Death Alarm- Three Twisted Tales PDF
Preview Death Alarm- Three Twisted Tales
Death Alarm A collection of three horror stories By Douglas R. Brown Published by Epertase for the Kindle Copyright © 2012 Douglas R. Brown All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any mean without prior permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Edited by Bobbe Ecleberry Cover art by Steve Murphy Visit author Douglas R. Brown on the Web at http://www.epertase.blogspot.com Follow Douglas on Twitter @Rasi22 Like 'Epertase' on Facebook Books by Douglas R. Brown Tamed- Jan. 2012 The Light of Epertase: Legends Reborn - August 2011 The Light of Epertase: A Kingdom's Fall - August 2012 The Light of Epertase: The Rise of Cridon - August 2013 A note from the author: Thank you for checking out my collection of horror short stories. I wrote these three stories while preparing my fantasy novel, The Light of Epertase: Legends Reborn, for publication with Rhemalda Publishing. The first story in this collection is a violent tale about a rookie firefighter on the emergency call of his life. Death Alarm follows this young firefighter as he brutally discovers life doesn't always end with death. My next twisted tale is titled Janitor where sometimes sickness gets the best of people. And finally, Skelwaller Lane shows you that everything isn't always what it seems in the beginning. Be warned, my stories don't always end with happily-ever-afters. Read at your own risk. After you finish my collection of three short stories, continue on and take a peek at the first two chapters of what has been called, "The Jurassic Park of werewolf stories" in my free preview of Tamed included here. If you enjoy my writing be sure to check out my novels from Rhemalda Publishing or visit me at www.epertase.com. Thanks for buying and I hope you enjoy. DEATH ALARM By Douglas R. Brown “Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it.” ~George Santayana FIRST ALARM Their airhorn roars like a freight train as the engine screams and weaves through the monotony of rush hour traffic. The rookie can't imagine a tornado's rumble being much louder, yet Engine 15's wails hardly make an impact on the surrounding heavy traffic. Self- absorbed drivers yak on their cell phones in their airtight, soundproof Cadillacs and SUVs, failing to heed the warnings. Do they not hear, or do they just not care? Don't they know someone needs help, that someone's home could be burning at this very moment? "Hey, rookie," the lieutenant shouts over the squealing sirens. "You're on the knob." Jackson's heart beats faster than the frenetic beat of a heavy metal drum thrashing. This could be the one, he imagines, and I get the nozzle. The dispatcher reports some poor schlep's smoke detector is ringing which could mean anything from a fire to a false alarm. There's a part deep within Jackson, to his core, that prays for a false alarm. He's not ready. Hell, he was sure the nine months of drill school had prepared him, but now, facing the real deal, he's not so confident. That's it, turn this heap around. Let's go home. We'll do this another time. He slings his air bottle's awkward harness over his shoulders and cinches it tight across his chest. "You hear me, rook?" the lieutenant shouts from the front seat. "You're on the nozzle." "Yeah, yeah, Lieu, I heard ya." They pull in front of a house straight out of the horror movies, complete with boarded windows and a front yard that looks more like an overgrown field than a lawn. We're goin' in there? The lieutenant barks into his microphone, "Engine 15's on the scene. We got a two story split-level residential. Nothin' showin'. We'll investigate." Jackson leaps from Engine 15, knocking his precious lid from his head. The chauffeur, as firemen call their drivers, shoots him a look that says, "Hey, kid, calm down." It's a look he's all too familiar with already in his short career. With a damn-the-calming-down zeal he rips the top section of hose from the engine and lugs it to the front porch, proud of his aggressiveness. The lieutenant tilts his head forward and shakes it, his lips pressed tight together. "A lot of hose to pick up for a fire alarm, kid." Jackson feels ten years old again, having just smacked a baseball through his parent's minivan windshield. All his blood rushes to his cheeks and he looks away. "Stupid," he whispers to himself. The rough-looking homeowner who meets them at the front door needs a bath and a dentist. He doesn't seem overly concerned. "I saw a puff of smoke in the basement just before dat smoke detector went off," he says through a gap where his front teeth should be. The lieutenant asks to walk through the basement just to be safe and the guy hesitates, but ultimately agrees. A dog more like Cujo than Benji raises all kinds of hell from behind a flimsy child gate at the top of the stairs and Jackson thinks twice about going in. But since the lieutenant goes in, he cautiously follows. "Leave the hose, Rook." Jackson drops the nozzle and hurries to catch up. The basement is a dungeon with its only lighting coming from a dim, 40-watter that dangles from exposed wires off in the farthest corner. It's not much help. Jackson switches on the flashlight hanging from his coat. The lieutenant's light is already on, not that it’s doing much good all charred and covered in soot. "Nice junkyard, huh, Lieu?" "I'll tell ya, if my junkyard looked like this, I'd be embarrassed." He smirks. "You played with one of these yet?" he asks and passes the rookie something looking more like a ray gun than a piece of low-bid equipment typically provided by the city's bean counters. "Point that at the walls and tell me what it reads." Jackson holds the thermal imaging camera up to his face. "It says eighty-six degrees, Lieu." "Yea, that's what I figured. Not hot enough for fire to be behind that drywall. Come on." He stomps back up the stairs. "Oh, yeah," he adds. "Watch your step." He points his flashlight at the cement floor which reveals piles of dog feces scattered like landmines among the mess. Jackson lifts his feet to his knee one at a time and shines his flashlight on each of his boot's soles. He's relieved at his clean findings and gingerly walks to and up the stairs. Before he reaches the top landing he freezes in his steps, the hairs on his neck standing on end. Something, though he can't quite place what, doesn't feel right. The lieutenant hollers for him to get moving so he shakes off his unease and scampers out to the front porch. The driver and lieutenant huddle around the spaghetti of hose in the front yard with their hands on their hips. Jackson doesn't need them to say anything to know he'll never hear the end of this mess. "Well," the lieutenant finally says. "Get this mess gathered and loaded." "By myself, Lieu?" "You got it off by yourself, didn't ya?" Oh, damn.
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