Read Online Horror Stories: A Macabre Collection by Steve Wands - Free Book Online
Authors: Steve Wands
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and began to pull
the man’s insides out. Two officers were left–Warden and Nicolini.
Nicolini was one of the few female officers in the department. She
was a looker with thick lips and natural curves. She went to grab
her fallen friend but instead, officer Warden grabbed her by the
arm and started running.
“Fuck this, let’s go, he’s as good as dead
now!” He huffed.
She didn’t respond. She ran, they both darted
for the stairs and quickly made it to the second level. On board
the boat, the two officers silenced the crowd and told the captain
to shove off. They did just that. They stared at a dock full of the
walking dead. The fallen officers were now among them, badges
covered in gore, intestines dragging along the dock. Everyone was
quite, they couldn’t help but stare at these things that used to be
alive. It was almost too much to handle. Bark grinned a little, it
was almost a smile, he was happy as shit to be alive. Spotz noted
his friend’s expression and mimicked it.
The sick girl that was the center of
attention earlier was nearly forgotten now. Her long dark hair
covered a chunk of missing flesh from her neck. Her mothers arm was
draped around her shoulder, she tried to keep her warm, the little
girl’s body temperature was dropping. Her stomach pained, her
complexion paled, her eyes grew dark. She was hungry.
* * * * *
Hell Comes for the
Hurried
* * * * *
I’m supposed to be thankful today. Thankful
for the wonderful bounty before me, thankful for the air that
stings my lungs with its bitter, sinister cold, and thankful for
all that I have. Well, all I have is regret and a heart that
refuses to give up the ghost, a belly nowhere near full of charred
rabbit meat and cold moonshine. I have the vague memory of a world
that was chewed to the marrow. I have the memory of my family. And,
I have a picture of them, which I guess I’m thankful for. It’s the
only picture I have left of my wife and our son—though it’s so
tattered I can barely make out their faces anymore. It’s as if they
are ghosts caught on film. But am I thankful? –No. Not till I’m
dead. Sure, I could’ve easily checked myself out countless times in
the years that’ve passed. No, I’m not a religious person, though I
do believe in God, and I most certainly believe in hell. I believe
my family is waiting for me. Waiting where all the good-hearted
dead go, were I hope I can go, and I don’t think suicide will get
me there.
So I sit here among these people I’ve
traveled with, their names don’t matter to me, and to be honest,
neither do they. We still look out for each other though. It’s just
that I’ve grown cold, beyond numb—I barely even speak nowadays.
There is nothing to say, and small talk is bullshit. I’d rather
keep my thoughts to my self. Some of the folks I travel with like
to tell stories or talk about the glory days of a world
half-remembered. I like to find the dead things and make them
deader. I pretend that every one of them is the one that took my
family away. It’s the only time I feel anything other than nothing
and regret. And once I finish off this moonshine I’ll be ready to
do just that.
The last swig bit me like a viper and hissed
all the way down. I got to my feet, grabbed my club and headed away
from the fire and out from underneath the bridge. I admired the
sight once I got to the top. It was early evening and the sun was
setting behind the river. The destruction was breathtaking. It was
a bombed out skeleton of a city—a modern day dinosaur with its
broken bones reaching for the sky. I stood across the river taking
it all in. We were heading there tomorrow, on the big old road to
nowhere through the city and beyond. We’d probably set up camp in
the ruin one of the buildings—a library would be nice, or a museum.
I could bury myself in a book, or make a display for the human race
at the museum. Either way would be a fine way to kill time before
time kills
the man’s insides out. Two officers were left–Warden and Nicolini.
Nicolini was one of the few female officers in the department. She
was a looker with thick lips and natural curves. She went to grab
her fallen friend but instead, officer Warden grabbed her by the
arm and started running.
“Fuck this, let’s go, he’s as good as dead
now!” He huffed.
She didn’t respond. She ran, they both darted
for the stairs and quickly made it to the second level. On board
the boat, the two officers silenced the crowd and told the captain
to shove off. They did just that. They stared at a dock full of the
walking dead. The fallen officers were now among them, badges
covered in gore, intestines dragging along the dock. Everyone was
quite, they couldn’t help but stare at these things that used to be
alive. It was almost too much to handle. Bark grinned a little, it
was almost a smile, he was happy as shit to be alive. Spotz noted
his friend’s expression and mimicked it.
The sick girl that was the center of
attention earlier was nearly forgotten now. Her long dark hair
covered a chunk of missing flesh from her neck. Her mothers arm was
draped around her shoulder, she tried to keep her warm, the little
girl’s body temperature was dropping. Her stomach pained, her
complexion paled, her eyes grew dark. She was hungry.
* * * * *
Hell Comes for the
Hurried
* * * * *
I’m supposed to be thankful today. Thankful
for the wonderful bounty before me, thankful for the air that
stings my lungs with its bitter, sinister cold, and thankful for
all that I have. Well, all I have is regret and a heart that
refuses to give up the ghost, a belly nowhere near full of charred
rabbit meat and cold moonshine. I have the vague memory of a world
that was chewed to the marrow. I have the memory of my family. And,
I have a picture of them, which I guess I’m thankful for. It’s the
only picture I have left of my wife and our son—though it’s so
tattered I can barely make out their faces anymore. It’s as if they
are ghosts caught on film. But am I thankful? –No. Not till I’m
dead. Sure, I could’ve easily checked myself out countless times in
the years that’ve passed. No, I’m not a religious person, though I
do believe in God, and I most certainly believe in hell. I believe
my family is waiting for me. Waiting where all the good-hearted
dead go, were I hope I can go, and I don’t think suicide will get
me there.
So I sit here among these people I’ve
traveled with, their names don’t matter to me, and to be honest,
neither do they. We still look out for each other though. It’s just
that I’ve grown cold, beyond numb—I barely even speak nowadays.
There is nothing to say, and small talk is bullshit. I’d rather
keep my thoughts to my self. Some of the folks I travel with like
to tell stories or talk about the glory days of a world
half-remembered. I like to find the dead things and make them
deader. I pretend that every one of them is the one that took my
family away. It’s the only time I feel anything other than nothing
and regret. And once I finish off this moonshine I’ll be ready to
do just that.
The last swig bit me like a viper and hissed
all the way down. I got to my feet, grabbed my club and headed away
from the fire and out from underneath the bridge. I admired the
sight once I got to the top. It was early evening and the sun was
setting behind the river. The destruction was breathtaking. It was
a bombed out skeleton of a city—a modern day dinosaur with its
broken bones reaching for the sky. I stood across the river taking
it all in. We were heading there tomorrow, on the big old road to
nowhere through the city and beyond. We’d probably set up camp in
the ruin one of the buildings—a library would be nice, or a museum.
I could bury myself in a book, or make a display for the human race
at the museum. Either way would be a fine way to kill time before
time kills
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