The Lingering Dead by J. N. Duncan Page B

wheel lurched against the current of water running through the slough beneath the floor. In the center of the room, the milling machinery groaned with the effort of movement from the wheel.
    It took a moment for Nick to realize that the ragged movement of the gears was due to the fact that someone was stuck in them.
    The hard soles of his boots echoed across the floor planks as he made his way over to the figure that sagged against the wooden housing of the millstones. The man’s arm was threaded through the metal cogs, what remained of his hand dangling by ligaments and flesh coming out the other side. He sat on his knees, unable to fall any closer to the ground, soaking in his own blood. When Nick knelt beside him, he could see the sheriff’s star pinned to the shirt inside his coat. Somebody at least had tried to save the Thatchers.
    Short of cutting off the arm, there was little Nick could do here. “My apologies, Sheriff. Had I been able to warn you, I would have gladly told you to run for your life.”
    At the sound of his voice, the sheriff groaned, his eyes opening a crack.
    Ah, dear God, he’s still alive! “Sheriff. I wish I could have helped you. This man you fought ... I’m sorry. You had no chance. He is inhuman.”
    The sheriff only groaned again and closed his eyes once more. He was close to death, Nick could see that. There was too much blood on the floor. Cutting off the arm would only end things that much sooner, and time was short. He was in sore need of blood. The call of the dead was getting stronger by the minute now.
    Nick pulled the straight razor from the inside pocket of his duster. “Forgive me, Sheriff. I can only offer this small mercy.”
    With one deft slash, Nick opened the man’s neck. He would be dead in moments, but the blood Nick could take in that small time would get him through the next few days. The loss of pressure from so much blood loss already, gave him only a few seconds before the last sigh of breath from the sheriff’s lungs escaped him, but Nick drank what he could, feeling the energy of the man’s life flow into him, pushing back against that yawning door in his soul that continually threatened to pull him through.
    Finished, Nick withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood from his mouth. When he stood, the unmistakable creak of the floorboards greeted him. There in the doorway stood Charlotte.
    â€œMs. Thatcher,” he said quietly. “This is not a sight for such young eyes.”
    The rifle shook in her hands, braced against her shoulder and pointed at his chest. “Monster!” she hissed. “You’re one of them.”
    Yes. He was, doomed to a hellish existence spawned from the hands of something created by the devil himself. Nick folded the handkerchief and tucked it back in his pocket. At this point, he hoped her fear and rage would again send her aim awry.
    â€œThere is no need for that, ma’am,” he said, attempting to sooth away her terror. “You can put the gun down. I will not harm you.”
    Charlotte stared at him in silence for several seconds, the gun wavering over his body. Nick held her gaze, hoping that his sway would be enough. For a moment, he thought the bright, teary eyes were losing their fire, but then the handle of the rifle popped.
    Her lips barely moved. “You will die.”
    The muzzle burst to life, and Nick smiled grimly at the whimsical hand of Fate, as he attempted to turn and felt the burn of metal rending his flesh.

Chapter 9
    Nick practically stormed into the diner, his short hair dark and slick with water. He did not appear angry from what Jackie could tell, but then he was always difficult to read. Once again, Shelby had sat next to Cynthia, leaving him no choice other than to plop his wet body down next to hers. He leaned forward, arms resting on the table.
    â€œI finally remembered why this place felt so familiar,” he said in a