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Chris Keys

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Apollo Road
by Chris Keys   

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Books by Chris Keys
· One by One
· One M istaKe
· What? No second date?
· The Encounter
· The motor Home-God Does Work In mysterious Ways
                >> View all



Publisher:  self ISBN-10:  1482650738 Type: 


Copyright:  Mar/08/2013 ISBN-13:  9781482650730

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What would you do if a psychopathic serial killer decided to make you his new best friend?
A man who is unemployed, bankrupt and about to be divorced by an unfaithful wife is about to find out.

What would you do if a psychopathic serial killer decided to make you his new best friend?

A man who is unemployed, bankrupt and about to be divorced by an unfaithful wife is about to find out.


A psychopathic serial killer, who believes he’s on a mission from God to rid the world of self centered evil people intends to make ‘Nate’s’ (the name the serial killer assigns him), soon to be ex-wife, his next victim. The killer views this as a gesture of friendship and promptly frames Nate for the murders of his soon to be ex and her lover, then offers to help him change his identity and his life.


Nate has no real choice but to go along with his new best friend. He’s jobless, penniless, bankrupt, considering suicide and framed for murder. After faking his own death he’s led on a journey of discovery that’s fraught with murder, mayhem and money.



Letting the flashlight lead the way, I slowly shoved the door open further and stepped through the doorway into a pitch black foyer and the wind quickly closed the door behind me causing me to literally jump sideways a few feet. I took a quick swig of my liquid courage, as I pondered how much money was waiting inside. God, I hoped it was a lot. It would suck to go through all this for a couple of grand. There had better be at least ten grand, twenty would be better.
I stepped further into the foyer and I immediately was hit square in the face by a pungent smell that was both sweet and sickening at the same time. I fought back the urge to puke and pushed onward into the house. I casted the beam of the flashlight about as if fly fishing and I found I was in a large foyer. I jumped yet again, when I saw my face in a mirror off to the right, but I quickly recovered when I realized it was me and hurriedly stepped further into the house. I stopped at a juncture of archways that led to the living room and the dining room. The living room to the left and the dining room to the right, both rooms were a mess.
The furniture was clearly old and all broken down. Dust webs hung everywhere and I was pretty sure a rat or two ran from the flashlight beam, as I swung it around taking in the sights.
In the living room, there was a fireplace with the required old painting hung above the mantle. It was either a picture of an old woman or an old horse in a hat, I couldn’t quite tell. It didn’t matter. Because when I stepped up close and took a good hard look, it turned into a poster for some bar at the beach with some cutie in a bikini advertising beer. The girl on the poster was leaning towards the camera showing off her cleavage with the beers name cleverly covering the highlights of her bosom. She wasn’t half bad, though the swimsuit looked to be maybe fifty years old. Then it struck me, it was a woman in a bikini, just like the lawnmower incident.
For a brief moment, I entertained the thought of leaving. The place was cursed, cursed by the dreaded women in bikini curse. But as I turned to leave, the thought of the money crossed my mind, so I went across the hall to the dining room. The dining room held no tantalizing art work. Its walls were bare and there was no furniture except for a large china cabinet on the far wall that had all its glass doors broken out. The glass was still laying about the thing, on the floor. The curtains were thick but full of holes that let in just a modest amount of moon light, giving the room an out of this world feeling. That was when the thought crossed my mind, was Lon Chaney home?
Leaving the spacious dining room, I stepped to the bottom of the stairs. Here the pungent odor was stronger and once again I fought back the urge to puke. Doing my best to ignore my abdominal distress, I pointed the flashlight up to landing at the top of the stairs. It was less than illuminating. All I could see were blank walls covered in yellowed, white paint and cobwebs. I felt a chill, run up my spine as I stood there staring at the landing, so I decided I had better check the rest of the main floor before I ventured upstairs. I took another large swing of my liquid courage hoping it would fortify me for the trip up the stairs, once I’d finished with the rest of the house.
The kitchen was in the back of the house. It was just as old and messy as the rest of the house. The cabinets were black and white, like they had been back in the nineteen fifties. The stove was like nothing I’d seen before, except in my great Aunt’s house when I was a small boy back in Michigan. It was the kind that required you to light the burners whenever you turned it on. It looked to be made of cast iron, which might explain why no one had stolen it, like they had the refrigerator, which was now just represented by an empty space. There wasn’t any table or chairs, but there was a Macdonald’s wrapper in the sink, a McTasty or something like that.
I noticed through the window that it had started to rain. When the lightning flashed, my eye was drawn to the swimming pool where the rain drops danced across the surface, which in this light looked to be clean. I thought it was odd but I didn’t dwell on it, I took another swig of “Jim Beam” and headed for the stairs without bothering to check the laundry room.
Once again, I stood frozen at the bottom of the stairs. I flashed the light on the wall above the landing and a shiver ran up my spine, once more. Every fiber of my body was telling me to leave, but the “Jim Beam” was telling me, I could take King Kong, if he dared make an appearance.
After a few short minutes of an internal argument, “Jim Beam” and his King Kong speech, were victorious over the lesser man, I was inside. Embracing the false bravado, courtesy of “Jim Beam”, I climbed the stairs hoping and praying that the rotted wood didn’t give way as I climbed. I also hoped I wasn’t about to get killed by a homicidal maniac who set me up with phone calls to a wrong number or what would be worse, he just maimed me then left me to die. My mind immediately conjured up scenes of hundreds of rats racing across the floor of the room to attack me. Then a truly morbid thought occurred to me, what difference did it make? There wasn’t anyone to mourn my passing. Hell, the soon to be ex-wife would jump for joy, as she collected the insurance money, playing the role for all the world of a grieving widow as she left to go ballroom dancing or paragliding or something stupid like that.
Reaching the landing, I stopped and listened to the wind and rain slapping against the outside of the house. I took a deep breath only to suck in a lung full of that sweet, yet sickening smell, which was even stronger here at the top of the stairs and once more, I fought to keep from puking.
But it wasn’t just the smell that was causing me distress. The carpet, which at one time, had run the length of the hallway had long since been eaten away by insects and mold, leaving just a few strands of backing here and there. Enhancing the sense of squalor were the dozen large holes in the walls and the sheets of peeling wallpaper everywhere. The second floor was trashed worse than the main floor was.
Unsure if I should move forward or just go back downstairs, after seeing the decay and destruction, I took yet another swig of “Jim Beam” to bolster my courage. As I waited to feel the warmth of the liquid courage flow thru my veins, I tried to remember what the psycho had said about where the money would be. One of the bedrooms, yeah that was it, but which one? Having drunk over three quarters of a bottle of whiskey, it was becoming clear that Jim Beam enhanced one’s courage and curiosity, while completely screwing with your memory.
Feeling encouraged by a fresh rush of alcohol, I went to the first room on the left, because it was closest to the stairs and it would allow me to make a quick exit, if I found myself overwhelmed by the urgent need to do so. As I cautiously moved forward my imagination started to run away with me. I just knew that the psycho was waiting somewhere in the house, waiting for the opportunity to knock me over the head and then drag me off into the basement where he would slowly peel away my skin and let the cockroaches slowly devour me. Then, I remembered that houses in Florida, don’t have basements and I relaxed again. The only person who would enjoy skinning me and letting the cockroaches have me, was the soon to be, ex-wife and she was too busy doing the horizontal mambo with her attorney just now, to care. But still, I looked around and found a discarded spindle from the stair railing, which I picked up to use as a weapon. Now I could handle King Kong, for sure.
Using the spindle, I shoved the door open to the room on the left and peered in. It was empty, not even curtains were left. The closet door was closed and I wasn’t too keen on opening it, so I stepped back and moved on to the next door on the left, which was the next closest door.
Once more, I used the spindle to push the door open and again the room was empty. Well not quite, there were a few empty beer bottles and a whole bunch of used condoms scattered across the floor and hung on the window ledge and even the closet door knob. What the hell is wrong with people? Like this is some place to bring a girl for sex. Then it occurred to me, that it could have been a bunch of gay guys and that creped me out even more, so I turned towards the room across the hall, the first one on the right. It was then that my pea brain kicked in its memory drive and reminded me of what the psycho caller had said. Shit. I didn’t have to even check those other rooms. What an idiot.
I beat myself up for a minute or two, before I found the courage in another swig of “Jim Beam” and using the spindle once more, I shoved the door open. I was dumb struck at the sight. My arms and legs were frozen from shock and wouldn’t move. My heart skipped several beats and I almost passed out. Every instinct told me to run and run fast, but I was rooted to the floor. My liquid courage, my bottle of “Jim Beam” slipped from my hand and bounced on the floor a couple of times before it shattered. The shattering of the glass bottle was enough to snap me out my trance but just barely. I spun to my left and slouched with my back against the wall. My eyes darted from doorway to doorway, searching for anything out of place or anyone trying to sneak up on me. Seeing no one, I stepped back into the doorway and took another look. Before me was the most macabre site I could have ever imagined.


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Reader Reviews for "Apollo Road"

Reviewed by Ed Fasano 3/26/2013
Chris, I just stumbled on your page and book. I usually don't comment on other people's hard work and should just keep my comments to myself but the excerpt presented here, in my opinion, needs editing, cutting, revision and an expert's help. I found the whole passge totally unreadable because of grammer errors, repeated words (how can anyone use curse(d) three times in one sentence!), too much detailed descriptions which add nothing and generally questionable writing. Just get to the point: The most macabre site you ever could have imagined. Everything before is just fluff and does not add to the story. For example, who cares if bugs and mold had eaten through the carpet or there's a painting with a girl in a bikini? Please take these comments in the way they are intended as a help not as a hinderance.

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