I completely forgot that I had a title for my “vacation horror” book. Good Clean Fun. And now it’s time to get back to writing.
If you’d like to follow along with the drafting of this book, you can do so by subscribing to one of my paid tiers. If not, no worries. When the book is finished, it will then go to an editor for publication. But for less than $1.00 a day (the price of the book), you can have access to this and many other online stories.
Now, without further ado… CHAPTER 1 TO GOOD CLEAN FUN!
The sound of rubber burning into the hot payment echoed through the air, bouncing from one building to the next as the brakes engaged, slicing the pads into metal rotors. Everyone’s eyes darted toward the sound just as the crash happened. The shriek of metal crumpling and grinding against itself caused a brief panic in the streets when pedestrians jumped out of the way in such automatic form. It was like autopilot, everyone afraid of being smacked with debris even though it had not even happened to them. Ever. Maybe too many movies.
What made it worse was not just two vehicles imploding on each other but the pileup that followed. It happened in the middle of the intersection, stopping traffic in all directions. At a time when most people were traveling to work in the nearby office buildings, egos and frustrations rose hotter than the scorching heat that already set Houston’s morning ablaze. Horns blared, melding with pounding jackhammers from the never-ending construction downtown.
Most of the spectators hovered on the sidelines, rubbernecking on the sidewalk, their necks craning forward as if they wanted to see what death looked like. Heather was best friends with it, though. Her instincts kicked into high gear as she ran into the middle of the intersection. In one car, a man pulled himself from the accident with his hands gripping his head, pressing as if holding his brains from oozing from the hard shell that was his skull. He’d live, Heather accessed as she tore herself away from the man and on to the vehicle that bore the worst of the impact.
Steam poured from the hood like a pressure cooker, ready to blow. There wasn’t much left of the white Honda Civic with its fender pushed up to the front windshield. An accordion of this magnitude would take the will of God to pry it apart. The odds were not in favor of whoever was inside. A silhouette moved behind a glob of crimson red liquid, caked on the spider webbing of broken glass. The heat from the radiator had left a layer of mist over everything; Heather wiped it away to peer through the destruction.
The woman’s eyes were open, though only a thin slant, fluttering between consciousness and peace. Heather grabbed at the door handle, fighting against the frame’s clenches. When it popped open, the sound gave way like a sealed can of biscuits under the pressure. It wasn’t that which startled her, but the sight of the woman skewered by a steel pipe, making her a kabob of seat, human, and steering wheel. Based on the angle, this woman would not live through the removal process. Her innards, much like a sausage stuffed in casing, were already deep inside the hollowness of the tube. They’d rip from her body with one yank of the rod.
Heather held death in her hands often, being a resident at the county hospital. The amount of objects she had torn out of the nooks and crannies of people’s bodies would astound most. A metal pipe jutting out of someone’s stomach wasn’t a flesh wound by no means. The woman was in excruciating pain, so much that she found humor in it as laughter exited her mouth as she spoke. “I’m going to die, aren’t I?”
As much as she wanted to confirm this lady’s suspicion, Heather wrapped her hand around the woman’s throat, pressing her fingers into the fleshy double chin. The vibration against her palm tickled as the trachea struggled for air, rolling over her skin like a marble pressing to come out.
At first the woman’s eyes opened wide, fearing the lack of oxygen would kill her, then an icy blue sheen glazed over them with a curl of the corner of her mouth. A thank you of sorts for easing her through the transition while a symphony of car horns and rhythmic basses sent her off in a glorious salute.
There had only been a few times, no more than she could count on one hand, where she had taken the life of someone out of mercy. And each time Heather squeezed the last breath from someone’s body, an energy surged through her like a defibrillator, sending a jolt of shock running from her chest right down to her sex. It happened then with her hand still gripping this woman’s throat. She felt the moistening of her pants, almost as if she had pissed herself. With her free hand, she reached underneath her scrubs and slipped her finger between the folds into the thick secretions from her sex.
Her eyes darted around to see if she had enough time to come under her hand. Her fingers strummed over her clit, her hips bucked into them slightly—just enough to feel good but not enough for anyone to notice. Faster. Harder. Her breath deepened until it caught her throat. She wasn’t far from ecstasy when she glanced over her shoulder again. An emergency medical team ran towards hers as she tore her hand away from the victim and out of her pants. She stepped out of their way, dropping behind the door as they assessed the situation.
“Checked her pulse. She didn’t make it,” Heather said to the closest uniformed person, a woman around the same age, husky build who might have seen the inside of a gym too many times. “I’m Doctor Kemper from Community General.”
The medic cracked a cocky snarl, looking at Heather as if her face had been covered in maggots. “We’ll take it from here.”
It was the mighty push-off. EMTs were ego-twisted bullies in the medical field; at least the ones running in and out of the county hospital were, where most of those patients were at poverty level or below. There, patients were nameless faces who showed up like the woman in the Honda Civic, which looked like a worn Pendaflex folder.
Heather took a few steps back, pulling her messenger bag up from the ground to allow the team of eighteen-week certified professionals to do the job her ten-year education couldn’t. With one final step, Heather returned to her trek from the light rail, down the busy and now congested downtown traffic, to the hospital.