ebook only 99 cents – through December 31!
“(Northwoods Pulp Reloaded) Three intensely told stories capped off with a visceral crime novella, this is a seemingly easy escape read, but the writing is smart and deeper than expected, from high-stakes morality parables to and illicit adventures that quickly get out of hand. For any reader who has ever pointed their fortunes north and let their moral compass waver, or loves reading about well-crafted antiheroes, O’Neill’s collection is an intense but entertaining dive into another world.” – SPR review
“Hole in the World”
Then they stop dead in their tracks as they come upon the two bodies and the occasional snowbound Treasury note. I jump up and cut loose. Hit the one with the rifle and he goes down screaming and writhing, starts crawling toward the ditch. He doesn’t make it; bullets travel faster than flesh. The other prick is moving fast down the road now and I do the same—in the opposite direction.
It’s the name game.
A little later, adrenaline wearing off, I notice how cold I am. Terrible cold. Terrible wet. Teeth chattering. Heavy duty shivers. Toes stinging.
Got to keep moving and thumping. My eyes sting so bad I can’t look into the wind anymore so I have to walk backwards. It’s hard to breathe, there’s so much snow in the air. And where’s Roy? No one drives by and I know this is a good thing, given the carnage on the road behind me, but still I crave for the sight of headlights or maybe someone on a snowmobile. Those things must be all over up here….
I don’t have a clue how long I’ve been out here. I am crawling on my hands and knees now, head bent down to the slushy, heavy snow. My knees sting terribly and my toes are numb. Thankful for the wool socks I bought at the Holiday station. Sometimes I try to stand up but the weight of it all pushes me back down. Only money left is what I could stuff in my jacket and pants, plastic bag long since jettisoned. I think the cash keeps me warmer but it seems so heavy. I realize I can’t go any farther without a rest. I stop and wrap myself up in a ball on the side of the road, my back turned to the wind. I’m so sleepy… maybe if I close my eyes for a while… Where’s Roy?
I jerk awake to a fierce growling. It’s coming from another world. But then it’s the same world and there’s a large wolf standing about six feet away from me. Blood and gore and bits of blue cloth are stuck to the sides of its toothy snout. A beautiful creature, coat full and gray, almost white.
“Go away, or I’ll kill you,” I say, reaching in my jacket for the pistol. I can barely hear my voice. Then something in the animal’s posture makes me stop. He growls again, showing me his impressive teeth.
“FUCK YOUUUUU,” I yell, fear stoking the last bits of adrenaline I have left.
Seems like it almost laughs at me. I watch it trot by, up the side of the road and into the forest.
I stuff the Glock in my jacket pocket and something gets me up and moving. Isn’t too long before I’m walking downhill. Now I can actually see a few yards ahead through the blow. I’m nearing the lake, on the final downgrade. I’m feeling giddy, home free, almost warm. But there’s ice on the legs of my jeans and my ears are on fire and I haven’t felt my feet in a while.
The closer I get to the lake the more numb I become. I keep on moving. No sign of an automobile anywhere. I keep my hands over my face, pinching and twisting the flesh in an attempt to get the blood flowing. The road is just as impassible down here but the snow is slushier and the pelting from the black sky is wetter. I’m soaked everywhere except under the leather jacket. It’s funny, because I’m getting hot underneath there now. My thin leather gloves soaked through long ago. I’m praying to whatever god or spirit or deity that might listen. And what about Roy? He’ll probably be coming right along in the Cadillac, all warm and dry, some good tunes pumping out of the radio; not that crazy, goddamn “Name Game” shit. Shiver, Shiver, bo pivver, banana fana fo fivver… ah, Jesus. I regret the day I ever met that crazy bastard Roy Hollinday. He’ll be the death of me yet. Ha Ha. You like that? Be the death of me yet. Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha….
Finally at the highway that will lead me back to hell, a.k.a. Superior, Wisconsin. There’s an ungodly roar coming off the big lake and the stuff coming out of the sky has the texture of bird shit. I’m thinking maybe I should hitchhike. There’s been someone through here; I see drifted-over ruts in the road. They’d probably try and take me to a hospital or something. I think my face is bleeding. I’ll just keep putting one foot in front of the other. Or one stump in front of another, come some sunny day if the creeks don’t rise. Roy is due any minute now…
You ever heard the sound of a crow on a mild spring day and thought to yourself what a nice sound it is? How things seem more right with the world when there’s a crow up in a tree cawing down at you? That’s the feeling I’m getting from this big black sonofabitch up in that tree across the road. He’s about fifty yards down and making the sweetest sound. It’s sure not a nice day but the wall of pine trees provides some protection from the wind. Big crow’s perched up there ruffling his feathers and flexing his wings.
Now I’m thinking I should take my jacket off and go after that crow. It’s all of a sudden so nice and warm here. But that can’t be right. Something wrong with my head, I guess. Maybe the crow can explain all this….
I get near the tree and the crow takes off, spreads his shining wings and flies down another twenty-five yards or so and lands on top of a mailbox. I go after it again. Maybe I can throw salt on its tail, there’s so much of it lying on the ground now.
A mailbox?
A driveway?
Looking down the drive, I see the corner of a house around the bend. A big warm house on a cliff overlooking the lake and there’s a light on above the door.
I’m so thankful when I knock on the metal storm door. I’m saved. A little porthole in the door opens up and I see the face of my savior, a decent looking broad of about forty.
She takes one look at me, slams the door and starts screaming her lungs out. I hear her yell, “Call the sheriff, Steve,” behind the thick door. Then I hear a crow making a sound remarkably like the yuppie bitch’s yelling, turn my head and see the bird perched on a cedar railing that runs alongside a stone stairway leading down to the shore of raging Lake Superior.
(To be continued)
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