Less Than Human Read online

  LESS THAN HUMAN

  Gary Raisor

  A Macabre Ink Production

  Macabre Ink is an imprint of Crossroad Press

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  Digital Edition Copyright 2012 / Gary Raisor

  Copy-edited by: Kurt Criscione

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  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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  We hope you enjoy this eBook and will seek out other books published by Crossroad Press. We strive to make our eBooks as free of errors as possible, but on occasion some make it into the final product. If you spot any problems, please contact us at [email protected] and notify us of what you found. We’ll make the necessary corrections and republish the book. We’ll also ensure you get the updated version of the eBook.

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  Thank you for your assistance and your support of the authors published by Crossroad Press.

  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."
<
br />   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."

  Earl was tossing down his third shot of George Dickel when the door swung open, letting in the cold autumn air. As he started to turn, he caught sight of Steven's face in the mirror behind the bar. It had a look of bemused amazement on it. He looked around and saw why.

  D. A. Fontaine was a girl. A black teenaged girl. She was wearing black leather pants that fit her like a second skin and a chocolate-colored leather jacket that was too big for her. Under her arm was a case much like the one Steven and Earl carried. When she pulled her hands out of her jacket pockets, long golden lacquered nails flashed in the light.

  "Is this some kind of joke?" Earl took in the slight form standing in the doorway. "Ain't it past your bedtime, little sister?"

  "I guess I could ask you the same, gramps. Shouldn't you be getting back to the home?" She smiled sweetly. "Before you miss out on the stewed prunes. I hear old people get real cranky if they don't get their stewed—"

  "You can't be more than fourteen." Earl's voice rose with anger. "We came all the way from Corpus Christi to play a fourteen-year-old girl. I can't goddamn believe this, a girl."

  "I've got a name," she said, unruffled. "It's Dorinda but everyone calls me D. A., and I'm not fourteen. I turned seventeen in July, thank you."

  "How come we never heard you were a girl," Earl asked. His voice lowered but his expression was still suspicious.

  "On account of I used to dress up like a boy when I played pool. The guys wouldn't have liked losing to a girl. But, as you can see," she said, peeling off her jacket, "it got harder and harder to look like a boy. Besides, I found it's a lot more fun to be a girl." She flashed a smile at Steven.

  "You stop that, Dorinda," Leon said from behind the bar. "Ain't been able to do nothing with that girl since her mother ran off."

  "She's your daughter?" Earl inquired, disbelief on his face.

  "She kept her mother's name. What are you trying to say?" Leon cracked his knuckles and a scowl appeared.

  "Nothing. I can see the resemblance much better now."

  "I hate to interrupt this tale of marital woe, but are you backing her action?" Steven asked Leon.

  Leon nodded.

  Earl got up from his stool, looked over at the bartender. "Say, brother, you wouldn't mind letting me get a look at some of your dead presidents, would you?"

  Leon reached into a pocket and came out with a wad of bills, which he laid beside Earl's stark.

  "Looks like mine's bigger than yours," Earl noted with a wink. "Ain't many white men can make that statement."

  The expression on Leon's face didn't change.

  Steven opened up his case and lifted out his cue. It was a yellowish white, and wrapped around the handle was an intricate red snake covered with feathers. The stick was a rare work of art. "What's your favorite game, Dorinda? You like eight ball?" He put the cue together quickly. "Or maybe a little nine ball is more your speed?"

  "I like eight ball. I always got the stripes when Daddy and I played."

  "Eight ball it is. Rack 'em, will you, Earl?"

  "You want to flip a coin, or roll the cue ball to see who breaks?" Dorinda asked.

  "No, that's all right. You break."

  Dorinda shrugged. "Okay, man, it's your money. I play for a hundred a game. That too rich for your blood?"

  Steven smiled, shook his head no. For a moment Dorinda felt a slight tingle of fear when she looked into his green eyes. Something wasn't right about them. They seemed way too old for his face. And there was some kind of hidden rage swirling around in their depths. She looked away, and when she looked back, his eyes were okay. It must have been the light, she decided.

  "Something wrong?" Steven asked.

  "No, everything's fine," she said, angry for letting this guy get to her. She took a deep
breath and forced herself to be calm. "Say, Earl, you gonna rack those balls tonight or you just gonna stand there and play pocket pool?"

  Earl finally got the balls the way he wanted them, a good tight rack. He looked over at Leon. "Listen to the mouth on that girl. You let her talk to the customers like that?"

  "Ain't been able to do nothing with that girl since—"

  "I know, I know. Since her mother ran off," Earl finished. He was beginning to enjoy himself.

  Leon smiled. The effort looked like it hurt him.

  As soon as Earl lifted the rack, Dorinda put all of her ninety-seven pounds behind her stick, driving the cue ball into the closely bunched balls. They split with a flat crack, scattering across the table. They rolled around for a while. Slowed.

  One teetered on the edge of a pocket. Fell.

  "Looks like this is your lucky night, you get stripes," Steven said. "Just like when you played Daddy." Steven's voice was soft, teasing. "I bet your daddy used to let you win, didn't he?" He sat down on a stool and crossed his legs at the ankles, became motionless.

  Dorinda walked around the table. "He hasn't let me win since I was nine." She looked at Steven, anger in her eyes. "That's a real nice stick you got there. Too bad you're not going to get a chance to use it."

  "Yes, it is a nice stick," he said. "I've had it for a long time." He caressed it softly.

  She sank a shot.

  "Do you know what it's made out of?" he asked. "Looks like ivory to me."

  "No, not ivory. Bone."

  Dorinda tried to ignore him, to concentrate on the game. She sank her next three shots, but she was edgy, aware of his unwinking stare. She missed.

  "My turn, already?" He uncoiled from his stool and studied the table for a moment. Then, with practiced ease, he sank the seven ball in the far right-corner pocket, putting enough spin on the cue ball to draw it back to him. He sank the three. The two quickly followed. Within thirty seconds he had dropped every solid-colored ball on the table into a pocket. Only her stripes remained.

  And the eight.

  Steven rolled the yellowish-white cue between his hands. "I thought you'd be better." He seemed disappointed and slightly angry.