Less Than Human
LESS THAN HUMAN
Gary Raisor
A Macabre Ink Production
Macabre Ink is an imprint of Crossroad Press
Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press
Digital Edition Copyright 2012 / Gary Raisor
Copy-edited by: Kurt Criscione
LICENSE NOTES
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Meet the Author
Gary Raisor is an
American
horror
author best known for the novels
Less Than Human
,
Graven Images
,
Sinister Purposes
, and his extensive short fiction work. His novels garnered great reviews and sold-out print-runs. He was nominated for a
Bram Stoker Award for Best First Novel
for
Less Than Human
in 1992.
He also edited the anthology
Obsessions
with stories from
Dean Koontz
,
Kevin J. Anderson
,
F. Paul Wilson
,
Dan Simmons
,
Joe R. Lansdale
, and featured the story
Lady Madonna
by
Nancy Holder
, which won the
Bram Stoker Award for Short Fiction
in 1991.
Raisor has written numerous short stories, beginning in the 1980s in
Night Cry Magazine
and
The Horror Show
, working his way into a lot of "Best Of" anthologies. Today, Raisor concentrates primarily on screenplays and comics.
Book List
Novels
Graven Images
Less Than Human
Sinister Purposes
Anthologies
Obsessions - Editor
Short Fiction
Cheapskate
Cleaning Compulsion
Distant Thunder
Empty Places
Gran'mama
Hell Train
Identity Crisis
If I Should Die Before I Wake
Making Friends
Occupational Hazard
Sacrifice
Sometimes, the Hands Remember
Stigmata
The Accounting
The Laughing Man
The Night Caller
The Old Black Hat
The Right Thing
Willpower
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Thank you for your assistance and your support of the authors published by Crossroad Press.
For Debbie and Jason, whose contributions are beyond measure. And for a few friends in no particular order:
Joe and Karen Lansdale, Dave and Laurie Hinchberger, Al Sarrantonio, Beth Martin, Richard Christian Matheson, David Silva, Ed Gorman, John Gibbons, Janet McKinley, and Barbara Peuchner for always being there to listen.
Andrew Adler for making me feel like a writer, and for his neat last name.
The crew on the EFT team: Wayne, Kevin, Boyce, Sara, Kathy, Ralph, Wanda, Ed, Dan, Rick, Denise, Martha, Pat, Bob, Tim, Lonnie, and Linda, who prove every day that real life is stranger than fiction. Thanks, guys.
Bryan (Big B) Crady, my horror-movie buddy.
Gary Goldstein, who proves being a cowboy isn't what state you live in, but the state of your mind.
Chapter 1
T
he Greyhound pulled into Carruthers, Texas, a little after nine and unloaded seventeen people into the unseasonably cold autumn night. All had family waiting for them.
All, except for two.
Steven Adler was the last one to get off. He was slender and pale, about twenty-five, with sleek blond hair combed straight back beneath a black headband. A small golden crucifix dangled from his right ear, catching the light whenever he moved. He wore black leather high-tops, jeans, and a black sweatshirt that had a picture of an upright shark leaning on a pool cue. If the cold bothered him, he didn't let it show. He took in a deep breath, as though inhaling the night, and impatiently shifted the case he carried under his arm.
"You got the address?" Steven asked the older man who had gotten off the bus with him.
Earl Jacobs buttoned his ratty leather jacket against the cold. He too carried a case. "Yeah, I think it's only a couple of blocks from here, over on Eighth." He didn't look happy.
"Good night for a stroll," Steven said with a slight grin. "You can't tell anything about a town from a cab, Earl. You've got to get out and walk around if you want to know what's going on."
"The only thing I see going on around here is the possibility of getting your throat cut," Earl answered.
"You always were an optimist, Earl. That's what I like most about you."
They walked across the now-deserted lot, quickly leaving the lights on the bus station behind. Several of the buses were parked over by the far fence, giant shadowy mastodons sleeping in the night. The sounds of their cooling engines carried into the night as though their sleep were troubled.
After five blocks, Earl stopped to lean against a street lamp and fished the address out of his pocket once more. "We should've been there by now." His breathing was ragged. Beneath the gray stubble, his face had taken on a slightly bluish cast, and when the wind chased some leaves down the sidewalk, he began shivering.
Steven took the piece of paper from his companion's hands. "I'm sorry, Matt. We should've taken a cab."
"It's Earl. My name is Earl. That's the second time you've called me Matt this week. Who is this Matt?"
"Matt Thomas, an old friend from a long, long time ago. I'm sorry, Earl, sometimes I forget. Are you all right?"
"I'll be okay. It's a little hard to breathe after that bastard kicked me last night. I think he busted one of my ribs." Earl pulled out a pint and tossed off a quick sip. "I always thought the game of pool was supposed to be a non-contact sport."
"You made him look bad in front of his girlfriend." Steven took the proffered bottle, took a sip, and made a face. "She was laughing at him."
"I coulda showed her a few strokes, too," Earl said, tucking the bottle out of sight.
"She was young enough to be your daughter."
"Granddaughter is more like it." Earl looked around at the crumbling buildings and weed-infested lots. The smokestacks from some long-closed factory cast a shadow across the sidewalk. "I think we're going the wrong way."
"No, we're not. It's up ahead about five blocks."
"How the hell do you know that?"
"Somebody's playing nine ball. I heard them break."
"Did they sink any?" Earl asked with barely masked sarcasm.
"Yeah, one."
"You wouldn't happen to know which one, would you?"
"As a matter of fact, I do. It was the nine ball." Steven looked at his watch and stepped up the pace. "Come on. I feel like playing."
Earl had to trot to keep up. Damned new boots were his feet. His breath was a sporadic white cloud that trailed along behind him in the night like exhaust from some engine that wasn't hitting on all cylinders. He silently cursed. His damned ribs hurt worse than his feet.
A soft glow of light spilling through a window told them they had at last found Leon's Pool Emporium. A skinny old black man weaved out of the building, paused to drain the last of his beer before smashing the bottle against the door of a Bonneville sitting at the curb. On the car's windshield someone had spray-painted in bright red: REPENT, before Jesus runs the table on YOU.
"I guess getting a game in a nice place is out of the question?" Earl asked as he watched the old black man stagger off into the night.
"Your problem, Earl, is you've got no spirit of adventure."
"I'm getting too old for adventure," Earl said under his breath. "What I need is a couple of drinks and about ten hours sleep."
They pushed through the swinging door and halted inside the dim interior. The room was small and it smelled of hard times; the booze and cigar smoke couldn't blot it out. There were four gigantic Steepleton pool tables taking up the middle of the room. Only one was being used by a haggard cowboy and a college kid playing nine ball. A mahogany bar ran along the back and three men were sitting in front of it nursing drinks and arguing. They were watching football on a TV with the sound turned off. One of them eased off his stool and fed some change to the juke.
D. J. Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince added to the din.
"Why don't you turn off that nigger music and turn up the TV?" Earl yelled, walking closer. "I got money on that game."
"Cause it's broke, that's why," the bartender said, as though the answer was obvious. "It's been broke since '79. We got to where we kinda like it that way."
Every face at the bar turned toward Earl.
Every face at the bar was black.
Earl halted.
The huge bartender kept on polishing glasses and studying them as though they were apparitions that would disappear if he just waited long enough. He showed them some yellow teeth. Someone had cut him bad years ago, leaving a scar that ran from his eyebrow down to his jawbone, and when he smiled, only half his face worked. The smile didn't improve his looks any. "You gentlemen must be lost."