, get that defib up…” the other doctor shouts.

“…bag of O negative…” Nurse.

“…Jesus Christ, how many wounds do you count?” Nurse.

“Suction…I need suction, goddamnit!” Doctor.

“I can't find the hemorrhage source.” Nurse.

“We need to get this guy aspirated…” Doctor.

The doctors and nurse work quickly, a well-oiled machine. The first patient spasms, every muscle quakes, and the monitors hooked to one patient flatline with a loud
beeeeeep
.

Doctors and nurses jump forward and tear away the sheet, begin CPR and defibrillation.

The second patient, not to be out done, flatlines with another loud
beeeep
.

The second set of medical professionals mimic the first and begin CPR and defibrillation.

“I'm out in 3…2…1…” the first doctor announces as he steps away. The tropical nurse takes his place.

The action is repeated by the second team. As the second doctor steps away, a nurse takes her place.

After what feels like hours, but is less than ninety seconds, patient one's monitor stops beeping. And then starts. And then stops. Starts again. A slow, steady heartbeat.

The first doctor and his nurses, exhausted, stop CPR and lean on the gurney. The doctor looks to his associate in the next area as he peers around the curtain.

That team has stopped CPR as well. One of the nurses flips off the monitor and the long, shrill beep stops.

“Need a hand, Joanne?” the first doctor asks.

Joanne shakes his head. “No. I'm gonna call it. Time?”

“3:40 p.m.”

A nurse wheels the gurney out. As the gurney passes, Joanne reaches up and wipes white cream make-up from her face.

The other patient spasms again. The nurses and the doctor hold him down. They struggle and are joined by Joanne and the remaining nurse.

It takes some time, but they finally get the straps on. Joanne and the other doctor lean against the gurney, spent.

“What's his deal, Ted?” Joanne asks.

“Massive head trauma, may have induced a seizure right there.”

“Could be, but I could swear he looked like he was laughing.”

Ted and Joanne turn to the patient. Dan stares back at them. His eyes are wide and the head wound is massive.

“Laughing?” Ted snorts. “I don't think he's got enough brain left.”

About the Author

David C. Hayes is an author, performer and filmmaker that also teaches these subjects at the university level.
Greasepaint
is David's first project with Samhain.

His films, like
A Man Called Nereus, Dark Places
and
The Frankenstein Syndrome
(and approximately 70 more) can be seen worldwide. He is the author of several novels, collections and graphic novels including
Cherub, Cannibal Fat Camp, The Midnight Creature Feature Picture Show, American Guignol, Scorn
and
Muddled Mind: The Complete Works of Ed Wood, Jr
. As a playwright, David's full-length and one-act plays have been produced from coast to coast with a run Off-Broadway for the comedy
Swamp Ho
and sell-out performances in Phoenix for
Dial P for Peanuts
(winning a 2011 Ethingtony for Best Show). He is a voting member of The Horror Writers Association and the Great Lakes Association of Horror Writers.

An unholy predator on the prowl!

Wolf Land

© 2015 Jonathan Janz

The small town of Lakeview offers little excitement for Duane, Savannah, and their friends. They're about to endure their ten-year high school reunion when their lives are shattered by the arrival of an ancient, vengeful evil.

The werewolf.

The first attack leaves seven dead and four wounded. And though the beast remains on the loose and eager to spill more blood, the sleepy town is about to face an even greater terror. Because the four victims of the werewolf's fury are changing. They're experiencing unholy desires and unimaginable cravings. They'll prey on the innocent. They'll act on their basest desires. Soon, they'll plunge the entire town into a nightmare. Lakeview is about to become Wolf Land.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Wolf Land:

“Seriously, man,” Mike said. “Who the hell is that?”

Glenn swiveled his head to look, and as he did he noticed that several other partygoers had spotted the newcomer as well.

The man stood maybe thirty yards away from where Glenn and Mike were standing, and perhaps twenty feet away from the nearest partygoers, who Glenn now identified as Dan and Jessica Clinton. Dan had impregnated Jessica in high school, and they'd gotten married. Now they had six kids and lived on the lake.

The man remained where he was, the shadows veiling his face. He was dressed curiously. He wore all black, but the clothes were too formal—dress slacks, a button-down shirt. For another, the clothes hung off the man as though he'd lost a great deal of weight recently. Glenn was reminded of a scarecrow. Or an itinerant preacher with parishioners too cheap to tithe.

“You know the dude?” Mike asked.

Glenn shook his head. He didn't know the man, and he wasn't sure he wanted to. Maybe it was the Jack and Coke, or maybe it was the heat from the bonfire, which danced and licked the air with rabid orange tongues, but there was definitely something unnatural about the figure. The man hadn't moved at all, for one thing. For another, Glenn was pretty sure he could see the man's eyes, even from this distance. They were chips of blue ice, piercing and not at all friendly.

Hunter and Kris Marvin had also noticed the interloper. Maybe, Glenn reasoned, one of the brothers had invited the guy. But that didn't seem right either. There was something about the way the man stood that suggested experience. Glenn couldn't shake the idea that one of their former teachers had shown up. Or some other hostile authority figure from their pasts.

“Come have a beer,” Kris Marvin called. Kris was the easier-going of the two brothers, and no doubt wanted to defuse the weird tension that had permeated the gathering.

The man in the shadows didn't answer. Didn't move. Glenn was sure he could see the man's eyes glowing now.

“Ah, to hell with this,” Hunter Marvin said and began to stalk forward.

Glenn felt a chill. Hunter was a state champion wrestler and didn't possess the peace-making tendencies of his brother. If Hunter decided to attack the man, things might get very ugly indeed. Probably sensing the danger here, Kris moved up alongside his brother and barred him with an outstretched arm.

“
You are wayward lambs
,” the man said.

The rest of Glenn's lethargy burned away in a white-hot blast of fear. The man's voice had been resonant, erudite. Yet there had been a croaking, disused quality to it, as if the man's lungs were a pair of ancient bellows, the vocal chords coated in some viscous oil. Had he been alone, Glenn would have taken off running.

But Mike was chuckling. “‘Wayward
lambs'
? What the hell is he talking about?”

Both Marvin brothers were laughing too. In fact, it seemed that most of the partygoers found this newcomer an innocuous novelty someone had hired to enliven the proceedings.

But there were also those who weren't laughing.

Savannah and her friend, the librarian whose name Glenn couldn't recall…they were watching the newcomer with real trepidation. As was Short Pump, who was standing by himself about fifteen feet behind Glenn and Mike. Short Pump had a beer clutched in one hand, but his other hand was resting on his thigh, the fingers there tap-tapping against his jeans.

“You gonna have a beer or not?” Kris Marvin said. “I can't prevent my brother from kicking your ass much longer.”

Jessica Clinton, who along with her husband Dan and her best friend Adriana Carlino, were the closest people to the interloper, said, “What the hell's up your ass, man?”

Without moving, the man looked at Dan Clinton and said, “
Tell your woman to be still
.”

A few partygoers chuckled, but no one else saw much humor in the comment, least of all Jessica Clinton. She was sassy, Glenn knew. A woman pretty much had to be sassy to manage six kids.

Jessica flipped her long, auburn hair aside, and strode toward the figure. “You better start apologizing right now.”

The man laughed softly. “
Helpless, wayward lambs
.”

Glenn's chill deepened.

But Jessica's husband had evidently had enough. So had Hunter Marvin. Together, they stalked toward the figure, who Glenn realized was bigger and stronger than he'd initially estimated. The black clothes remained a bit roomy, but the figure inside them was far from emaciated. To the contrary, the arms and legs seemed muscular now. Even if he was older, the man looked stout enough to put up a fight.

“
This is your only warning
,” the man said, his voice deepening.

Hunter Marvin spread his arms. “You're warning
us
?”

“
If you run now
,” the man continued, “
you might escape retribution
.”

Now the laughter was more pronounced.

“You believe this?” Billy Kramer said to Colton Crane. “This douchebag thinks he's gonna take us all on.”

One person who apparently took the man's threats seriously was Josh Roller. A couple years older than Glenn, Roller was a known gun enthusiast. Brushing past Glenn and Mike, Roller said, “Fellas, I'm gonna put a stop to this bull, pronto.”

Which meant, Glenn knew, that Roller was trudging to his beat-up Ford pick-up in order to retrieve whatever weaponry he stored there. Roller had driven through one of the fields and was only parked about fifty yards away.

Time to go
, a voice whispered.

But that was impossible, Glenn knew. Not only were the odds in their favor—hell, there were how many people here tonight? Fifty?—but he would appear gutless if he turned tail now. Not to mention Savannah. What would she think of him?

Don't you want to protect Savannah?

Sure
, he thought uneasily.
Of course I do
.

“Last warning, asshole,” Hunter Marvin said. “Either leave or tell us who the hell you are.”

“And apologize to my wife,” Dan Clinton added. Dan was ordinarily a pretty reasonable guy, but he looked pissed off enough to make the interloper pay for his rudeness.

“
You want to know who I am?
” the interloper asked.

Hunter Marvin grinned, glanced back at the other partygoers in exasperation. “That's what I said, didn't I? You hard of hearing or something?”

“
Hard of hearing is one thing I am not
,” the interloper said. “
I hear everything. I hear the wind and what it conceals. I hear the language of the night, the music of the ancient world. I hear the leaves. I hear the worms, eager to writhe in your carcass
.”

Hunter hesitated. “You're a real freak, aren't you?”

The figure turned his face this way and that, sampling the air.

“
I smell your fear
,” the interloper said. “
It is the scent of impending death
.”

And now, for the first time since they'd met back in junior high, Glenn saw Hunter Marvin take a backwards step. Hunter had always seemed eager for a confrontation, but several factors were conspiring to undo his courage now:

The interloper's body no longer looked bony at all, but instead packed the voluminous clothes with brawn and sinew. Though there was still something in the voice and bearing that bespoke of experience, Glenn now wondered just how agile this man might be. His whole frame seemed to thrum with caged energy. And something else. If hatred were a tangible thing, this man was broadcasting it. The contempt in his voice was real, the desire to inflict pain.

“Hey, guys?” a voice behind them said.

Glenn turned and saw Short Pump, whose apologetic expression only partially masked his terror.

“What?” Mike asked.

“Think we should maybe, I don't know, get the hell out of here?” Short Pump asked.

Glenn was about to agree with him, his reputation as a badass be damned, when the figure said, “
You were wrong to return
.”

Next to him he sensed Mike stiffen.

Glenn swallowed. “Hey, I think Duane's got a point. Maybe we should get Savannah and—”

“
See what your deeds have wrought
,” the figure interrupted.

Glenn tried to swallow but couldn't. The voice seemed to fill the clearing, to absorb the flames of the bonfire and swirl about them until the air was no longer breathable, was a superheated cauldron in which they would all boil.

Dan Clinton stepped closer to the figure. “Look, I've asked you to apologize to my wife, and if you're not going to—”

“
Come
,” the figure said.

Dan faltered, a stricken look on his face. He glanced about uncertainly, then said, “You mean me?”

“
I mean anyone with a modicum of courage. Even one who has failed an entire town
.”

And this time there was absolutely no doubt to whom the figure was speaking.