fuonlyknew

“Check the desk for more shells.”
Bud walked to the mahogany desk. On the floor behind the desk was a dead man with a box of shotgun shells spilled next to him. The man looked emaciated not from decay but from starvation. Bud collected the shotgun shells, placed them in the box, and stood ready to provide ammo.
“Don’t just stand there. Let’s move the desk to the door so we can slow them some more!” Maeve grabbed an end of the desk. Bud shut the door and grabbed the other side of the desk.
“How long do you think this desk will hold them off?”
“Not very long at all. That is why I have the shotgun.”
Bud handed her two shells when the first thump on the door rattled the bookshelves of the old library. Bud’s heartbeat quickened.
THUMP. The second pound knocked some books off the shelves. The dust billowed as the books hit the hardwood floor.
“Is the gun even operational?”
Maeve loaded two shells into the double barrel and waited.
THUMP. The third impact showed a crack in the door.
“How, might I inquire, did you learn how to load, handle, and presumably shoot a gun that size?” Bud asked.
“My uncle took me hunting.” Maeve lifted the shotgun to shoulder height.
A crack in the door grew larger with each successive pounding. The undead soldiers were relentless. Bud and Maeve couldn’t tell if the audible cracking was wood or frail bones. The space in the door spread into a fissure. A deathly arm burst through. Another arm pulled at the opening and the fissure grew into a chasm.
Maeve readied the shotgun.
“You are planning to use the shotgun?” Bud asked.
BOOM. Maeve squeezed off the first shot. Three undead soldier’s heads blew off their shoulders. Bone splinters and rotted flesh sprayed the doorway.
The second line moved forward with many more intact heads and shoulders. One soldier’s eye dangled from his skull. Another’s jaw detached and fell to the ground.
BOOM.
Another shot rattled Bud’s ears. Maeve stood three feet behind the blockade desk calm as can be. She put her hand toward Bud for more shells which he happily provided. The second shell had blown back three more soldiers.

Maeve moved further into the cemetery and ascended the hilltop towards the mausoleums at the crest. There were trees up there. The scent grew stronger. She reached the top of the hill and down the path saw a police squad car. Parked. No lights were on. Maeve quickly dropped on all fours, bounded off the path and used the tombstones for cover as she approached. The squad car’s passenger door and rear passenger side door were open. Maeve stood back up and examined the car closely. There was an unconscious police officer inside, leaning on the passenger door. Another officer’s head rested on the steering wheel. Maeve noticed their sidearms were missing. Normal chatter and codes burst forth from the radio. The rack that usually held a bigger weapon was bent and broken. The shotgun missing.
The source of the odor had to have been here. It was strongest in this area.
A piercing, booming, sound resonated in the cemetery and rattled Maeve’s sensitive ear drums. A bullet smacked up against the front passenger door, which Maeve stood behind. Another shot hit the window. It cracked. Maeve ducked behind the cover of the door. She waited to see if another shot would ring out. Nothing. She surmised that the gunman was near the mausoleum closer to the entrance. She bounded back to the tombstones for cover. Then she saw him–a man dressed in a cream trench coat and a suit that matched the jacket. He wore a fedora cocked to the left. The man’s face bore a large scar. Al Capone had risen from the dead. The notorious world-famous gangster and king of Prohibition lived again.

The candlelight flickered. The soft glow accentuated his finely drawn cheekbones and strong jawline. His blue eyes bore a look of joy in the laughter he shared with his female companion. The brunette with the green eyes and ruby-red lipstick closed her eyes and laughed, nearly spilling the wine from her medieval goblet. Before she stopped giggling and her eyes reopened in recovery of her jovial fit, his brow furrowed. His eyes showed his true condition—a menacing yet brief look, one of lust and of hunger in full and equitable measure. The look vanished. His courtly composure retained.
“Oh, my dear Vincentas, who knew you could be so amusing?”
“Shall I take umbrage with your last statement and just kill you right now?” Vincentas grinned.
Another loud burst of laughter.
The Cabernet Sauvignon didn’t have a higher level of spirits than any other wine he usually picked from his cellar. Still, Vincentas poured more into her goblet. His attempts at humor could land, but usually with a casual, rather weak effect. She acted as if he’d performed a comedy routine for years and had earned his own television show.
“That is enough wine for me, Vincentas. What are you trying to do me?” She leaned over the small table, giving him full view of her cleavage.
“I do nothing that one does not allow amicably.” He smiled, leaned forward, and kissed both of her cheeks then pulled back to survey her reaction.
She stood up from her chair, took another swig from her goblet, walked to his side of the table, and pulled him off his chair. She grasped his shirt collar with both hands and kissed him like a lioness devoured a fresh kill. Her aggression took Vincentas by surprise.
She wasn’t the real monster though.
The candlelight moved violently, then the flames extinguished, and darkness overtook the room.
Vincentas didn’t need the light. His hands caressed her where they had touched many other women in his long life. He loved discovering the slight variations of the female physique. The curves, the hips, the muscles both hard and soft, the flesh. His particular favorite: the length of the neck.
She moaned.
The sensual and soft sounds of sexual assurance turned to a panicked scream.
A loud crash filled the dark room. In the struggle to free herself, she kicked over the dinner table.
“No! No! Please! Plea—” Her voice gargled with blood.

Married and with a son, Michaels has a great love of family. He has two
series: the Gold and Bronze medal-winning Tannenbaum Tailors and Bud
Hutchins Thrillers.