“Maybe in some way he wanted it to end.”
Smoke boiled out of the door, bringing with it an awful stench. Hope covered her mouth and nose with her hand. It didn’t help.
After a few moments, Greco said, “I’m going to see if it worked.”
“I want to look, too.”
“Why?”
“To make sure he’s dead.
“Stay behind me,” Greco said.
She drew her gun. Hope followed her inside. Smoke hung in the air and the smell was so bad she could taste it.
The charred remains of the Walking Man lay on the floor. The skin black, the yellowed teeth visible where the lips had burned away. He was still.
“I don’t think he’s coming back from that,” Greco said.
“I hope not. I want to go back outside.”
“Go ahead. I’m going to call this in.”
The following day, Maria was summoned to the chief’s office. He sat at his desk, a shelf behind him loaded with trophies from fishing tournaments. He steepled his fingers, peered at her. “Have a seat.”
She took the chair in front of the desk. “Is this where I give you my badge and gun?”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“Let me guess. Local detective slays zombie killer? Is that how we’re playing this?”
The chief leaned forward, elbows on his desk. “You encountered an unknown intruder in the garage. Said unknown intruder doused himself in a flammable substance and lit himself on fire before you could arrest them. He was obviously mentally unstable.”
“Sounds like a solid story.”
“It’s better than the one you told me. We start saying that a guy got up and walked out of the morgue, we’ll all be working mall security by week’s end. Got it. That was a good thing you did.”
“Killing the undead?” she said.
“Protecting the girl. As a bonus, her very wealthy father is making a sizeable donation to the department.”
“You can get a bigger shelf for your trophies,” Maria said.
“Or maybe hire a new detective. Dismissed,” he said, smiling.
As she got up to leave, he said, “Nice work, Greco. I hope like hell this is over.”
“Me too Chief. Me too.”
Anthony Izzo is the author of 17 thrillers, among them The Dead Land Trilogy and The Damage Factory. He enjoys writing tales of mayhem involving anything from zombies to psycho killers to murderous shapeshifters. Anthony has also served as a judge for the Buffalo Dreams Film Festival screenplay competition. He recently had a story appear in the military sci-fi anthology “SNAFU: Future Warfare.” Anthony holds a B.A. in English from D’Youville College in Buffalo, NY. When not writing, he likes playing loud guitar, drawing, and spending time with family. He makes his home in the Western New York Area.
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Read an excerpt from Anthony Izzo’s upcoming horror novel, Enter the Night:
One
Truth be told, the mountain gives Bob Grey the creeps.
He steers the cube truck up the winding road. Hits the wipers. Snow begins to pelt the windshield. There’s a blizzard coming down from the Canadian Rockies that will hit later next week.
“Getting icy,” he says into the Bluetooth headset.
“Take her easy,” Gary Meyers says. Gary is in the Dodge Ram behind Bob’s truck.
“What’s the name of this show again?” Bob says.
“Enter the Night,” Gary says.
“How about let’s get the fuck off this mountain? I’ll star in that show,” Bob says, and Gary meets this with braying laughter.
He steers the truck around a switchback and continues up the mountain. Takes a swig of coffee from his travel mug. It’s now lukewarm and bitter, but it’s better than nothing. “Why would anyone want to film a reality show up here?”
Gary says, “Couldn’t be Hawaii or South Beach, could it?”
“Honeys in bikinis and drinking on the beach. That’d be more like it.”
They’d passed the abandoned military base at the foot of the mountain, where rusted tanks and trucks sat abandoned behind chain link fence. Bob is glad they don’t have to drive up to the abandoned hospital near the top of the mountain. He’s grateful to be stopping midway at the lodge.
“Lodge should be coming up,” Gary says.
Bob spots the rustic sign in his headlights. It reads: Iron Mountain Lodge. He brakes and turns onto the road that goes to the lodge.
The road twists and turns. He wishes for a Red Bull and maybe some caffeine pills to keep him sharp. For now, he contends with shitty gas station coffee. Dozing off at the wheel up here would be deadly.
The lodge comes into view: it’s four stories tall. Miles of roof. Hundreds of windows. He knows it was a playground for the rich in the last century. The Rockafellers stayed here on a regular basis. Howard Hughes used to rent an entire floor for himself. Now it looks like it wants to swallow people whole. At least in the dark. It’s probably fine, maybe even nice inside.
He parks the truck near the front of the lodge. A massive covered porch runs the entire length of the building.
Lights appear in his side mirror; Gary pulls up behind him in the Dodge.
He spots the maintenance garage; that’s where they are to park the cube truck. It’s loaded with supplies for the week-long shoot.
Bob has driven truck all over the country. The current gig with Blackmore Productions isn’t bad. The pay is decent. He’s home for good chunks of time. But right now, he’s shivering and wants to be back at the Holiday Inn, where he can order a Philly cheese steak from room service and watch a pay-per-view movie.
He gets out of the truck and the wind screams. He holds
