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Sid is Alive
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Crossroads Press
Category:
Horror
Publisher: Crossroads Press
ISBN-10: 1558174370
Type: Fiction
Pages: 317
Copyright: November 1, 1990
ISBN-13: 9781558174375
Price: $2.99 (eBook)
A troubled young reporter's investigation of missing prisoners leads to conspiracy and confrontation with ancient creatures in the Louisiana swamps.
Jag Walker's a young reporter still trying to find his niche in the newspaper world. After a disasterous misstep with his girlfriend, a chance encounter puts him on the path to help Debra Blane, a young woman in search of her missing brother.
It's an investigation that could help make his career if he and Debra can survive a conspiracy involving missing prisoners, vigilante justice and creatures believed to be legend.
Blood Hunter blends action/thriller and horror elements for a suspenseful reading experience.
It's now available in an e-book edition for Kindle and other formats.
Excerpt
On the morning of the day they died, Cody Jackson and Mark Turner were told they were being transferred from the Aimsley City Jail because of overcrowding.
The two had been cellmates for two days in the dank second-floor lockup, and the prospect of getting bumped over to a parish work farm was appealing. At least they would have fresh air.
Cody was awaiting trial on an armed robbery charge, al-though he had a rap sheet long enough to get him declared a habitual offender, a ticket to longer jail time. He was a mas-sive black man with shoulders that stretched against the seams of the blue prison work shirt . The length of his hair sometimes led people to wonder if he was Rastafarian.
With the scraggly beard that covered his chin and the scar which stretched from the scalp line down across his forehead and through his left eyebrow in a jagged pink trail, he created a threatening presence. He was the kind of guy cops hated to deal with, and they were careful to keep him shackled wrist and ankle anytime he was out of his cell.
Turner was a less formidable five feet eleven inches and weighed one hundred fifty pounds. Still, wearing the faded jeans, tee shirt and denim jacket in which he had been arrested, he was a perfect example of the kind of person motorists didn't pick up hitchhiking.
His long black hair and beard made him frightening; they gave him a resemblance to Charles Manson. When they'd hauled him into the police station on a charge of vagrancy, one of the officers had muttered, "I bet you he's no saint."
He had been passing through Aimsley, Louisiana, drifting toward Houston for no particular reason.
It wasn't the first time he had been in jail on a "no visible means of support" rap. More than a few times in the six months he'd been drifting through the South, he'd been ac-commodated on bunks in small town jails.
He didn't really mind, because he had no place in particular to be. Turner had been concentrating on losing himself since his girlfriend's death in a car wreck. He had dropped out of medical school in Florida and begun to thumb along the Gulf Coast, taking jobs once in a while but more often than anything devoting himself to oblivion.
He drank, picked up drugs in the nooks and crannies and kept his head in a stupor that usually helped ease the pain.
He had been deeply in love with the girl, expecting to marry her. They had met in a bookstore near campus and been smitten immediately.
She was just out of college, working as a computer programmer and had become a breath of fresh air for him, a refuge from the grueling pace of school and work. He had to work because both of his parents were dead.
In a way, Lois had filled a void that their loss had left inside him long before.
He had not realized how much she meant to him until word arrived that she was dead. Someone had run a red light, and her Toyota had been demol-ished.
He had gone numb at first; then the tears had begun. After the funeral he had tried to return to the routine, but every time he turned a corner, there was some re-minder of her: a shop where they'd had coffee, a bench where they had rested, a thousand others.
Running had been his only alternative, his only hope to es-cape his pain, and so he had bundled a few things and fled with his thumb extended.
A cold wind hit him, bringing him back to the present as they guided him out of the police station behind Cody. It was November and unusually cold for late autumn in Louisiana. Normally autumn was little different from the last days of summer.
With his hands shackled, he had difficulty adjusting his jacket. Cody remained stoic as the guard motioned them toward the rear of a blue police wagon.
Once his feet were released, Cody stepped up into the rear of the vehicle and sat down on one of the cold metal benches that stretched along the inner wall.
"Got a cigarette?" Turner asked the guard.
Without changing expression, the man gave him a slight shove.
"Moving, moving,” Turner said and followed his cellmate into the van.
Once he was seated, the doors slammed, and the sound of the lock being set slipped through them.
A moment later the van was moving, rocking slightly as it bounced out of the parking lot.
They rode in silence for a long time. Cody rested his head against the wall, his dark eyes rolling toward the ceil-ing. He didn't talk much, and his expression was grim.
Turner read graffiti scratched on the gray metal walls until he noticed love messages. That made him think of Lois, so he turned his gaze toward the rear window. For a moment he could see her face reflected there. He forced himself to look beyond.
The glass was lined with protective wire, and the only view was the ribbon of highway be-hind them.
He could see that the morning was a drab gray color, maybe a better morning for sleeping than anything else. If the rain that was threatening appeared, it would be a cold drizzle, enough to make any other activity miserable.
"What's it like at the sheriff's penal colony?" Turner asked to break the monotony.
"Ain't never been there," Cody replied.
Turner shrugged. "Maybe it won't be too bad.”
"Long as we got a roof over our heads.”
"I'm sure I've been in worse ,” Turner said. "There are some smelly, shitty places to lock people up in the world.”
"Been in a few of those myself,” was Cody's reply.
Turner only nodded back. He didn't want to get into an argument about who'd had the worse incarcerations. No reason to stir up trouble. He kind of liked the guy, and he figured he needed all the friends he could get.
He'd learned it was good to have tough friends in the lock-ups. They kept bad things from happening.
His eyes trailed back to the window again, and he stared out at the roadway. It had narrowed. The van had made some twists and turns to which he had paid little attention.
Somewhere along the way they had left the main highway.
"Where is this place located anyway?" Turner asked.
"Edge of the parish,” Cody said.
Turner stared out at what he could see of the roadside. "Is it in a swamp?"
"It's a work farm. Why would it be in a friggin' swamp?" Cody asked.
"Just judging by our surroundings," Turner said.
Cody frowned and looked out the rear window himself to see the narrow road which was heavily shrouded by the tree branches.
He shook his head. "Somethin's wrong," he said. "The farm is on Route 1. There's easier ways to get there from down-town."
The van clattered over a pothole which jolted them.
"Maybe it's a shortcut," Turner said.
"I don't think so," Cody said. "I think we're in trouble."
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