Payback: A Strandville Zombie Series Short Read online

  PAYBACK

  Kindle Edition

  12/27/13

  Copyright © 2012 by Belinda Frisch

  All rights reserved. This e-book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Edited by A.J. Brown

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this e-book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this e-book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Disclaimer:

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons living or dead (unless explicitly noted) is merely coincidental.

  Also by this Author:

  Cure, A Strandville Zombie Novel, #1

  Afterbirth, A Strandville Zombie Novel #2

  Fatal Reaction

  Six months earlier…

  Max Reid was down to two options: bet and win, or go back to a life of crime. Only one of those let him keep his new family. He parked behind Devil’s Ink, Strandville’s only tattoo shop, and avoided eye-contact with Mitch who was scowling at him from the passenger’s seat.

  Situated on a six store strip which was the closest thing Strandville had to downtown, Devil’s Ink was a black eye on the small town’s otherwise simple country façade.

  Strandville was a blue-collar working town and those who lived there either did manual labor for minimum wage or worked at the Nixon Healing and Research Center, one of the few decent paying jobs within a fifty mile radius.

  Max had worked for Bill Jenks, the town mechanic, up until he was fired a week before. He’d yet to tell Jess, the mother of his newborn son, but knew that sooner or later, he’d have to come clean. Gambling the last of their cash, he hoped the race would buy him time. He grabbed the betting slip from on top of his visor and sighed. Jacob’s Revenge wasn’t a favorite to win, but he needed a long shot’s payoff and there was no better bet than a horse with his son’s name.

  Mitch hadn’t said a word since the stop at the bookie, but it was clear he didn’t approve of the bet. He adjusted his lanyard to sit under the blue collar of his Nixon Center uniform shirt and flipped over the photo ID badge that marked him as a member of Security. “When do you plan on telling Jess you were fired? She finds out everything eventually, believe me.”

  Mitch and Jess had dated through high school, a fact Max considered moot now that he and Jess had Jacob. Mitch had cheated and Jess had ended things. He didn’t have to say that he never got over her. It was obvious from the fact that he came around their house too often and stayed too long.

  Max took his keys out of the ignition. “I’m going to miss my race.”

  “You’re going to get evicted.”

  “Anyone else, you’d be cracking homeless jokes, Mitch. Give it a rest. I can take care of my own family. This race will fix things. You’ll see.”

  But the long shot bet was double the losing one before it. Max was five hundred dollars down from a thousand dollar paycheck, his last from the garage, and it was less than ten minutes to post time.

  He hurried into Devil’s Ink and flopped down in an empty tattoo chair.

  Mitch picked up a water-stained Playboy off the milk crate table and bounced his knee to the thrash core coming through the shop’s speakers.

  “Reid, man, I didn’t think you were going to show.” Doug, the shop’s owner, crushed out his cigarette and opened a fresh set of needles. He was a tall man, thin and fair-skinned with tattoos covering every inch of exposed skin except for his scruffy-bearded face. The black ink bled together into a single, congested piece, and other than the pair of praying hands on the right side of his neck, nothing stood out at quick glance. Max had met him during a six month bid at county for aggravated assault.

  “Sorry, man. I had an errand to run.” Max crumpled an empty paper cup and threw it across the room at Mitch. “Hey, put on channel twenty-seven, would you?”

  Mitch muttered something under his breath and continued pretending to read.

  Doug pulled his thinning hair into a low ponytail, squeezed his large hands into a pair of black, latex gloves, and poured several capfuls of ink. He had prepared Max’s piece in advance and set the stencil of a cross on his muscular forearm. He sprayed down the paper to transfer the ink outline and held Max’s arm when he wouldn’t hold still. “You’re going to screw this up.”

  Max grunted, frustrated. “Mitch, I know you can hear me. Turn on the TV.”

  “I’m not an enabler.”

  “No, you’re a childish prick.” Max started to stand and Doug pushed him back into the chair.

  “I got it.” Doug shook his head and turned on the television with a remote control. “What number we rooting for this time?”

  “Lucky seven.”

  “Come on, seven.” Doug lifted the stencil. “Good?”

  “Good.” Max didn’t even look at the placement.

  The Call to the Post sounded and the race was off. Max kept his eyes glued to the screen and didn’t flinch when the tattoo needle broke skin. The dull pain, hot like bee stings, soothed Max’s frayed nerves as he watched for the green and white stripes of Jacob’s jockey to move up the pack. Everything was riding on this race.

  “And here comes Jacob’s Revenge.”

  “Yes!” Max shouted. “Come on, seven.”

  Mitch set down the magazine and leaned forward on the sagging futon.

  “And Jacob’s Revenge is in the lead.”

  Max couldn’t tear his eyes away. The worries of being three months behind in rent and of having lost half of his final paycheck disappeared.

  “Wait, what’s this?” The announcer’s voice lowered. “Lucky Louie is neck and neck with Jacob’s Revenge. It’s a photo finish.”

  Mitch snickered.

  “Dammit!”

  Doug pulled the tattoo gun away just before Max slammed his fist down on the arm of the chair.

  Mitch rested his elbows on his knees, tee-peed his fingers, and held them to his lips. “Photo finish, Max, feeling lucky?”

  “Shhh.” Max’s breath caught as he ordered Mitch to be quiet.

  “And the winner is Lucky Louie by a nose.”

  The mounting debt just got bigger, too big for there not to be consequences.

  Doug shook his head. “Tough break, man.”

  “Another bust, tough guy.” Mitch smirked. “You ready to take that job now?”

  As much as Max wanted to, he couldn’t say no.

  * * * * *

  Five a.m. came fast and Max was exhausted, having been up most of the night with Jacob. He rolled out of bed, careful not to disturb Jess, and checked on his son, asleep in a bassinette in the corner. Jacob’s tiny pink mouth curled around his thumb and he made a sucking sound when Max set his hand on his back.

  Max grabbed his cell phone and contemplated calling Mitch to back out of the job that would either get him killed, incarcerated, or make him single, but the money was just too good. He stumbled into the dark kitchen with his pants and shirt in one hand and his boots in the other and felt along the wall for the light switch. There wasn’t time to make fresh coffee so he poured the last of the previous day’s pot into a mug and sucked it down, black and cold.

  “Why are you up so early?” Jess stood in the bedroom doorway with a blue striped burp cloth draped over her shoulder.

  Max hadn’t heard her get up.


  “I tried to be quiet.” He stepped into his well-worn jeans, faded in the knees and stained from crawling around at the garage.

  “The shop doesn’t open until seven.” Jess’s emerald eyes were half-closed and she had the gentle, sleepy look on her face that he loved; the dazed calm that said she wasn’t awake enough to pick a fight.

  “I’m rebuilding a transmission on the side,” Max said. “Bill’s letting me use the garage. Everything’s fine. Go back to bed.” The weight of the lie kept him from looking her in the eyes. “Mitch is going to give me a ride so you can use the truck. I’ll be home regular time.” He kissed her on the cheek and rushed out the door to meet Mitch who was waiting two doors down in a white van with a phony power company logo on the side.

  Mitch wore dark jeans and a button-down work shirt with the name “Bob” embroidered on the pocket. He leaned over and fed a training treat to a Doberman puppy on a blanket in a cardboard box between the seats.

  Max looked down at his own shirt—the uniform for the garage that any local would recognize—and shook his head. Criminal Max would’ve known better. “What’s with the dog?”

  “He’s Amy’s.” Mitch reached back and tossed him a shirt to change into. “She let me borrow him.”

  Amy Porter’s aunt and uncle owned Porter’s gas station, just over the Strandville line. Her parents died when she and her brother, Billy, were kids, and both Billy and Amy had been in their share of trouble with the law since. While Max never found Amy to be even remotely attractive, with her stringy hair and acne-scarred skin, it was clear why Mitch liked her. The girl knew how to party and she’d do anything for attention. Mitch would never admit it, but Max knew that in his way, Mitch loved her.

  “Borrow him for what?” Max said, still unclear what he’d signed on for. His phone rang for the at least the fifth time since the previous day’s loss and he sent it immediately to voicemail, wondering how long until his bookie sent thugs to his house. The mental math to calculate his total debt had become too hard, but people had their legs broken over less.

  “Everything all right?” Mitch turned off the headlights and took a left on Pike Rd. He passed the widow Hinkle’s place and pulled over.

  “Everything’s fine. What are we doing?”

  Mitch pointed at a blue ranch house a few doors down. “The girl’s name is Carlene.” He slipped the tiny, red collar from around the puppy’s neck. “I’ve been casing her place the past couple of weeks. She comes out every morning at six to bring coffee to a couple of paramedics.”

  “Are we going to kill her?”

  Mitch let a moment pass before answering. “No, we’re not going to kill her. We’re going to take her to the Nixon Center and pretend none of this ever happened. As soon as the coast is clear, I’m going to let J.D. loose. I’ll try to lure Carlene, but if she runs, you catch her. And if we go into the house, you follow. You hear me?”

  Max nodded, knowing Mitch was capable of things he didn’t want to be part of.

  A white ambulance with the words “Strandville EMS” in deep red lettering parked curbside in front of the small house.

  An early-thirties woman emerged with disposable coffee cups. Her light brown hair hung in tangles over her shoulders and her terry cloth bathrobe collected leaves from the sidewalk. She handed the coffee through the ambulance’s passenger’s side window and engaged in brief conversation.

  The medics waved thanks, bid their farewells, and drove out of sight.

  Carlene turned to open her mailbox and Mitch waved for Max to get out of the van. He held a finger to his lips, telling him to be quiet, and set J.D. out on the sidewalk.

  As soon as the puppy’s paws hit the pavement, he ran off toward the hedgerow that partially obscured the van. Mitch waited until J.D. was far enough away to begin calling him. The empty leash dangled from his hand for effect.

  Max watched, waiting behind the van.

  “Excuse me. Have you seen a little black and brown pup?” Mitch asked Carlene. “He slipped out of his collar and my daughter’s going to be crushed if I don’t bring him home.”

  Max shook his head, disbelieving of how benign Mitch could look when he wanted to.

  Carlene helped Mitch search for J.D. who was gnawing a dead tree branch on the far side of her property line. Mitch let her be the one to find him and after thanking her profusely, convinced her to let him inside to use her phone.

  Mitch had said that if they went inside, Max was to follow and though he almost drove off, twice, he knew from what Mitch told him that Dr. Howard Nixon, Strandville’s humanitarian and the Nixon Center’s namesake, was a bigger threat to him and his family than the bookie.

  “You can do this,” Max said. “You have to do this.”

  By the time he walked through the front door, Carlene and Mitch were already struggling. Mitch had her face down on the floor and was trying to uncap a syringe with his teeth. Carlene bucked and kicked, bit and screamed, and broke free twice before Max decided to step in and grab her.

  “About goddamn time,” Mitch shouted.

  Carlene clawed Max’s face, igniting a fire in him that had her pinned in a matter of seconds.

  “Hurry up,” he shouted and moved aside so that Mitch could inject her with the needle.

  * * * * *

  Jacob wailed, screaming at the top of his lungs in the bassinette.

  Jess’ heart pounded and her full breasts ached as the strung-out, scruffy man held a long hunting knife over her son’s small body.

  “I’m only going to ask you one last time,” he said. “Where’s Reid?”

  A larger, fat man who smelled of stale beer and onions lifted her wrists higher up her back. His breath was hot on her neck and his sweaty hands repulsed her.

  “I told you, he’s at the garage.” Jess sniffed the watery thread about to run on to her lip.

  The man rested the knife’s pointed tip against Jacob’s bunny blanket.

  Jess strained to see what he was doing despite the searing pain in her shoulders.

  “Please, don’t hurt him.” Her voice cracked. “I swear, Max is at the garage. He went to work early.”

  The fat man behind her snickered and thrust her forward, bending her over the kitchen table. “Do you think we’re stupid or something? You think we didn’t go there first? His boss shitcanned him a week ago. Either you tell us where he is, or cough up the twenty-seven grand he owes. Our boss doesn’t cover bad bets.”

  Twenty-seven thousand dollars.

  Fired?

  Max had lied to her for the last time.

  “What if I call him home? Give me two hours. I can get him here.”

  The men looked at one another and then at Jacob.

  “I can’t take much more of this crying baby shit.”

  “Please,” Jess said, “Where am I going to go with a newborn baby?”

  “Two hours,” said the scrawny man. “And if Reid’s not here when we come back, that crying will stop being a problem, you understand me?”

  Breast milk leaked through Jess’s nursing pads and bra and soaked the front of her shirt.

  “I understand,” she said, praying she had enough time to run.

  * * * * *

  The morning sun burned through the windshield and Max lowered the visor. He flipped open the vanity mirror and examined the scratches extending from the corner of his eye to his jaw. “What am I going to tell Jess?”

  Mitch shrugged.

  Max looked back at the woman, unconscious in the back of the van. “So, we’re taking her to the Nixon Center?”

  Mitch turned the corner, and the woman’s body rolled from one side of the van to the other. “We’re not taking her anywhere. You’re going home.”

  He pulled up to Max’s apartment and waved for him to get out.

  Max looked, again, at the angry red scratches that looked clearly like four fingernails. He stood half-in and half-out of the open passenger’s side door, waiting for an envelope. “You said five gran
d.”

  “Twenty-five hundred each, but I don’t have it yet. Payment on delivery. Clean yourself up, Max. I’ll be in touch.”

  Max shut the door and walked down the crumbling sidewalk toward his apartment. Even from fifty feet he could see something was wrong. Mitch pulled away and Max ran toward home. The front doorknob wiggled and nearly broke off in his hand. The splintered jamb stuck out in wooden protrusions and there was an indentation that looked like the end of a crow bar.

  He couldn’t get inside fast enough.

  “Jess, baby, are you here?” His heart pounded and he flushed with sweat. “Jess, honey. Answer me.” A large knife sat on the counter and he looked for blood. “Jess!” He swallowed the knot of fear in his throat. Jacob’s bassinette sat empty in the middle of the kitchen. His bunny blanket was on the floor next to it. “Jess, come on. Answer me.” He listened for muffled sounds or crying, but it was the silence that scared him the most. He rushed into the back bedroom and found the bifold closet doors open. The right one hung askew off its track and Jess’s side of the closet was empty. Jacob’s dresser, too.

  Max didn’t know whether to smile or cry. Jess had left him, but at least she was alive. At least his son was alive. He sat on the edge of the unmade bed and held Jess’s pillow to his face. He breathed in the smell of the strawberry shampoo he’d fallen asleep to every night for two years and refused to cry. He set the pillow down and opened the blinds. A stream of sunlight settled on a square of folded paper sitting on the nightstand. The edges were worn, the folds nearly torn from excessive handling. He picked it up, opened it carefully, and read the page three times before comprehending what it said.

  The results of a paternity test confirmed that Jacob wasn’t his son.

  He was Mitch’s.

  * * * * *

  Mitch backed into the receiving entrance at the rear of the Nixon Healing and Research Center. Jim Lockard, the center’s maintenance man, met him at the roll up door with a gurney and a Hispanic orderly named Miguel.