Erik Handy by Hell of the Dead Page A

his head. The only sound was of his skull cracking bit by bit, a dull breaking.
    The prostitute couldn't tear her eyes from the scene. She couldn't move.
    One after another, the punches were heavy, punctuation marks on a miserable life. Blood spouted from the crater in his head like red water. His blood didn't flow like it did in his youth.
    The prostitute feared this strange attacker would turn on her when she finished pounding the man's brains out. She wouldn't be able to fend off some brute strength. She could run only if her body shook free from its shock.
    THUD.
    The bar shuddered under each blow.
    THUD.
    THUD.
    THUD.
    The prostitute wished she was in America. Eating at a real restaurant. THUD. With forks. THUD. And plates upon plates of food THUD that actually looked THUD edible. And cakes for dessert. THUD. Her name would be Heather in THUD America, but THUD it would be Lisa sometimes, too. Or Kelly. She always thought that was a pretty name. The prettiest. Sure there were bars in America, but she wouldn't go to them. No more bars. No more upstairs.
    She realized she was holding her breath. She let it out.
    The bar wasn't shaking anymore.
    The woman had stopped hammering.
    She was looking at the prostitute. Or rather in her general direction, but the prostitute didn't know that. Urine trickled down the whore's bare legs. The act burned.
    The ghost -- she had to be a ghost -- turned towards the whore, who held her breath again -- she's coming for me, she thought. No America for me --
    -- and walked out of the bar, away from her monstrous handiwork.
    The bartender slid back out of sight where he stayed for a long time. She was finished here, the young whore. She didn't want to see what was left of the old man or the town after that ghost had her way with it.
     

Chapter 42
    The morning was still fresh. Stray dogs and chickens were the only natives up.
    Two soldiers were outside the constable's office. One had his chair tipped back on two legs. He was playing with the dirt underneath his fingernails.
    The other was leaning against and in the open doorway. He peeked inside at the sleeping storekeeper's children.
    The girl was curled up on the bare desk. Her brother was behind it, head down, a protective arm over her.
    Satisfied they were safe, he asked his partner "Quiet night, huh?"
    "For some. You snored like a fucking dog."
    "But I slept like a baby."
    "At least we didn't have to go out there," the standing soldier said, flicking a nod toward the jungle. "They couldn't pay me enough to go out there. Shit, I'd run away like Jacoby, too, if I had to."
    "I hear you, man."
    The soldier who had been sitting went inside, leaving the other to settle in until the rest of the troops returned. No report from the field was needed. Captain Raymond was confident that the mission would be accomplished smoothly and with minimal casualties. He was confident because the order was shoot first , something the unlucky first batch did not do. 
    Before the man could get comfortable he noticed movement from one end of the street.
    Someone staggering but with speed.
    A man.
    The soldier stood, straining his eyes to see who this stranger was.
    He tightened the grip around his rifle.
    It was no stranger.
    It was Jacoby, worse for wear. His eyes were wide and wild. He was sweaty, completely out of breath, and possibly his mind.
    Jacoby ran into the man, almost knocking him down.
    "Constable?"
    Jacoby looked up and down the street. "Those monsters --"
    "What?" the soldier asked.
    "They know what I've done."
    The soldier soon realized that there was actually something bad in the jungle. Jacoby might have genuinely been the sole survivor, twice now.
    "I have to -- get -- I have to --," Jacoby tried.
    The constable made no sense to the soldier. Jacoby pushed past him to get inside the office to safety.
    The other soldier inside stepped out of the bathroom just as Jacoby barged in. Jacoby began to barricade the front door with anything not nailed