Less-Than-Human-256.Pdf

LESS THAN HUMAN

Gary Raisor

Copy-edited by: Kurt Criscione Cover Design By: David Dodd Background cover image courtesy of: http://mbhenriksen.deviantart.com/ 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

DISCOVER CROSSROAD PRESS

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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

The 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." "Not if you shoot pool here," Steven said. He took a stool at the bar and laid his case on the pitted wood. "You do shoot pool here, don't you?" "Yeah, we been known to shoot a game or two. If the money's right." The bartender quit polishing glasses and leaned forward, his muddy eyes looking at Steven Adler the way a snake looks at a crippled bird. "You two sorry-ass white boys don't look like you got a pot to piss in." "We got a little put back," Earl volunteered. "Mom doesn't know about it, but we've been saving our lunch money. You'd be surprised how it adds up after a while." He pulled a wad of bills out or his jacket pocket and laid it beside the case on the bar. "There's a lot of dead presidents there. I'm sure you recognize a few of them." The bartender's eyes took in the money and then shifted back to them. The teeth appeared once again. It was not a reassuring sight. "You two got a lot of balls walking in here with a roll like that. What's to keep us from cutting you into fish bait and dumping you in the river? Shit, I bet they won't find you till spring—when you float." "Jesus, what the hell's happened to western hospitality?" Earl opened his jacket, let his fingers play over his busted ribs and the .38 he had tucked in the waistband of his pants. "We don't want no trouble. Word has it you got a shooter here by the name of D. A. Fontaine. We heard he handles a stick pretty good. My boy here is willing to pay to see how good." "You boys ain't exactly hiding the fact you're hustlers, walking in here and flashing all that money." Leon studied them, trying to place their faces. "Should I have heard of either of you?" "No, we're kind of shy. If you don't get your player out here quick," Steven said, "these two sorry-ass white boys are taking their money and leaving." The bartender picked up the phone, dialed it with a pencil. His fingers were too large to manage the buttons. "It's Leon, get yourself on over here, right now. You got some business."