Drummer Boy: A Supernatural Thriller (39 page)

Novella originally published in the Cemetery Dance anthology “Brimstone Turnpike.”

Learn more about
Burial to Follow
at the Haunted Computer:
Burial To Follow

MAHKO’S KNIFE

By John O’Dowd

Take Jason Bourne, give him Apache blood, threaten his family, and drop him in the Southwestern desert, and you’d have Mahko.

When crime boss Juan Martinez kidnaps two teenagers in revenge, Mahko Anaya tracks them to the Copper Canyon of Mexico. Mahko, a former Army Ranger, pits his military skills, ancestral spirit, and endurance against a band of ruthless killers. One of the teenagers, Mahko’s son, has been a good student-and between the two of them, they unleash a fury as cold and cunning as a pack of wolves.

The debut action thriller from former paratrooper and Army officer John O’Dowd.

Learn more about the author of
Mahko’s Knife:
John O'Dowd

PAGES OF PROMISES

By Stephen James Price

Pages and Promises is a collection of 14 dark, speculative fiction stories straight out of the twisted imagination of Stephen James Price. At the end of the volume, Price allows the reader to glimpse the insights and incidents that gave birth to each story. Price is a Writers of the Future contest finalist and his work also appears in GRAVE CONDITIONS and THE OUTSIDERS.

Learn more about the author of
Pages of Promises
:
Stephen James Price

FLOWERS

By Scott Nicholson

Features the L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future Award grand-prize winner “The Vampire Shortstop” and other tales of fantasy and mystery. Contains 13 stories, a bonus essay, afterword, and a previously unpublished story from Nicholson’s teen-age files. An ebook version of Scott Nicholson’s first story collection THANK YOU FOR THE FLOWERS from 2000, with additional material.

Learn more about the young-adult collection
Flowers
and the award-winning “The Vampire Shortstop”:
Flowers

ASHES

By Scott Nicholson

A collection of supernatural and stories by award-winning author Scott Nicholson, including “Homecoming,” “The Night is an Ally” and “Last Writes.” From the author of THE RED CHURCH, THE SKULL RING, and the story collections FLOWERS and THE FIRST, these stories visit haunted islands, disturbed families, and a lighthouse occupied by Edgar Allan Poe. Exclusive introduction by Jonathan Maberry, author of THE DRAGON FACTORY and GHOST ROAD BLUES, as well as an afterword.

Learn more about the supernatural stories in
Ashes
:
Ashes

THE FIRST

By Scott Nicholson

A collection of dark fantasy and futuristic stories from award-winning author Scott Nicholson. Dystopia, cyberpunk, and science fiction flavor these stories that visit undiscovered countries and distant times. Includes two bonus essays and Nicholson’s first-ever published story, in addition to the four-story Aeropagan cycle.

Learn more about the fantasy and science fiction stories in
The First
:
The First

MURDERMOUTH: ZOMBIE BITS

By Scott Nicholson

A collection of zombie stories, from the zombie point-of-view to the shoot-’em-up survival brand of apocalyptic horror. Proof that even zombies have a heart . . .Based on the comic book currently in development by Scott Nicholson and Derlis Santacruz. With a bonus story by Jack Kilborn, a comic script, and Jonathan Maberry’s “Zombie Apocalypse Survival Scorecard.”

Learn more about
Murdermouth: Zombie Bits
and see zombie art:
Murdermouth: Zombie Bits

GATEWAY DRUG

By Scott Nicholson

A collection of crime and mystery tales from the vaults of Scott Nicholson. Includes “How to Nail Your Own Coffin” and Year’s Best Fantasy & Horror selection “Dog Person,” as well as the psychological thrillers “Beggar’s Velvet,” “Sewing Circle,” and more stories that appeared in magazines such as
Crimewave, Cemetery Dance
, and
Blue Murder
.

Learn more about
Gateway Drug: Mystery Stories
:
Gateway Drug

AS I DIE LYING

By Scott Nicholson

Richard Coldiron’s first and last novel follows his metafictional journey through a troubled childhood, where he meets his invisible friend, his other invisible friend...and then some who aren’t so friendly.

There’s Mister Milktoast, the protective punster; Little Hitler, who leers from the shadows; Loverboy, the lusty bastard; and Bookworm, who is thoughtful, introspective, and determined to solve the riddle of Richard’s disintegration into either madness or genius, and of course only makes things worse. They reside in the various rooms of his skull, a place known as the Bone House, and take turns rearranging the furniture. As Richard works on his autobiography, his minor characters struggle with their various redemptive arcs.

Richard keeps his cool despite the voices in his head, but he’s about to get a new tenant: the Insider, a malevolent soul-hopping spirit that may or may not be born from Richard’s nightmares and demands a co-writing credit and a little bit of foot-kissing dark worship.

Now Richard doesn’t know which voice to trust. The book’s been rejected 117 times. The people he loves keep turning up dead. And here comes the woman of his dreams.

Learn more about
As I Die Lying
and the six people in Richard Coldiron’s head:
As I Die Lying

Scott

[email protected]

http://www.hauntedcomputer.com

http://hauntedcomputer.blogspot.com

Bonus excerpts: If you like dark thrillers, you might enjoy these samples from David H. Burton, David McAfee, and Jon F. Merz.

By David McAfee

Jerusalem, 33 A.D. The vampires of the era have long sought to gain a foothold into Israel, but the faith of the local Jewish population has held them in check for centuries.

When one of their own betrays them to follow a strange young rabbi from Galilee, the elders of the vampire race dispatch Theron, a nine hundred year old assassin, to kill them both.

The rabbi’s name is Jesus. Killing him should be easy.

Chapter One

Jerusalem, 33A.D.

Ephraim darted around his modest wood-and-mortar home in the Upper City, grabbing as many of his possessions as he could carry–mostly clothing and a few personal items–and shoving them into a large burlap pack. Every now and then his brown eyes shifted to the door, waiting for a knock. Or worse, no sound whatsoever. The latter worried him the most because it would mean the servants of the Council had found him. A Psalm of Silence only carried for about twenty paces, so if the world around him went suddenly quiet, he would know those who hunted him were very, very close.

As an Enforcer, or at least a former Enforcer, Ephraim knew the inevitable result of breaking the laws of his people, a race not known for mercy. Now, as he packed, he couldn’t help but wonder why he’d felt the need to tell the Council about his indiscretions. Bad enough he’d defied them, but he also gave them all the information they needed to punish him. And for what? A strange feeling in his heart? A pang of consience? Was he mad? In retrospect, it seemed possible, but he couldn’t do anything about it now. His elders wanted him dead, and unless he hurried they would get their way.

A worn, woolen tunic hung halfway off his bed.
I’ll need that
, he thought as he reached for it. He couldn’t afford to leave a single piece of clothing behind. He stuffed the tunic into his bag and turned to regard a large chest on the wall opposite the bed. He reached down and flung the lid open, breaking one of the hinges in the process, and started grabbing more clothes.
I’ll need that. And that.

Then his fingers closed on something small and hard. He didn’t have to look at it to know it was his ceramic wolf’s head figurine, a symbol of his former rank.
I won’t need that.
Ephraim tossed it over his shoulder, where it shattered on the hard floor. He didn’t pay it any attention as he picked up a short, fat bladed knife.
I’ll need that, too.
It joined the many tunics in his bag. Just as he picked up a pair of worn breeches, a noise outside his door caught his attention.

What was that?
Ephraim froze, craning his ears and trying desperately to catch the elusive sound. He stood silent and still for sixty long seconds, muscles tense and booted feet nailed to the floor. The breeches hung from his fingers like a mouse in a raptor’s claw. He eyed the sickle-shaped sword on the opposite wall, ready to spring over and grab it if necessary. Although the sword was very old, he kept it sharp and in perfect balance, not easy to do with a
khopesh.

When the noise didn’t return, he shook his head.
The wind,
he told himself, and returned to the task at hand. He had to hurry. They were coming.

He couldn’t allow himself to be captured by the Council’s minions. They would make him talk, and that would be bad. Not just for himself, but for his newfound friends, as well. The elders of the
Bachiyr
race had many methods by which to extract information, even from one of their own. All of them brutally effective. If they caught him, they would find a way to make him talk. Sooner or later Ephraim would tell them anything they wanted to know, the only real question was how long would it take to break him.

As he packed, his hand brushed against a small figurine of a lamb from the shelf above his bed, knocking it off and sending it toppling through the air. “Damn!” He reached out to catch it and missed, but his fingertips brushed the delicate figurine just enough to alter its course so that, instead of following the wolf’s head to the hard floor, the lamb plopped down amidst the soft linens on the bed. Ephraim breathed a sigh of relief when the delicate figure didn’t break, and reached down gently to pick it up. He didn’t miss the irony that he, the predator, had thrown away the wolf figurine and kept the lamb.

Former predator,
he amended, shaking his head.
I am not like that anymore.
He stared at the lamb for several precious seconds, remembering what it symbolized and making sure, in his heart, he’d made the right decision. Satisfied, he placed the tiny item into a small velvet bag and tied it shut, then placed the bag into his pack, stuffing it between the folds of a coarse brown tunic. He tied the pack closed and set it on the floor in front of him.

Ephraim then stepped over to the far wall and eyed his ancient
khopesh
, which he had wielded for over a thousand years, though the style of blade had largely gone out of use eight centuries ago. He reached a tentative hand up to the sword, but his fingers froze before they touched the handle. Ashamed, he pictured the faces of his many victims, heard again their anguished screams, and saw their mouths stretched wide in agony. The smell of their blood returned to him, sending an unwelcome rumble through his belly. Far from the pleasure these memories once brought, Ephraim now felt only shame.
How many?
He wondered.
How many have I killed with this very blade?
He had no idea, but the number must surely be huge.

“So great is my sin,” he whispered. He could not shed tears, none of his race could, but his face felt hot and flushed, nonetheless. He drew his hand back, unwilling to touch the ancient sword, his most trusted companion for centuries, now too poignant a reminder of who he used to be. With a sigh, he turned from the wall and walked over to the bed, determined to leave his past at his back.

Now ready to go, he just had to wait for his friend to come and help sneak him out of the city. Ephraim sat on the edge of his bed, waiting for Malachi’s knock. He hoped it would not take long.

Please hurry, Malachi,
he thought.
Time is running out. They are coming.

Above Ephraim, crouched amidst the pressed oak beams that supported the structure’s ceiling, a single pair of eyes looked down at the one-time Enforcer. The Council’s agents were not
coming
, as Ephraim feared. They–or rather,
he
–had already arrived. If he had looked up, he might have seen the dark shadow hiding among the lighter ones in his ceiling, but he never so much as glanced upward. His visitor thought lack of sustenance to be the cause of Ephraim’s inattentiveness, and he shook his head in disbelief. From his dark vantage point, he watched the scene unfold, memorizing the layout of the room for future reference.

Earlier that evening, before he had left the Halls, the Council told him what to expect. Even so, he hadn’t wanted to believe that one of their own, particularly one with as glorious and faithful a history as Ephraim, could be capable of such treachery. Until he witnessed Ephraim’s hurried packing and the incident with the wolf’s head–an article of rank sacred to the
Bachiyr
–he’d hoped to discover his superiors mistaken. The longer he waited on high, however, the more he came to realize they were right, and the angrier he became.

They are always right,
he thought to himself.
I should have known better than to doubt. Just because he’s a friend-
he stopped himself there, not wanting to diminish his readiness. He couldn’t waste time thinking of past friendships and obligations. He had a job to do, and reminiscing would only make it harder and might even cloud his judgment, which could not be allowed. He had to be clearheaded and alert for the next few minutes.

Long enough to kill Ephraim.

First, however, he had to wait and observe a short while longer. The treacherous dog would die, certainly, but not before his visitor discovered who he’d betrayed them to. Ephraim’s message to the Council had been vague in that regard; most likely a deliberate omission. To that end the watcher held himself in check through his growing anger while his thick, sharp nails dug furrows into the wooden beams. He held still, relishing the tantalizing scent of fear that emanated from his former friend, and waited for the knock that would signal Ephraim’s allies had come to save him. On that, the Council’s orders were very clear.
We must know who the traitor is in league with. That is of utmost importance, Theron.