He flushed the butt and when he got back to the office the phone was ringing.
“Crisis Center Hotline. How can I help you?”
“I’m about to eat my weapon.”
“Excuse me? Say that again?”
“I said I’m about to eat my weapon. What are you, deaf? I just wanted somebody to know. Not that that makes any goddamn difference either.”
“Ralph?”
“Huh?”
“Ralph? Is that you?”
“What? Who the fuck is this?”
“Jesus Christ, Ralphy. It’s Joe. What the fuck are you talking about?” He’d know his ex-partner’s voice over a screaming crowd at Fenway Park.
“Aw, shit, Joe. It fucking figures, you know? I call to tell some anonymous fuck he can shove life up his asshole and I get you of all people. I always said if it wasn’t for bad luck I wouldn’t have none at all. Proves me out. What the fuck are you doing manning a crisis center? You fucking hate people!”
“Jesus, Ralphy. I don’t hate you! What the hell are you thinking of?”
“I’m takin’ the .45 caliber highway, Joe.”
“You can’t do that!”
“Sure I can. McNulty did, remember? Only his was a .38.”
“Wait. I’m coming right over.”
“Nah. That’s bullshit.”
“Don’t do anything until I get there. Promise me.”
“What? You want to watch? That’s my Joey. That’s my boy.”
“Come on, dammit! Listen to me. Don’t do anything to yourself! I want you to promise me.”
“’Bye, Joe.”
“Wait! For chrissake wait!”
“Amazing. Good old Joe Fitzpatrick, model compassionate citizen. Now I seen everything. Now I can fucking die happy.”
“Wait, goddammit! Ralph. Ralph!”
But the line was dead and by the time he made it through the goddamn storm so was Ralphy, all over the kitchen floor, so he had to call for cleanup. He knew the number.
Regina Mitchell
ICK LAYMON WROTE stories like nothing I’d ever read before. They were fast, bloody, and violent—but most of all they were fun. His writing was a huge influence, and most of the lessons I learned were from simply reading his fiction.
I learned that characters in fiction were allowed to be real, to speak and act like real people. I learned that old ideas can be reworked into fresh, exciting ones—if you give them a personal touch. I learned that a book doesn’t always have to end the way you think it should.
I also learned that not all famous writers are jerks. They can have families and be pleasant. They can write blood-soaked fiction and still be nice guys.
I only met Dick Laymon once, and I was too scared to do more than stammer “Hello” and shake his hand. I was too embarrassed to ask him to sign any books for me, but I did get up the courage to send him an email or two later. To my surprise he answered me. And later that year he sent me a hand-drawn Christmas card.
I’m sorry that the next generation of horror writers won’t have the same chance I did, to see that a great writer can be a great person as well, but I’m thankful that others may see the huge influence he still has over many of us and that they, too, may read his work and be inspired.
Regina Mitchell
HE DIRTY NAKED boy ran down the street sniffing the air.
Mother?
But he had never known a mother, not really. Just Kylie and the memory of a scent, a woman scent fresh in the stale desert air, similar to what he smelled now, reminding him of soft, pink flesh.
Flesh he still tasted in his dreams.
Alison got out of the car and stretched her legs, grateful to be outside despite the heat. She twisted her blonde hair into a ponytail as she spoke. “So, this is your ghost town.”
A stretch of broken road surrounded by six or seven wood frame buildings bleached by sun and the blowing desert sand. A cluster of shacklike dwellings was visible a few miles away; even further were the mountains.
“Yep. Isn’t she a beaut?” Steve looked around proudly, as if he had built it with his own hands.
Alison nodded, thinking, not really. The town looked like a tornado hit it and nobody bothered to clean up afterward. Glass from broken windows glittered in the dust. Broken boards were strewn here and there. Most of the signs were long gone, but a few remained. The word “Groceries” was faintly visible on one, the word “Clark” on another. But what did I expect a ghost town to look like? she asked herself. Deserted places weren’t supposed to be pretty—that was part of their charm, part of the reason she’d agreed to spend the night here. It would be something different.
“I’m glad you came out here with me, Al.” He put his arms around her waist. Rested his head on her shoulder. “Much nicer than camping with the guys.”
“You think?” She laughed.
They stayed that way for a while, looking at the landscape. It was so quiet here, so...desolate. She thought of the tagline from a movie she’d seen: In space no one can hear you scream.
“Do you want to put up the tent?” Steve asked.
“Isn’t that what we brought it for?”
“Well, we could sleep in one of the buildings.”
“In one of them?” They had originally planned to camp in the desert beside the town, but the thought of staying in one of these places was sort of intriguing. And then she thought of the downside. “But what about scorpions and spiders? And snakes? At least we know they aren’t in the tent to begin with.”
“It was just a thought,” he said. “No big deal.”
“No, I think I want to. But...let’s look around first, see how bad it is.”
Alison grabbed a flashlight from the back seat and patted her rear to make sure her pocket knife was still there. It was an old Swiss army knife, not much in the way of defense, but having it close somehow made her feel safe.
“You know,” Steve said as they approached the steps, “I read a story once where these people found an old body with a stake in it in a ghost town like this.”
“This is supposed to make me want to sleep in here?” Alison stopped to tie her shoe while Steve went off to peek in what remained of the window.
“No.” He adjusted his sunglasses. “Just saying we might find something cool.”
The boy ran off the pavement and into the desert, loping on hands and feet, oblivious to the heat of the ground, the prickly plants he trampled, the rocks he kicked. He ran toward Kylie and the others, nose still full of that delicious scent.
Inside was slightly cooler but full of stale air. A counter ran the length of the side wall. It was hard to tell what color it originally was but it was now faded to the same nothing as the rest of the place. Broken pieces of furniture were strewn on the floor along with shards of glass.
“We’re gonna have some clean up,” Alison said. “I vote we just pitch the tent.”
Steve nodded. “Agreed.”
“I’ve gotta pee. Will you be all right without me for a few minutes?”
“You want me to go with you?”
“You want to watch me pee? That’s disgusting!”
“No, dufus, I just don’t know if we should split up.”
“Why, is someone going to watch me—like the people in that car?” She pointed out the back window to an old red car leaning heavily to the right. It was missing the driver’s door and the front seat. From the dirt and muck covering it, it looked like it had been there quite a while.