Read Online Hellhound (A Deadtown Novel) by Nancy Holzner - Free Book Online
Authors: Nancy Holzner
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like Mr. Skibinsky,” I said gently, “what should I call you?”
My question seemed to surprise him, like he’d never expected anyone to ask. “Andy. Day I was born, Ma said, ‘Put Andrew on the birth certificate, but we’ll call him Andy.’”
“Andy, then. Tell me about Tom.”
“He was okay. Quiet. A good worker. I liked being on the same shift with him. He did his share.”
“And that’s how he was last night?”
“Just another night at the warehouse.” He examined his hands. Though the skin was zombie-green, they looked strong, with short, square nails. Hands that worked for a living. “You gotta understand. I was there to do my job. Not study my coworkers to see if maybe one of ’em was gonna suddenly turn into a homicidal maniac.”
Fair enough. “Tell me about the ride home.”
“Home.” Another snort. “I wish to Christ it was a ride home. I’d be asleep in my own bed next to Deb, like I should be.” Resentment flared up, then flickered away. “It’s like I already said. Just an ordinary night, until Tom up and killed the driver.” He scratched his chin, thinking. “Wait. There was one thing I noticed. Tom seemed a little . . . I don’t know. Twitchy. In the van after work. He kept bouncing his leg. I was sitting next to him, and it bugged me, so I told him to quit it. He did, but then a few minutes later he started again. I was about to remind him to knock it off when he killed the driver. And then everything went to hell.”
“You don’t know what set him off?”
“It wasn’t bloodlust, if that’s what you’re thinking. There wasn’t any blood until after the van crashed. And like I said, I was right beside him. If there was blood for Tom to smell, I’d have smelled it, too.”
“Okay, so Tom broke the driver’s neck. What happened next?”
“I yelled, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Or something along those lines. I tried to pull him off. At the same time, Weisner—the norm who’s our supervisor—grabbed for the wheel. Tom let go of the driver and locked his hands around Weisner’s neck. There was no pulling him off then. The boss’s face turned purple. His eyeballs bulged out like one of them cartoon characters. I punched Tom, hard, trying to make him let go, but he didn’t even feel it. We crashed. The next thing I remember is sitting on the sidewalk, tugging at my mask because I’d put it on crooked.”
“That’s when you broke your ankle?”
“Yeah. I felt it about ten seconds after I got my mask on straight. Hurt like hell then.” He pulled one leg on top of the other again and ran a finger along the line of stitches. “The bone was sticking clean through my skin. Compound fracture, the doc called it. He bolted everything back together, but I don’t know how well it’ll hold my weight.”
“Did you see the attack on the third victim?” I asked.
He let his leg fall back to the floor. “I wish I hadn’t. The poor son of a bitch came over to see if we needed help. He was asking if I was okay, reaching out a hand to help me up. I was trying to explain about my ankle when Tom loomed up behind him, looking like . . . Hell, I don’t even want to say it, but it’s true. Tom looked like a monster, like one of those dumb-ass movie zombies had walked off a screen and into the real world. He grabbed the norm and tore his head off his shoulders. Poor bastard didn’t even have a chance to scream.”
Foster moved on the other side of the door. Probably imagining himself in the world of Zombie Kill, charging onto the scene with a machete.
“There was blood everywhere.” Andy paused, tilting his head. “Now, there’s something strange—Tom didn’t even seem to notice it. He wasn’t wearing his mask, and you’d think the smell would have driven him nuts. The way it was all over him, all over the ground, he should’ve been chewing his own arm off, know what I mean? But he didn’t.”
“What did he do?”
“The other
My question seemed to surprise him, like he’d never expected anyone to ask. “Andy. Day I was born, Ma said, ‘Put Andrew on the birth certificate, but we’ll call him Andy.’”
“Andy, then. Tell me about Tom.”
“He was okay. Quiet. A good worker. I liked being on the same shift with him. He did his share.”
“And that’s how he was last night?”
“Just another night at the warehouse.” He examined his hands. Though the skin was zombie-green, they looked strong, with short, square nails. Hands that worked for a living. “You gotta understand. I was there to do my job. Not study my coworkers to see if maybe one of ’em was gonna suddenly turn into a homicidal maniac.”
Fair enough. “Tell me about the ride home.”
“Home.” Another snort. “I wish to Christ it was a ride home. I’d be asleep in my own bed next to Deb, like I should be.” Resentment flared up, then flickered away. “It’s like I already said. Just an ordinary night, until Tom up and killed the driver.” He scratched his chin, thinking. “Wait. There was one thing I noticed. Tom seemed a little . . . I don’t know. Twitchy. In the van after work. He kept bouncing his leg. I was sitting next to him, and it bugged me, so I told him to quit it. He did, but then a few minutes later he started again. I was about to remind him to knock it off when he killed the driver. And then everything went to hell.”
“You don’t know what set him off?”
“It wasn’t bloodlust, if that’s what you’re thinking. There wasn’t any blood until after the van crashed. And like I said, I was right beside him. If there was blood for Tom to smell, I’d have smelled it, too.”
“Okay, so Tom broke the driver’s neck. What happened next?”
“I yelled, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Or something along those lines. I tried to pull him off. At the same time, Weisner—the norm who’s our supervisor—grabbed for the wheel. Tom let go of the driver and locked his hands around Weisner’s neck. There was no pulling him off then. The boss’s face turned purple. His eyeballs bulged out like one of them cartoon characters. I punched Tom, hard, trying to make him let go, but he didn’t even feel it. We crashed. The next thing I remember is sitting on the sidewalk, tugging at my mask because I’d put it on crooked.”
“That’s when you broke your ankle?”
“Yeah. I felt it about ten seconds after I got my mask on straight. Hurt like hell then.” He pulled one leg on top of the other again and ran a finger along the line of stitches. “The bone was sticking clean through my skin. Compound fracture, the doc called it. He bolted everything back together, but I don’t know how well it’ll hold my weight.”
“Did you see the attack on the third victim?” I asked.
He let his leg fall back to the floor. “I wish I hadn’t. The poor son of a bitch came over to see if we needed help. He was asking if I was okay, reaching out a hand to help me up. I was trying to explain about my ankle when Tom loomed up behind him, looking like . . . Hell, I don’t even want to say it, but it’s true. Tom looked like a monster, like one of those dumb-ass movie zombies had walked off a screen and into the real world. He grabbed the norm and tore his head off his shoulders. Poor bastard didn’t even have a chance to scream.”
Foster moved on the other side of the door. Probably imagining himself in the world of Zombie Kill, charging onto the scene with a machete.
“There was blood everywhere.” Andy paused, tilting his head. “Now, there’s something strange—Tom didn’t even seem to notice it. He wasn’t wearing his mask, and you’d think the smell would have driven him nuts. The way it was all over him, all over the ground, he should’ve been chewing his own arm off, know what I mean? But he didn’t.”
“What did he do?”
“The other
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