Darkly The Thunder by William W. Johnstone

Author:William W. Johnstone [Johnstone, William W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2015-03-09T16:00:00+00:00

DEAR AS REMEMBER’D KISSES AFTER DEATH,

AND SWEET AS THOSE BY HOPELESS FANCY FEIGN’D

ON LIPS THAT ARE FOR OTHERS; DEEP AS LOVE,

DEEP AS FIRST LOVE, AND WILD WITH ALL REGRET;

OH, DEATH IN LIFE, THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE.

“That’s great, Fury,” Gordie told him. “I’m almost moved to tears.”

YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE, SPIC. BUT I DO ADMIRE YOUR COURAGE. TELL THE TRUTH, I RATHER LIKE YOU. SO ... I’LL MAKE YOU A PROPOSAL.

“You have a captive audience, Fury.”

OH, THAT’S GOOD, GORDIE. VERY GOOD. HERE IT IS: GO BACK TO YOUR OFFICE AND KILL THE BRATS, HOWIE AND ANGEL. DO THAT, AND I’LL LET YOU AND YOUR SWEET PETUNIA WALK OUT OF HERE. YOU HAVE MY WORD ON THAT.

“No deal,” Gordie said.

OKAY, HOW’S THIS: SCREW THE LITTLE BRAT. LET ME HEAR HER SCREAM. THEN YOU AND YOUR CORN MUFFIN CAN LEAVE.

“You know better than that, Fury.”

OH, COME ON! JUST POP IT TO THE LITTLE ANGEL FOR A FEW MINUTES, AND THEN YOU AND POOPSIE CAN LIVE.

“No deal.”

THEN WALK ON, STUPID.

“Was he, it, whatever, serious with that offer?” Jill asked.

“Probably Fury?”

RIGHT HERE.

“I have a deal for you.”

ROLL THE DICE, PONCHO.

“You let Howie and Angel leave, and then we’ll talk. How about that?”

YOU JUST THREW SNAKE EYES, PEPPER-BREATH.

“It was worth a shot.”

Fury had no reply to that.

They walked on, deeper into the building – it could no longer be called a hospital.

“What do you want me to do about Mark, Sheriff?” Duane asked.

“Nothing. Since he was the only certified mortician in town, I guess we’ll have to handle all the dead ourselves. I know how to use that stuff. You body-bag them, and then pour it on. Zip up the bag, and you’re through.”

“I’ll help,” Dean said. “I’ve seen it done, too.”

“You’re on,” Gordie told him. “And thanks.”

Then they all heard the sounds of music and wild laughter.

“Everybody brace yourselves,” Gordie told them. “The Fury has a strange sense of humor.”

A fat, headless, and very bloody and naked man appeared in the hall. He rose up on his toes and slowly pirouetted on the tile, then danced slowly past the men and women; their eyes, behind the bulbous plastic eyes of the masks, watched in undisguised horror as the fat man waltzed on down the hall and gracefully turned the corner.

“Did you get it all?” Jill asked her cameraman.

“I got it,” he said.

They walked on, toward the sounds of music and laughter; a party was in full swing.

BRING ON THE DANCING GIRLS! Fury howled.

A line of women, their bodies ripped and torn and mangled, formed in the hall. They were naked, each woman holding her drooping intestines in her hands. They began to slowly sway back and forth, then began a ragged dance step, twirling their guts in time with the beat. They sang in dead voices to the tune of Old Gray Bonnet:

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