Read Online Supernatural--Cold Fire by John Passarella - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Passarella
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of Halloran’s Life Celebration Studio. Which, once you turned off the bullshit force field, was better known as a funeral home. For a while, their running joke had been to refer to every location as a “celebration studio” of some kind. Braden Heights High became the Education Celebration Studio, Madonado’s Deli was rebranded the Sandwich Celebration Studio, and Grand National Bank’s new moniker was the Fat Stacks Celebration Studio. Not that they had any stacks, fat or otherwise, with which to celebrate. But upcoming graduation gifts kept the hope alive.
Aidan nodded toward the funeral home. “How many dead people are celebrating in there right now?”
“How should I know?” Jay said, taking the question literally.
“Just wondering,” Aidan said. “People are always dying, right?”
“Half dozen, maybe,” Wally said. “Just the ones ready to get burned or buried, right? And it’s not the only stiff shop in town, right?”
“Stiff shop?” Aidan asked, smiling.
“Whatever,” Wally said, shrugging. “Corpse club? Zombie hatchery? Listen, man, we gotta go.”
“Right,” Aidan said. “See you guys tomorrow.”
Once they were a block away, their chatter fading into the night, Aidan crossed the street heading west a couple blocks before circling behind Kirkwood Plaza. He was already late and figured a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt. If his parents held true to form, his mother would already be sound asleep and his father, if he hadn’t passed out from putting a major dent in a case of beer, would be warming a bar stool until closing or until they cut him off. Either way, Aidan’s lateness would go unnoticed.
By ducking behind Kirkwood Plaza, a strip mall with a dozen stores facing Second Avenue, his presence would also go unnoticed by any patrolling cop cars. At the rear of the first store in the strip mall conga line, he reached into his left inner jacket pocket and pulled out a wrist rocket. Basically a slingshot on steroids. In the right inner pocket, he had a hundred-count bag of steel ball ammo, each one about the size of a marble.
Behind the stores after business hours, on the private access driveway with barely enough room for a trash truck to trundle through and empty the row of fetid dumpsters, he risked little chance of discovery. A cop car might pass by every few hours, but Aidan would be long gone in five or ten minutes. At the first glare of headlights, he could duck into the line of bushes on the far side of the driveway, stay low and avoid detection. Until then, he planned to engage in a bit of what he called “sanity preservation.”
At some point, venting to his friends fell short of the mark. On these occasions, some target practice usually improved his mood. He’d practiced on bottles and empty pop cans until he got good enough not to waste too much ammo. This late at night most stores were closed and dark, except for security lights and—in the case of the strip mall—the steel-caged lights over the rear doors. He preferred the caged lights to exposed bulbs. The metal grid protecting them provided a higher degree of difficulty and the extra challenge of a direct hit provided more satisfaction. Hit one of the cage bars instead, and his shot ricocheted into the night—or, worse, right back at him. He’d had the welts and bruises to show for it. But knocking out a caged light required precision, like zipping a puck through a goalie’s five hole.
For each light, he imagined the head of some teacher or administrator or store clerk who had pissed him off recently. But he kept his “hit list” internal, completely memorized, no written record that could ever lead to suspension or expulsion. Besides, he had no actual plans to go after anyone with fists, ball bearings or real bullets. He was blowing off steam, nothing more. So what if he broke a bunch of fifty-cent light bulbs? It was—what did they call it?—the cost of doing business. The shop owners should be
Aidan nodded toward the funeral home. “How many dead people are celebrating in there right now?”
“How should I know?” Jay said, taking the question literally.
“Just wondering,” Aidan said. “People are always dying, right?”
“Half dozen, maybe,” Wally said. “Just the ones ready to get burned or buried, right? And it’s not the only stiff shop in town, right?”
“Stiff shop?” Aidan asked, smiling.
“Whatever,” Wally said, shrugging. “Corpse club? Zombie hatchery? Listen, man, we gotta go.”
“Right,” Aidan said. “See you guys tomorrow.”
Once they were a block away, their chatter fading into the night, Aidan crossed the street heading west a couple blocks before circling behind Kirkwood Plaza. He was already late and figured a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt. If his parents held true to form, his mother would already be sound asleep and his father, if he hadn’t passed out from putting a major dent in a case of beer, would be warming a bar stool until closing or until they cut him off. Either way, Aidan’s lateness would go unnoticed.
By ducking behind Kirkwood Plaza, a strip mall with a dozen stores facing Second Avenue, his presence would also go unnoticed by any patrolling cop cars. At the rear of the first store in the strip mall conga line, he reached into his left inner jacket pocket and pulled out a wrist rocket. Basically a slingshot on steroids. In the right inner pocket, he had a hundred-count bag of steel ball ammo, each one about the size of a marble.
Behind the stores after business hours, on the private access driveway with barely enough room for a trash truck to trundle through and empty the row of fetid dumpsters, he risked little chance of discovery. A cop car might pass by every few hours, but Aidan would be long gone in five or ten minutes. At the first glare of headlights, he could duck into the line of bushes on the far side of the driveway, stay low and avoid detection. Until then, he planned to engage in a bit of what he called “sanity preservation.”
At some point, venting to his friends fell short of the mark. On these occasions, some target practice usually improved his mood. He’d practiced on bottles and empty pop cans until he got good enough not to waste too much ammo. This late at night most stores were closed and dark, except for security lights and—in the case of the strip mall—the steel-caged lights over the rear doors. He preferred the caged lights to exposed bulbs. The metal grid protecting them provided a higher degree of difficulty and the extra challenge of a direct hit provided more satisfaction. Hit one of the cage bars instead, and his shot ricocheted into the night—or, worse, right back at him. He’d had the welts and bruises to show for it. But knocking out a caged light required precision, like zipping a puck through a goalie’s five hole.
For each light, he imagined the head of some teacher or administrator or store clerk who had pissed him off recently. But he kept his “hit list” internal, completely memorized, no written record that could ever lead to suspension or expulsion. Besides, he had no actual plans to go after anyone with fists, ball bearings or real bullets. He was blowing off steam, nothing more. So what if he broke a bunch of fifty-cent light bulbs? It was—what did they call it?—the cost of doing business. The shop owners should be
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