Shades

SHADES

A Brackard’s Point Novella

Geoff Cooper

&

Brian Keene

CEMETERY DANCE PUBLICATIONS

Baltimore

2007

Copyright © 2007 by Geoff Cooper & Brian Keene

All rights reserved.

For Norman Partridge, with respect and admiration.

Acknowledgements:

Geoff Cooper:

Thanks to my friends, those that have stuck by me through both the thick and thin. I could have made it without you, but I’m glad I didn’t have to.

Brian Keene:

Thanks to Cassandra and Sam; Jim Moore; and my readers.

The authors would also like to thank Alan Clark, Richard Chizmar, Mindy Jarusek, Brian and Kate Freeman, and Kelly Laymon.

AUTHORS’

NOTE

The following story, set in the Eighties, takes place in the town of Brackard’s Point—the fictional setting for most of Geoff Cooper’s stories. The town is located in Rockland County, New York, on the west bank of the Hudson River, under the shadow of Hook Mountain. Prior knowledge of the Brackard’s Point mythos is not required for you to enjoy this novella. All are welcome. However, if you are a long-time Coop reader, then you’ll see some familiar faces, albeit at a different stage in life than when you first met them.

This story also features elements from Brian Keene’s “Labyrinth” mythos. The Labyrinth is a dimensional shortcut between worlds, universes, and realities, and is only accessible to those who know how to open the doors. Again, prior knowledge of the mythos is not required or necessary for you to enjoy this novella. All are welcome. However, long-time Keene readers will spot some familiar pathways.

We hope that you enjoy Shades. Thank you for your patience and support.

Geoff Cooper and Brian Keene

ONE

To Danny, the choice between sitting in school and making money was no choice at all. He would be twelve in a month. He’d been in the school system long enough to know that you made shit sitting in a stupid classroom. The yuppie kids from Snowdrop could ask their parents for whatever they wanted—and get it. They had allowances and trust funds. But kids from The Hill had no such benefactors. Kids like Danny—and his friends, Chuck, Ronnie, Matt, and Jeremy—had to figure out their own way to get stuff. Their parents were no help. Between the rent, groceries, and paying off bill collectors, none of their parents had money for frivolous things like their kids’ desires. If they did, they would live somewhere else.

Everyone who lived on The Hill dreamed of living somewhere else.

Danny’s hope of leaving The Hill died when he was seven. That year, shortly after Labor Day, his dad’s body was found slumped over the wheel of Mr. Amiratti’s black Cadillac. Suddenly, Danny’s life was shot to shit because some Italian douchebag didn’t want to pay respects to some other Italian douchebag and the crazy sons of bitches started blasting each other. And when Amiratti’s Irish driver got in the way? Well…that was too fucking bad.

Story of Danny’s life, so far. Too fucking bad…

Amiratti lived. Danny’s father wasn’t so lucky.

After his old man’s death, Danny’s mom started drinking. The Giordano family, who owned the Happy Bottle Shop liquor store, drove a Lincoln. Their kids had new clothes for school and new video game systems the day they went on sale. They had allowance money. The Giordanos took vacations together, returning after the Christmas break with January suntans. His mom helped pay for all this, while he got shit.

Danny had never been further than twenty miles from home. He always wished to go somewhere else. Leave Brackard’s Point and go…away. Anywhere was good, as long as it wasn’t here. That dirt bike he wanted might get him somewhere. It might not, either, but at least he’d have one of the things his father had promised him: a dirt bike, season tickets for the Yankees, fancy restaurant food all the time…

Danny didn’t mind working for his money—especially on nice days. It was better than being broke. He kept the money stashed away in his secret hiding place under the carpet in his closet. He used to keep it between the mattress and the box spring, but moved the cash after his Mom found it. She would have spent it all on booze, so he took the envelope and ran. Later, when she confronted him, he told her that it was a dirty magazine and suffered a grounding he didn’t deserve. Not that it mattered. She soon forgot about his punishment anyway. She did that a lot—forgot things—except where the money was hidden. His mom had a nose for it. Sometimes, she took money from his jeans, and left little I.O.U.s scrawled on scraps of paper that she had no intention of repaying and forgot about the next day. But Danny never forgot. His rusty, piece of shit Schwinn five-speed served as a constant reminder.

He’d rescued the bike from a junk pile and fixed it up with some help from Matt, Chuck, Ronnie, and Jeremy. Once they got the thing road-worthy, Danny was proud of the bike. He loved the freedom of mobility that it offered. But the glory had long since faded. Now, the bike was just an embarrassment. Ronnie and Jeremy made fun of it. He needed something better—that YZ-125 dirt bike. If he got it, that would shut them up, once and for all. Shut everyone up—even those rich snobs from Snowdrop. And even if they didn’t shut up, even if he was wrong, all he would have to do was gun the engine to drown them out.

That was his dream. That was why he’d cut school on this gorgeous spring day, and what had brought him to the water.

The Hudson was brackish this far south; the air smelled of salt and fish and sewage. Blue crabs lived in rocky crannies along the shore. During low tide, Danny sometimes walked out onto the flats between Brackard’s Point and Haverstraw. He’d snatch the crabs from their normally concealed hiding places on the exposed rocky reefs. Luis and Maria, who ran the Haverstraw Marina Bait Shop, always paid him cash for a five-gallon painter’s bucket full. They touted them as FRESH BAIT! LOCALLY CAUGHT! As if that made a difference—no