April 2024

Solutions Six – Self Penned

Posted on April 23, 2024 by dello

YouTube: https://youtu.be/-c8_lOIY7fU
Solution Six is a song I wrote in prison. I won’t repeat the circumstances or describe it, I have dozens of times, but I think it is pretty much self-explanatory in the words of the song.

This is also the second song that I ever wrote it broke my dry spell, after that I wrote well over a thousand sets of lyrics.

#Songs #Lyrics #music #dellsweet #audio #SelfPenned

More songs I have written and recorded…
War at Home: https://youtu.be/nqp1-4SwfSEA Minor Acoustic: https://youtu.be/Kt3FQ2hrPwsFrequent Walker: https://youtu.be/p2twI7TdbQsLetter Home: https://youtu.be/9obMXmEKAzo

More to come, Dell

Home: https://www.writerz.net


Posted on April 22, 2024 by Author Sam Wolfe



 NOV 2, 2023  #Blog#eBooks

Posted by Geo 10-30-23

Halloween is nearly here as I write this. I am enjoying the fall weather outside. My cat Pepper is chasing leaves around like they have a life of their own. Winter still seems a respectable distance away from me. Maybe it won’t be too hard a winter. If I was a farmer I could pick up a caterpillar or open the almanac and find out. I’m not, and I don’t even know one anymore that I could ask.

Funny, because back in the old days when this was just a little rural town it was ninety percent farmers. My mother came from a farm family, and her parents before her were Irish and English farmers from Irish and English farmer parents that had come from farmer parents that had come over from England.

I guess farmers were the tech people of today. No kid I knew grew up without working on a farm at some time in his youth. Reminiscing. That reminiscing got me thinking about Halloween back then and what it was like for us back then. I remember this one year…


Copyright 2023 Geo Dell. All rights reserved.


This short story is intended for readers of Notes from the Edge blog. This may not be distributed or reproduced in any manner without the written permission of the author. If you would like to share it please point people to this page. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The Night Before All Hallow’s Eve

I remember Halloween from my own childhood. We were enterprising kids. Our neighborhood was a poor neighborhood. Apples and a few pieces of candy were about the best we figured we could do. So four of us got together a few days before in our fort with a handmade map of our town to see what we could do about it.

We didn’t have all of the town marked out, the park, no sense going there, there would be no handouts there. The north side, nope. All poor kids like us, we were just over the river on the poor side that reached over from the north. The east side was the ticket. All rich people. They would probably be giving away a few tons of candy per kid, maybe whole candy bars, who knew? It had to be better than our own neighborhood though. We stared down at our handmade map, the railroad tracks ran through the middle of it and the words East Side were scrawled on the other side of those tracks, along with the few streets we knew of. It was like magic to us, that map. As If we really held some sort of secret knowledge in our hands, so we got our plastic Woolworth’s Frankenstein and werewolf masks ready to go.

In that day and age you trick or treated the night before Halloween too. Don’t ask me why, greedy little poor kids probably, but we did it. That night gave us a chance to scope out the East side. After all we knew nothing about it, the kids that lived there, the streets, who might or might not be home, mean old ladies, dogs, bullies, all of that important stuff a kid had to know before he just went into another neighborhood.

We found clean streets. Kids being walked by their parents from house to house. No dogs, no bullies waiting to grab your bag. No mean old ladies. Sometimes you had to listen to a story or two… “Oh,” The person would usually smile while their eyes misted over, ”when I was a kid we used to have parties, bob for apples.” … or … “Now why are you boys out alone tonight? Do I know your mother? Be careful of those big kids that they don’t try to take your candy!” That sort of thing. “Yes, Ma’am.” No, Ma’am.” “I don’t think so, ma’am.” “We will, ma’am.” We were poor kids but we knew how to be cool when there was candy involved.

We made out like bandits and ended up with a half bag of candy each. Not bad for a few hours work on the night before Halloween. And not junk, good stuff, little candy bars, full size candy bars, and a few times old men that answered their doors looking confused had thrown spare change in our bags. One while drunk and calling us little bastards, “Well, what are you little bastards doing out trick or treating tonight? It’s the wrong goddamn night.” He scowled at us for a moment. I swear we were ready to turn away, maybe even run away, then he smiled, reached into his pants pocket and liberated some change and dropped it in our bags.

All in all a good night and we were walking the tracks that ran through our little town on our way back to our own neighborhood, talking about it as we went. Occasionally stuffing another candy bar in our mouths. Boy were the dentists going to love us later in life.

“Hey, man,” my friend John said, “There’s the whore house.”

We all followed his finger as it pointed. Of course we knew where it was. Every one of our mothers had told us, “You know that house across from the little store one street over?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Well, if I catch your ass anywhere near that house you wont be able to sit for a month of Sundays.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

It was that simple. Back then you had June Cleaver on TV, the role model mother. But in those neighborhoods there were no June Cleavers. There were mothers who didn’t mind going right out into the street and slapping some kid, man, mother or anybody else if they felt it was needed, and you didn’t need one of those strong armed mothers picking you up by the arm and wailing on you more than once to know that what they said should be listened to. Should be. But we were also stupid besides being poor. Maybe a lack of iron, or some other mineral or vitamin. And back then it didn’t have to be your mother that caught you. I remember once squatting beside the road looking at a dead cat, and my friend Gary’s mother snatched me up by the collar.

“You wanna be dead like that cat? What are you stupid? Those cars come along quick.” She gave me a shake. “Don’t make me talk to your mother about it.” Off she went. For years I was sure there had to be something wrong with seeing dead cats or any other animal at the side of the road, because whenever I spotted one I immediately felt guilty.

“That’s the whore house,” Pete said.

John just looked at him like he was an idiot. He could have been, I don’t remember. I think he was just scared like the rest of us in the presence of the Holy Whore house. After all it was the only one in the whole town. And even now, at something past eight o’clock at night there were three or four ladies half dressed sitting on the porch, and a car pulled up to the curb, engine idling, the man behind the wheel sipping at a beer every few seconds. And I remember thinking my dad had a car exactly like that.

“Hey, ain’t that your dad’s car,” John asked.

“Nope,” I said. I had given it no thought at all. What would my dad be doing at a whore house though? I reasoned it that fast and answered no. A second later the man turned around and I saw that it wasn’t my dad, but for the briefest of seconds I remembered a day not long before when I had gone to the store with a note from my mother to get some things and his car was there. Just the car. Parked right in the dirt driveway. I was relieved now that this was not him back there again. “See?” I said.

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” John said.

We had all stopped in the darkness standing on the tracks. “I know,” I said, but I didn’t. What else would a man be doing at a whore house? I had already asked myself that. He owned a TV Repair shop. Maybe he had been there fixing their TV. Whores watched TV, didn’t they? Maybe. Not everyone had a TV. We did because my dad worked on them. The kids in the neighborhood came to our house to watch TV. Maybe my dad was nice enough to bring a TV down to the whores so they could watch TV too. What else did a man, a dad, do in a whore house anyway?

The car pulled away and the ladies went back to pacing the porch and looking around for men and cars. A thousand times I walked by there, before the good ladies of the neighborhood got together a few years later and ran them out, and always they paced, strutted, and watched for cars and men. Always seven or eight kids of all colors running around at all hours of the day and night too. Most half naked.

“Hey, “ Gary asked. “What’s that house?”

That house was a small house set right next to the tracks, far off on the lot, the other side of the whore house. It was less house and more shack. Wood plank sides, at least two dark windows I could see. A tin pipe angling from the roof, crooked and bent.

“Dunno,” I said. And I didn’t. There were no lights in the window, and just a small flood of golden light under the crack of the door sill. But there was noise coming from inside it. Laughter. Men’s voices, women too. A party I thought.

I think we all stood there for a few minutes. I know I was wondering what exactly whores did. I had a vague idea, but still…

“Wonder if they are giving out candy,” Pete said. And just like that we were walking down from the tracks, through the tall grass of the field the house sat in and up to the door. Like four idiots with only one mind between them.

I could never remember seeing anyone come out of that house in the daylight and the few times I was around it in the night time I just hadn’t paid attention.

Everybody looked at me. I was the biggest kid, also the dumbest and most easy to convince to do something stupid while the other kids ran away as fast as they could. I looked to see if they were about to run now.

“What,” John asked?”

“Nothing,” I allowed. I stepped forward and tapped on the door with my closed little boys fist. A split second later the music cut off and the light under the door died.

“Shit,” Pete said.

“Double shit,” Gary agreed. But before we could get our feet to move the door was flung open hard and fast.

The guy was huge and fat. Back then fat was not considered out of place. Most men and women got fat before long. It was a fact. The fatter your dad was the more of a bad ass he was perceived to be. The only skinny tough guy was that exercise guy, Jack La lane, and we were all sure our dads could kick his ass in a fair fight.

This guy was fatter than most old people. Old people to us was anything after about twenty, and thirty was ancient, forty was totally incomprehensible, and then there were gray haired grandmothers and grandfathers tinkering in their kitchens and basement workshops and waiting to die, we supposed. This guy must be at least thirty, I thought. He was so fat that his stomach hung over his dress pants and pushed at his white shirt. Two more fat guys came up behind him and looked down at us.

“Oh, for chris-sakes, just some gad damned kids,” One of the guys in back said.

I found myself looking at the guy in front. My eyes were about belt buckle level, and I couldn’t help but notice he wore a wide black, leather belt. When I looked to my right I saw a holster and a gun. He shifted and the leather creaked easily. I could smell it too. That leather smell has become the standard for all leather smells in my life. He met my eyes as they lifted from the gun to the silver and gold badge pinned to his shirt.

“Now what are you boys doing dressed up like that and knocking on this door?”

“Trick, trick, trick…” Pete tried. But he couldn’t get it past that. One of the fat guys in the back laughed. A hard, flat belly laugh.

“Tongue tied little bastards,” he laughed.

The Sheriff turned and looked at him and he shut up. I knew he was the Sheriff because I had seen him at my house. So had the others. It was a fact of where we lived. Eventually the Sheriff would be dropping by. He turned back.

“He looked hard, but then something in his face shifted and he smiled. “Boys,” he said as he turned and looked at the men behind him and the others that were sitting quietly in the darkness. “These are trick or treaters.” He laughed. The sheriff had solved the case. He wiped the smile off.

“You know this place?” he asked, suddenly suspicious.

We all shook our heads. He smiled again and stepped back. “Come on in then, boys,” he invited.

The thing with us is we were trusting along with being stupid so we stepped right into the darkness. The sheriff leaned out the door, took a look in all directions and then closed the door. The darkness was suffocating. I could smell cigarette smoke, cigar smoke, the yeasty smell of beer, perfume, sweat, I was still cataloging when the sheriff spoke.

“Johnny turn that bastard lamp on!” A second after that a match struck and a second after that the wick on an oil lamp was lit and the yellow golden light we had seen spilling out of the front door filled the room.

The house was a shack from the outside, and not much more than that from the inside. One room. Two women nearby lounging on a beat up and stained old couch. A mattress in the shadows in one corner. A mans shoe clad feet hung off the end onto the floor.

There were five men seated around a huge table. Beer bottles, cards and money covered the table top. One of the card players was a man I had seen around the neighborhood more than once. He owned a small store and extended credit to the ladies in the neighborhood. He took bets from the men in the neighborhood too. Between the two he made out all right. I got to know him a little better later in life, but that night I had only seen him around in a bad neighborhood where all sorts of different kinds of people were seen around.

“I know your old man,” The sheriff said to me. I nodded. Everybody knew my old man. The sheriff considered, as if he wanted to add something to that and then he dismissed it and let the smile come back to his face.

“Boys? Pony up. We got trick or treaters. And these are brave boys too. Wouldn’t a caught me coming down into this lot in the middle of the night,” he laughed and a lot of the others laughed too. He reached to his spot on the table and counted out four dollar bills. The other men were waiting, not sure if he was serious. A second later he scowled at them and they all kicked in.

The sheriff stood there a few moments later with a fairly big pile of bills in his hand. This was the late sixties. Gas in my town was a hair over twenty cents a gallon. A pack of cigarettes was a quarter. A full size candy bar was a nickle. A sixteen ounce Coke was a dime plus the deposit. And you got a handful of penny candy for a penny. He held the money and looked down at us.

“Tomorrow’s Halloween. Don’t be around here. And don’t have your friends comin’ ’round here either. Make up a story… Haunted house in the field or something, but we don’t want no kids around here after this.” The smile had slipped completely as he talked. He bent down a little closer to us. “Know what the jail’s like? Rats… Rat shit in the food… Rats biting your toes at night…. Drunks puking on ya… Wanna go there?”

The ladies over on the couch giggled.

“Nope,” I said.

“You the ringleader here?” The bookie asked from over at the table.

“Nope.” I shook my head hard. Sometimes it just didn’t pay to be the one that spoke up. “I ain’t no ringleader at all.” I knew ringleaders wound up in prison. I had seen it in a gangster movie once. And I could remember a conversation my dad had with a friend once when one of their friends had gone upstate to prison. “Well,” my dad had said, “They figured him for the ringleader.” It was what I knew about ringleaders, but it was enough to make me worry.

The sheriff waved the stack of ones. “We got a good thing here, you know?”

I nodded like I did know. After all they had ladies there, maybe whores. Booze and money and their own sort of a fort in the middle of a field, so I could see where a place like that would be a nice place to have.

“You know that loose lips sink ships?” The bookie asked me. I nodded. “Well sometimes those loose lips get busted up too.” He chewed on his cigar. I nodded, too scared to do much else.

“Well, don’t piss yourself,” the sheriff said.

“I won’t,” I said. That made most of the men and both of the ladies laugh. Even Pete had laughed. I was thinking maybe his loose lips needed busting. Funny how you get that from a room full of men like that and say nothing, but you’re ready to kick your friends ass for it.

The sheriff crossed to the door and opened it. We were out of the door fast. A roar of laughter followed us.

“Hey!” the sheriff yelled.

I was tempted to run. But he knew my dad. He’d find me easy and then those rats would be gnawing on my toes as I tried to sleep on the iron bunks they had in the jail. Reluctantly I turned around.

“Where you going without your money? You ain’t so good a ringleader.” He let his gaze fall around my friends. “If I was you boys I’d get me a ringleader that didn’t skip out without the money. This boy’s got rabbit in him.” My feet had pulled me back to him. He dropped the cash in my hand, laughing, then slammed the door reducing the laughter to a background noise. I could hear all of them inside, laughing, the ladies too. But I had never considered he might really give us the money.

We split that money up between us, eight dollars a piece. Like a fortune. I can remember thinking for a week about ways to spend it. I made lists, tore them up and started over. Finally I had it planned out to the last penny. But that was a week or so later, the next night was Halloween and our whole reason for the trip to the East side was candy, lots of the good stuff. So the next night, after dinner, I got my Frankenstein mask and got ready to go.

“Where do you think you’re going?” My mother asked.

“Trick or Treating?” I said. Sort of a question. After all a mother could change your plans just like that.

“Oh… Okay… You’re a little old for that…. But I suppose it will be alright. Let me get your little brother ready first. You wait.”

Just like that I was stuck, standing by the front door waiting fro her to dress up my little brother as Dracula, or a ghost, there wasn’t much to choose from back then. A knock came at the door. I opened it, Gary.

“Hey, man. I got to take my little sister out,” he told me solemnly.

“Yeah. I got bagged too,” I agreed. “Can’t take them over to the East side. No little kid can walk that far… Besides they’d probably tell,” I said.

Gary nodded. Behind him John and Pete came up the cracked concrete walk.

“You guys ready or what,” John asked.

“We got stuck,” Gary told them.

“Yeah?” Pete asked. “Well too bad.” He and John didn’t even wave as they took off back down the walk. I watched them cross the old lumber yard to get to the tracks they would walk to where they were going. I sighed and Gary nodded in agreement.

A second later my little brother was delivered into my hands and we were off to Gary’s house to pick up his sister.

An hour later we we coming to the end of one block, our bags full of apples and cheap penny candy, and turning to pass the little neighborhood store.

“Hey,” my little brother pointed out. “That’s a whores house right there. Mom told me.”

I nodded and my eyes slipped to the left and the little house that sat in the middle of the field. Golden light seeped from under the door.

“See that little house?” I asked my brother. I pointed with one finger. Gary’s sister paid attention too.

“Well, there’s an old witch that lives in that house.”

“Yeah,” Gary agreed. “She likes to eat little kids that knock on her door..”

“Really,” Gary’s sister asked?

“But why?” My brother added.

“She don’t like trick or treaters,” I told them. Her one true love was murdered by trick or treaters one Halloween and now she can’t stand them so she eats every little kid that comes around.

The silence spun out as we stood on the sidewalk across from the whore house looking over at the field and the little house..

“Let’s stay on this side of the street,” My little brother whispered. Gary’s sister nodded.

“Probably best,” Gary agreed. I nodded and we walked off down the street, crossed the tracks and started down another street trick or treating…

I hope you enjoyed this twisted little short story. Of course I also hope you weren’t expecting an orthodox Halloween spook story from me.

Home: https://www.writerz.net



Notes from the Edge 04-21-2024

Posted on April 22, 2024 by dello

 Notes from the Edge 04-21-2024

E.R. Visit

Wound up in the E.R. the other evening/morning with my wife who was not feeling well; wow, what an eye opener that was.

Got there the previous afternoon at around 4:00 PM or so. It was semi busy, looked about the same as it did twenty years ago, the last time I was in an E.R. waiting anyway; but within just a few moments I realized how different it was.

The first thing I noticed was Homeless People in the ER. Lounging, stealing pens and talking nurses and security staff into crackers, sodas, ice water, socks. I was amazed at how things were. Who knew? Well, apparently the hospital is because one of the homeless people was a handful for several hours. He got a staff member to give him a glass of ice and then went over to an abandoned half bottle of soda and poured over the ice and drank it. The man across from him said something to him and he made several colorful remarks back including “It ain’t your f*ckin’ soda so shut the f*ck up. I reminded myself to keep my f*ckin’ mouth shut, which I did, but when I turned back to my wife, she was glancing past me to the left trying to get me to look, so I did.

Nothing special a young girl all curled up in a single seat, she was that small with pink toenails sticking out, which is what I thought she was referring to. I shook my head, I didn’t get it, so she cut her eyes again and I looked back, this time sliding past the pink toenails to a large expanse of bare ass sticking out of those skin-tight see-through- yoga pants she had on that a lot of women seem to wear, that has somehow slid off her hips and down to the middle of her ass. A full moon.

I almost laughed and then had to remind myself that I had looked with permission, but I had better not look again. I think I said something like ‘Urk” I didn’t know what else to say.

About then homeless man one starting wandering around the E.R. talking to himself. Things like: “Lass week I’s in Buffalo shootin’ H. Been out since Saturday.” Then he looks at you like he might just cut you for your pocket change.

Cut my eyes away, overshot and wound up looking at that wide expanse of ass again. Jeezz, I said to myself, out loud.

“What are you looking at that woman’s ass again for?” My wife asked. “Wasn’t I lied,” and nodded at the mumbling homeless man who had luckily migrated to the general area of behind the woman’s ass.

My wife left off, satisfied but why is there something like that in an E.R. anyway?

Things chilled out for eleven seconds and then the girl must have felt a breeze on her ass and tugged up her yoga pants. I swear withing a very few seconds they were back down so far, I was sure there was going to be a serious breach of panties at any moment. And, the thing is, those yoga pants are so thin you can see everything through them, panties, EVERYTHING. I felt like switching places with my wife, having her run interference. But, no, this was my problem and so I forced my eyes back to wandering around the ER.

Homeless man 1 got a nurse to give him a Sprite and some snacks. He was happy for a moment, and that was when homeless man two showed up. He asked to see a patient that did not exists. When the security guard told him there was no such patient he said “Oh, Okay,” and wandered away to a small corner of the waiting room that held a few chairs and disappeared from the security guard. Suddenly security guard 2 shows up, is informed by security guard 1 that there may be a problem, and heads over to the area homeless man 2 disappeared in.

We could hear a brief argument: Yes, we, the whole damn room was bored, waiting to be seen and since the wide expanse of ass had once again been covered there was nothing else to do, then the two of them came out of the corner with homeless man 2 protesting that he had simply forgot to sign in. The security guard walks him to the sign-in table right next my wife and I and hands him the paper to fill out. The homeless man stood for a few moments, fumbled with the pen, stole two of the pens and then headed down the hallway the went back into the ER proper.

“HEY!” Yelled the security guard from the desk, “you can’t go down there! But down there he went and so the security guard chased him down and he came back reluctantly. And, just as the security guard sat down the homeless guy starts scream and jumping up and down and shaking his fists in front of the desk and trying to eyeball all of us with the stank eye at the same time. “I Want a Psych Review! I WANT A F*CKIN’ PSYCH REVIEW RIGHT NOW!!!

That puckered me up. I have seen crazy before, and I don’t like it. Especially when I have a wife right next to me and in between me and sir crazy. So, I edged forward. Old I may be, but I weigh 270 and if he comes to close to my wife, he’s going to lay down hard.

He didn’t. A second later he bolted down the hallway again this time pursued by a skinny security guard who apparently had bigger kahunas that the other fat security guard. We didn’t see him again for a while, so I assume he got his wish for a psych eval.

I believe it was about four hours later when my wife was finally called back to see the actual doctor; after a cat scan, blood work and an exam by a PA and a nurse. This was around midnight.

Within seconds of her leaving the semi naked woman next to me began to cry. Uh uh, I told myself. Your wife will kill you. And so, I sat there like the sane old bastard I am and let her cry. I felt bad, but the older you get you either get smarted or you find yourself the star of an episode of Snapped where wifey buried you in the back yard garden, and they only discovered you because the cat partially disinterred you while crapping on you.

Two hours after that, with more homeless man 1 con jobs on the nurses, and more expanses wide expanses of bare ass the nurse came and got me to take me back there. I admit it, I thanked God profusely.

It was after shift change the next day before we were seen by the doctor. And as we sat back there for hours waiting Homeless man 1 got sent to Pysch Eval too, where we overheard homeless man 2 already was. He ran in there as soon as the door to the mental health unit was opened. We finally ended the whole fiasco after 14 plus hours, no sleep, wifey finally got a shot that gave her some relief. 14 hours for a shot to help settle down a migraine. Crazy, and finding out that drug addicts and homeless people have, at least from what we saw, and the fact that the hospital staff catered to them as though they were used to giving them pens, paper, notebooks, sodas, crackers and more to settle them down, have pretty much tried to settle the problems they have in their lives by crashing in on the hospital E.R and mental Health units.

I left some things out because you wouldn’t believe it and I don’t want to exploit people as it was a real event. But next time you need to make an E.R. visit you might want to switch that to an urgent care, I understand those places are marginally worse for the care part, but substantially stricter for the crazies. Of course, I might add that Urgent Care had at least one doctor on, and the ER, 20 times larger also had only one doctor one…

Check out my new book: My own Apocalypse. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CZ8R3Q9S

Home: https://www.writerz.net


Frequent Walker

Posted on April 21, 2024 by Author Sam Wolfe

Frequent Walker https://youtu.be/p2twI7TdbQs?si=HZG9C3LK1EjmzmR3 via @YouTube A song I wrote about my past life with drugs, addiction, suicide and my disillusion with the world in general. #Music #SelfPenned #SongWriter #Audio #MusicLovers


America the Dead: Begins the End 6: Episode 46: The world begins its fall.

Posted on April 20, 2024 by Author Sam Wolfe

America the Dead: Begins the End 6: Episode 46: The world begins its fall. https://youtu.be/F-lvv5Vzneg?si=xQ7BI2Mkr3Smhyme Earthquakes, super volcanos. Millions die worldwide and the few that survive… #EndTimes #ApocalypticFiction #PostApocalypse #Horror #Readers #podcast #audio #listeners #free

The story of the #Zombie #Apocalypse



Zombie Fall

Posted on April 19, 2024 by Author Sam Wolfe

Geo 10-30-23

Almost November here, where in hell did this year go to? No idea, get up every day, do this, do that, and then suddenly it’s Friday, fly through the weekend, get up Monday morning, do this, do that and suddenly it’s Friday again. Same with the months and before I give it any hard consideration it will be 2024. Mark my words, I’d like to find that guy that said to me, “Enjoy it while you’re young, kid. When you get older time seems to speed up and it all just flies by,” I was about 12 at the time, and kick him right in the ass. But you can’t kill the messenger, or at least you shouldn’t.

So, October is nearly over. It is pretty cold here, upstate New York and there is snow in the forecast for later this week. I have spent the last several days editing books. I rarely get quality time to edit for dozens of hours in a row. It does make a difference too, you can keep a clearer idea of where you are at in a series, or story, and clearly see problem areas. Of course I traded sleep to do it and this morning I didn’t wake up until after 10:00 AM.

I’m doing updates now and binge listening to Breaking Bad on Netflix, occasionally watching some scenes as I work. Just white noise to fill the background. Sometimes I play music, but it has to be something chattering or playing in the background; if not the silence would be impossible to work in.
Sounds crazy, but that is the way it is for me.

Should have a few new books coming out soon, all that editing. Writerz.net is staying updated. I try not to spread myself to thin anymore. Life rolls on here.
In honor of Halloween, here is a short story for you.


October 29th

I buried Della this morning. I knew they’d find out, Hell, they probably knew immediately in that slow purposeful way that things come to them. I can hear them out there ripping and tearing… They know. Yeah, they know, I know it as well as I know my name, Geo, Georgie, Mother used to say. I… I get so goddamned distracted…. It’s working at me…

Bastards! If they could have only left Della alone I could have…. But it’s no good crying about it or wishing I had done this thing or that thing. I didn’t. I didn’t and I can’t go back and undo any of this, let alone the parts I did.

In August when the sun was so hot and the birds suddenly disappeared, and Della came around for what was nearly the last time I hadn’t known a thing about this. Nothing. It’s late fall now and I know too much. Enough to wish it were August once again and I was living in ignorant bliss once more.

Della. I didn’t want to do it. I told myself I would not do it and then I did it. Not bury her, that had to be done, I mean kill her. I told myself I wouldn’t kill her, and that’s a joke really. Really it is, because how do you kill something that is already dead? No. I told myself that I wouldn’t cut her head off, put her in the ground upside down, drive a stake through her dead heart. Those are the things I told myself I wouldn’t do, couldn’t do, but I did them as best I could. I pushed the other things I thought, felt compelled to do, aside and did what I could for her.

The trouble is, did I do it right? It’s not like I have a goddamn manual to tell me how to do it. Does anybody? I doubt it, but I would say that it’s a safe bet that there are dozens of people in the world right now, people who have managed to stay alive, that could write that manual. I just don’t know them… I wish I did. And it won’t matter to me anyway. It’s a little too late.

Therefore, the books say take their heads off. The books also say, for Vampires, put a stake in their heart, and older legends say turn them around, upside down in the grave. Isn’t a vampire a kind of Zombie? Isn’t it? Probably not exactly, precisely, but, could it hurt to have done the stake thing just in case? To be sure? To put her at rest? I don’t think so.

They can come out during the daylight, you know. I thought they wouldn’t be able to. Every goddamn movie I ever saw, starting with the Night of the Living Dead they couldn’t. You could get some relief. You could get some shit done. And you could if it were true, but it’s not. They rarely come out in the daylight, that’s the truth. It’s hard for them, tough somehow, but they can. It won’t kill them. They aren’t weaker than they are at night. They just don’t like the daylight. They don’t like it. And don’t you think writing that made me a little paranoid? Thinking it over once more? It did. I got up and checked the windows. Nothing I can see, but they’re out there. They’re right out there in the barn. Sleeping in the sweet hay up in the Haymow. I know it, so it doesn’t matter whether I can see them. I can hear them and I know where the rest of them are. And I know they know what I did and they’ll come tonight. They’ll come tonight because I’m afraid of the night. Not them. Me. And they goddamn well know it! They know it! They think. They see. Did you think they were stupid? Blind? Running on empty? Well you’re the fool then. Listen to me, they’re not. They’re not and thinking they are will get you dead quick. And what about me? How will I feel tonight? What will I think about it then?

Zombies: I thought Haiti, Horror flicks…? What else is there? Dead people come back to life, or raised from the dead to be made into slaves. Those are the two things I knew and nothing else. Well, it’s wrong. Completely wrong. No. I can’t tell you how they come to be Zombies initially, but I can tell you that the bite of a Zombie will make you a Zombie. The movies got that much right.

I can’t tell you why they haunt the fields across from my house. Why they have taken up residence in my old barn. But I can tell you that it might be you they come for next and if they do you goddamn well better realize that everything you thought you knew is bullshit. See, Della didn’t believe it and look what happened to her! I know, I know I didn’t tell you but I will. That’s the whole point of writing this down before they get me too.

See in a little while I’m going to walk out the kitchen door and right out to the barn. I’ll leave this here on the kitchen table. First for my Son Joe, I haven’t heard from him since September, before things got really crazy. So, if he makes it here somehow this will be here for him. Second, it’s for you, whoever you are who happened along into my kitchen.

Goddamn Zombies. Ever lovin’ Bastards! …

I am losing control; I know I am But… Anyway, it was August. Hot. Hotter, they said, than it had been in recorded time. There was no wind. No rain. Seemed like no air to breath.

It was on a Tuesday. I went to get the mail and there were six or seven dead crows by the box. I thought those Goddamn Clark boys have been shootin’ their B.B guns again. So I resolved to call Old Man Clark and give him a piece of my mind except I forgot. That happens when you get old. It’s not unusual. I remembered about four o’clock the next morning when I got up. Well, I told myself, Mail comes at ten, I’ll get that, then I’ll call up and have that talk.

I make deals like that with myself all the time. Sometimes it works out fine sometimes it doesn’t. It didn’t.

Ten came and I forgot to get the mail. I remembered at eleven thirty, cursed myself and went for my walk to the box.

I live alone. I have since Kate died. That was another hot summer. I used to farm. I retired a few years back. I rent out the fields. The barn did set empty up until late September or Early October when the Zombies moved in. Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself.

I walked to the mailbox cursing my creaky brain as I went. When I got there, I realized the Clark boys had either turned to eating crows or they had nothing to do with the dead crows in the first place. There were dozens of dead Crows, Barn Swallows, and Gulls. The dirt road leading up to my place was scattered with dead birds, dark sand where the blood had seeped in. Feathers everywhere, caught in the trees, bushes, and the ditches at the side of the road. There were three fat, black Crows sticking out of my mailbox. Feet first. Half eaten.

Some noise in the woods had made me turn but I can’t turn as fast as I used to. Whatever had made the noise was gone when I got turned in that direction. But, there were bare footprints in the dry roadbed next to the box. They were not clear, draggy, as though the person had, had a bad leg. He had, of course, but I had yet to meet the owner.

Hold on…

The day’s getting away from me. My ears are playing tricks on me too. I thought I heard something upstairs but there’s nothing. I have the bottom floor boarded up. Those Zombies may be far from stupid but it’s goddamn hard to get dead limbs to help you climb up the side of a house and we took everything down they could hold onto…

Where was I? The mailbox. The mail never came that day. In fact the mail never came again. Already Emma Watson, our local Mail carrier, was a Zombie. I just didn’t know it.

I tried Clark but got no answer. Later that day I heard a few shots but we’re country folks. There’s Deer wandering all over the place. Wouldn’t be the first time one got shot without a tag or a proper season. Della came later, upset, her boyfriend had run off somewhere she thought. It’ll be okay I told her.
I seen him a week later.

Della usually came at the ends of the month to help me with shopping, bills, she’s a… She was a good girl. A good one. A good Zombie fearing girl. She was… She didn’t come and August turned to September and I was sitting by the stove that night and heard the scrape on the porch.

His leg was bad. Somebody had shot him. But her fella had worse things going on than that. He was dead. What was a bum leg when you were dead? Small problem. But it made him drag that leg. I’m getting ahead of myself again though.

I picked up my old shotgun where it sat next to the door, eased the door open and flicked on the porch light. He jumped back into the shadows.

“Step out into the light,” I tried not to sound like the old man I was.

“No,” he rasped

“Step out here or I’ll shoot,” I tried again.

“Della,” he whispered. His voice was gravelly.

That stopped me cold. I squinted but it was too dark to make out much. Still I had the idea it might be her boyfriend. Maybe he’d got himself into something bad. I couldn’t get the name to come to me. “You Della’s boyfriend that went missing…?”

Nothing but silence, and in that silence I got a bad feeling. Something was wrong. It came to me about the same time that he stepped into the light. There was no sound of breathing. It was dead quiet. My own panicked breathing was the only sound until he stepped into the light dragging his leg.
My heart staggered and nearly stopped.

“Della,” he rasped once more. He cocked his head sideways, the way a dog will when it’s not sure of something. One eye was bright but milky white, the other was a gooey mess hanging from the socket on the left side of his face.

I found my old shotgun rising in my hands. I saw the alarm jump into his eyes and he was gone just that fast.

I stood blinking, convinced that I had somehow dreamed the whole encounter, but I knew I didn’t. The smell of rotting flesh still hung heavy in the air. In the distance I heard the rustle of bushes and then silence. Zombies are not stupid, and they are not slow.

The next day it seemed ridiculous. What an old fool I thought. What had I imagined? But the days leading up to October told me a different story.

I drove into Watertown around the middle of October. I passed maybe two cars on the way but neither driver would meet my eyes. That was wrong. Trash blew through the streets as I drove. The traffic lights were out on the square and no one was on the streets. I didn’t see a single police car.
The mall was closed. The road into it barricaded. I found a little Mom and Pop place open on the way back but there was next to nothing on the shelves. I got a jar of Peanut Butter that I didn’t want. A package of crackers, there was no bread, and paid with the last of my cash.
The storeowner wore deep socketed eyes on a lined face. His attitude said, I will not speak to you. And he wouldn’t. After a brief attempt, I went home. I never went back. By that next night, I knew what the deal was when Della showed up.

She came around noon. I heard the sound of her engine revving long before she came into sight. She took out the mailbox and crashed into the porch and that was that. We were up most of the night talking about how much the world had changed. She knew more than I did. She knew there were no more police. She knew there were roving gangs of Zombies on the streets of Watertown. She had met a man who had come from Rochester. Rochester was a ruin. Another from Buffalo, the same story there. The Zombies, it seemed, owned the world.

She stayed until three days ago. I wouldn’t have been able to get this house closed up on my own. Della worked side by side with me. That was early, before we knew they would come out into the sunlight. Johnny, that was her fella’s name, came for her in the daylight when we were closing up the house. If not for the bad leg, he would have got her. If not for the fact that we were close to the living room door he might have got her. He might have got her because we both froze. And, when I realized I had to move she was still froze, just looking at his ruined, rotted face.

I got the shotgun and blew his head off. I thought she was going to kill me, and then I thought he was going to manage to get back to his feet even without his head and kill me. He finally stopped and I managed to drag her inside and shut the door.

After that we watched when we worked. I had gone back out a short time later, after I got her laid down and sleeping off the shock, to take a closer look at the body. There were five of them eating him where he lay, and two watching the door. When I started out, they were on me just that fast. I shot them both as fast as I could pull the trigger. My shotgun only holds four shells. Two were gone and they were slowed but they were not deterred. I made it back inside, bolted the door and began to wonder if my heart was going to explode.

Later, before dusk, I went back outside. Johnny’s body was gone along with the other zombies.
Since then it’s been a war, and then we decided, I decided that Della had to try to get out. Drive out and find help. She was carrying a child after all, the Zombie fellas baby I suppose. Maybe there was a place outside of New York where things were normal, okay, Zombie free.
We planned it. I got my truck, drained the gas from her car and my old tractor. That gave her a full tank in the truck and almost ten gallons in cans strapped into the back of the cab. There wasn’t much in the way of food but we split what we had. She promised to send help but we both knew that was a long shot. She left early morning and I thought she was away and free.
I don’t know what happened. I’ll never know. Did she get ten miles down the road before they got her somehow? Only a mile? How did they do it? I’ll never know. I only know she came back to me last night. Dead already. A zombie. Already reeking of death

“Geo!” In the night. Her calling my name and it pulled me up from sleep with dread, fear, but hope that there was some sort of plausible reason why she was out there calling my name in the night.

“Geo! Please… Help me!”

I had thrown the bolt on the door and had it halfway to open before I realized what an old fool I was. It was too late then. She was on me before I could close the door. She was strong. So goddamned strong, and she knew where the gun was and tried to stop me from getting to it.
I got it but I hesitated too long for the last time and she got me. She lunged and took a chuck of flesh out of my shoulder. I got her in the stomach with two shots, and then one more, after I reloaded, in the head.

I buried her this morning. Even when I did, I had this strange urge to taste her. Just a small bite. Who would know? I was shocked that I had had the thought. Shocked that I had continued with the burial and had not eaten her. I’ve been sitting here since then. They’ve come around. I can hear them. It was the noise of them digging her up earlier that I heard and thought had come from upstairs. I suppose they dug her up. I just bet they did. I should have kept her for myself, I think. But, God, What am I thinking? What?

I can feel it working its poison in my body. My sense of smell is incredible. My eyesight sharp. I’m hungry. It’s like something that is trying to drive me… Own me… I can’t stand it. I can’t. I…

Hey! Have a safe Halloween! See you soon, Geo.

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The Mexican or As I Went Walking One Night Black

Posted on April 19, 2024 by Author Sam Wolfe

October 28th 2023, Sam

 Hey! Welcome to Saturday! You made it through another work week and here you are on my blog. So, I’m posting a story Dell wrote for you to read. It is complete, I hope you like it, feedback is always welcome, Sam

Mexican or As I Went Walking One Night Black


Wendell G Sweet


Cover and Interior Art Copyright
2013 Dell Sweet

The Mexican or As I Went Walking One
Night Black

Copyright © 2013 by WENDELL SWEET

This book is licensed for your
personal enjoyment only. This book 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 recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.


Bear… Are you out there?


All those guys who listened to my stories when they were just stories written to pass our time. That
was a big deal.


This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places or incidents depicted are products of the
authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual living persons places, situations or events is purely coincidental.

This novel is Copyright © 2010 – 2013 WENDELL SWEET. No part of this book may be reproduced by any
means, electronic, print, scanner or any other means and, or distributed without the authors permission.

Permission is granted to use short sections of text in reviews or critiques in standard or electronic print.


Sunday night.

I buried the Mexican just after sundown. I can’t say much about the sort of man he was in life, but I can say he was a strong man in death.

The Moon has led my way and I’m on my way across the desert into Mexico of all places. What did they
say, hide in plain sight? There I’m going to be. Probably already passed the border, and once I’m across the border I’ll find a small town to buy gasoline enough so I can reach South America.

I’ve played the events of yesterday over and over in my head as I’ve driven. It still makes no sense to
me at all. They say shit happens, we’ll sometimes it does, and I tell myself that’s exactly what happened here. Some shit decided to happen and I just happened to be there.

Saturday evening.

It was early. I had nothing better to do so I took a walk downtown just to take a look at the buildings.
Thinking, as I walked, how just a few short years ago I had spent almost all of my time down there. Chasing a high. Drunk or both. And sometimes a third thing: Taking a little comfort with the ladies. It all came back to me as I walked the streets.

About three years of my life had been spent like that. From the day Lilly told me goodbye, until the day I woke up in the alley that runs down the back of West Broad, behind the Chinese restaurant. The back of my head had been lumped up with something or by someone.

Someone, I decided as I began to blink the cobwebs away and felt carefully with my fingers. A lump only, no blood. Probably a closed fist…

Two feet away from me was a dead rat. A big dead rat, and a few even larger rats were breakfasting on
him. And, suddenly, just like that, I was done. That gave me a clear message about the world. And I heard it.

Of course that didn’t mean I got off Scot free. There were many little things I’d done during my long,
long slide. And it took time to fix those things. Rehab, jail for some bad checks I couldn’t remember. Bad teeth, health, ideas, depression, suicide, and finally a night where I felt strong enough to take a walk through the worst of my nightmares and see if I was truly over the drugs, the life, the weaknesses that had led me there in the first place.

So that’s how I came to be there yesterday evening. Getting my feet wet. Seeing how strong I was… Or
wasn’t. And it turns out I was strong enough for the temptation of the streets but not over the bad habits I had picked up there. And that’s what got me… I cannot believe it was only yesterday when all this started.

I walked by the mouth of the alley twice. Both times I saw the old Ford sitting there in the deep shadows. Heard the soft murmur of its engine running. Some guy and some girl, I thought, or some guy with some guy, or boy who knows what. It was downtown. Shit like that happened all the time. But, I thought after the second time, this guy must be trying to set a record. He’d been there for 15 minutes by my watch, not that it was my business. All the same, fifteen minutes is a long time for a trick. Or to shoot up. Fifteen minutes could bring a cop. In the street world it was just too long for almost anything. In fifteen minutes you could get your thing on, your drug of choice, and be a half mile away and forgot all about that last little space of time. So why was this guy still there?

And that was the street part of me that was not gone. The street part of me that was still looking for trouble. And I found it.

The third time by, which was just a few minutes later, I was too curious. My evening had bought me some
excitement. The drugs, I could see the flow all over the avenue. Easy to see if you knew what to look for. The ladies were calling too. I knew what that was about. I didn’t look at them like they were whores, or something less than human. It was a line I couldn’t draw, had confused many times, so I came back fast to see what this was. That Ford was calling.

I had stopped at the mouth of thealley. Same Ford. An old one. Like a classic. Nice shape to. Maybe somewhere in the sixties, but I wasn’t good with cars like that. I only knew old, classic, nice looking.

Nobody around. Of course that didn’t mean there was no one in the car. I hesitated for only a second, and then walked quietly down the alley, staying in the shadows as I went.


I found the Mexican slumped over behind the wheel. Blood dripping down the side of his head. A gun on
the seat beside him. Another guy was slumped over into the floorboards on the passenger side. That one was dead for sure. A large, bloodless hole on one side of his chest. A larger hole behind that shoulder I saw when I reached over to move him. And why are you still here? A little voice in my head whispered. Why are you touching him? What are you doing? But I pushed those warning voices away and continued to look.

There was blood and gore all over the seat on that side. The coppery stench of blood was thick and nauseating. Something else mixed in with it, tugging at my brain. Blood and… Fear? Something. That was when the Mexican spoke in all that silence and nearly made me jump out of my skin.

“Don’t call the cops!” and… “No Policia.” His head came away from wheel. He shook it and drops of blood went flying. I felt it hit my face. But I was still too stunned to move.

“Hey! … You hear me, Blanquito? Habla English? … No Policia?” He muttered under his breath “Dios Christos,” he focused his eyes on me once more. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I thought you were dead,” I managed. I should’ve run. I chose to talk.

“Yeah… I get that a lot. But I ain’t dead.” He picked up the gun from the seat and before I knew it was in my face. “Come around the side, Blanquito. Get Lopez out of the car.” He waved the pistol and I moved.

Lopez pretty much helped himself out of the car. When I opened the door he spilled out into the alley,
leaving the mess on the seat and a large smear of blood on the seat back and the door panel as he went.

“Good… Good,” the Mexican said. “Now getting in the fuckin’ car… No… No… This side. Come back around to this side. I can’t drive no car, Blanquito… Dios!” He waved the gun once more and I moved. Racing around the hood of the car to the door.

The Mexican did a fair job of getting himself over into the passenger seat. I was glad it was him sitting in Lopez’s blood and not me, although I had been about to sit in it.

I slid into the driver’s seat.

“You got some kind of car… Truck… Something like that?” The Mexican asked.

I didn’t have a vehicle, but my grandfather had had a truck. It was sitting in the garage in back of my house. That house had also been my grandfather’s. They were the only two things, the house and the truck, that had survived those three years on the streets.

“Sort of.”

“Sort of?” He looked around “Get this car moving. That’s the first thing… You got a place?… Close by? How does anybody sort of own a fuckin’ car anyway?”

“Yeah, I got a place” I said. I was afraid to answer, but more afraid of not answering fast enough.

“Let’s get there, Amigo.” He slumped back against the seat. I shifted into drive, worried I might drive over Lopez as I went, and drove us out of the alley.


The house was dark. I had thought to leave a light on, but I had forgotten. I drove this Ford right into
the garage, pulled the garage door back down, and helped the Mexican out. He looked over at my grandfather’s truck.

“That your sort of truck? Looks fine to me, Man. Doesn’t it run?”

The thing is it did run. I had been working on it here and there. I like to tinker with things. And I had a lot of spare time to fill when I quit drugging, so I had turned it to the truck.

It was an old truck. But I had in the back of my mind to fix it up and drive it. So, I had started with an oil change, then installed a new headlight on the driver’s side, that sort of stuff, when I had time.

I nodded. “No plates though.”

The Mexican nodded. “Don’t worry about that… Got gas in it?”

“Some… Enough to get you away.”

“Ha, Amigo.” He laughed and then clutched the side of his head where the blood still drizzled
and spilled down the side of his face, spat some blood from his mouth, and looked back at me. “Us,” he said. “Us.”

I saw an amazing thing as he spoke. The Mexican had a small blue hole just above the stream of blood. A
hole from a bullet. In his head. The blood just pulsed out of it as I watched. I wondered how he could possibly even be alive.

We switched the plates to the truck and left the Ford sitting in the garage. I unloaded four big suitcases from the trunk of the Ford into the bed of the pickup truck. The Mexican had me stretch a tarp over the bed of the pickup and tie it off, and we were on the road. Heading for the Mexican border.

On The Road

I drove as he gave me directions.

We stopped just before dawn at a gas station in the middle of a small desert border town. The Mexican directed me past the dimly lit islands and over toward the side of the station, and the shadowy side lot.

There was a big hound sleeping in an open bay doorway on one side of the garage. On the other side a thin man with long, greasy-black hair was turning wrenches on an old Plymouth. He glanced up, nodded, and I nodded back as we pulled around the side of the station and parked in the shadows.

There were payphones bolted to the side wall, just past the Men’s room door. I had thought that payphones were a thing of the past. But I had also thought gas stations were a thing of the past too come to think of it.

I helped the Mexican to the phone.
He ran about $6.00 worth of change into the phone and then he just stood there, leaned against the wall, panting hard, for what seemed like ten minutes.

Finally, he began to speak in a stream of Spanish so heavily accented and fast that I could make no
sense of anything he said. Not even the gist of it, and I was usually pretty good when it came to Spanish.

He sprayed blood from his mouth as he talked. And he leaked blood from the bullet wound in his lower
chest all over the wall he was leaning against.

The conversation wound down. I could tell because he spoke less and less. He finally went on a long
coughing spasm, spat a few more quick streams of Spanish into the phone and then just dropped the handset. He came staggering off the wall and back to the truck. I rushed to help him back in.

He was breathing hard. “We got to kill some time. Find a place.”

I nodded. I was tempted to clean off the wall, pick up the handset and put it back on the phone. Someone
might see that. But instead, I wheeled out of the parking lot and found a small campground just outside of the town.

The place was deserted so I drove down into the dirt parking area and parked by what was advertised as
a lake but looked more like a swampy pond. The roof line of a rusted Chevy rose just above the foul smelling the water. It was near dawn.
The sun a red line on the horizon. I wore no watch, but the Mexican kept track of time on his.

The Mexican was bad off, coughing and spitting blood out of the window every few minutes. But he said
nothing. Never complained.

We sat and watched the sunrise in silence. Listened as the birds woke in the trees and began to call back and forth to each other. Finally he looked at his wrist one last time, just as morning was coming on full, and told me to drive back to the gas station.

The Border

I had thought the place would be crowded with cops, but I was wrong. The hound dog still slept in the
open garage bay doorway, and the thin man with the greasy-black hair was still wrenching on the Plymouth. The hanging phone handset, the blood, now dried to a maroon smear on the handset and the wall was still there. Untouched.

“Hang that fuckin’ phone up,” the Mexican said. I got out and hung up the phone and it immediately
rang in my hand.

“Well answer the thing… Dios,” the Mexican spat. He went into a coughing spasm. I picked up the phone, and an unintelligible string of Spanish launched itself into my ear. I held it away. “For you,” I said.

He groaned and levered himself from the truck, stumbled, and then made his way to the pay phone. He took the gun with him. He spoke calmly into the phone for a short time. No rushed spate of Spanish this time, but a low murmur that I could not make any more sense of than I had the rushed torrent. After a time, he took the headset from his ear, pressed it against his chest and spoke to me in a near whisper.

“Take this fuckin’ gun, Amigo.”He handed me the gun that was all splattered with gore and he pulled a second one, equally messy, from his coat pocket. “Watch our backs, Blanquito” he told me.

I suppose I could have shot the Mexican and gone free, but I never had the time to do it. I didn’t even have the time to think about doing it until later on.

As I stood there, I heard the suck of rubber against the asphalt, the way it will when the road is really hot. And the morning was hot, the road hotter, the way it will get sometimes in the desert.

The car slowed and pulled into the station. I saw none of that but only perceived it from what my ears told me. A short conversation in Spanish between someone in the car and probably the thin man with the greasy-black hair wrenching on the Plymouth, and I knew that someone would be coming around the side of the gas station in a matter of seconds.

The Mexican heard the same things. He hung up the phone and put one finger to his lips, lurched his way
back over to the truck and leaned against the front of the grill for support. His gun pointed over the hood. Not knowing what else to do I slipped back behind the passenger door and followed suit.

“We should be good… Don’t just start killing… But you be ready, ’cause you never know, Muchacho.”

Three of them came around the corner. Two men I hadn’t seen, and the greasy-haired thin man. He
stopped short when he saw the guns aimed at him.

“Dios Mio,” he stuttered.

“Vamos,” the Mexican said.
The greasy-haired thin man slipped backwards and then disappeared around the corner. The other two, hard eyed older men, stood their ground. No weapons in their hands. Silence held for what seemed a long while.

“Well, you got it,” one of the oldsters asked. It came with such a thick accent that I had to take the time to figure out what he’d said… “Chew gat et?”

The conversation switched to a quick spate of Spanish then. That went back and forth between the two men and the Mexican for a few minutes and then silence came back so hard I could hear a bird calling in the distance. The sound of a big rig on the highway, and that was a few miles away. One of the oldsters
nodded, turned, and walked away. He came back around the corner of the building a few minutes later with two large duffel bags and tossed them on the ground between us. They slid a couple of feet towards us and then stopped in front of the truck.

“Get them bags, Amigo,” the Mexican told me.

I looked at him like he was crazy. But of course he was crazy, and there was nothing I could do except come around the hood, a pistol in one hand, eyes on those two older men.

I stopped by the hood when I suddenly realized that I had a problem. I could not pick up both duffel bags without putting the gun away. I debated briefly, stuffed the gun into the waistband of my pants and picked up the bags.

“In the cab,” the Mexican said. I Levered the door of the cab open and set them inside. “Strip off that tarp.”

The tarp came off and the two men came forward and lifted out the suitcases. The Mexican and the two
others stared at each other for a few moments, then the oldsters walked away. I watched them turn the corner and they were gone.

I started to get back into the truck when the Mexican wagged his head and put one finger to his lips. I
pulled my gun back out, scared to death. It was maybe a second after I got the gun back in my hand that the two came back around the corner ready to take us out.

I shot first. Unintended. Pure reaction. The gun was in my hand and happened to be pointed in that direction and I fired out of reflex. One of the oldsters’ heads exploded. Something tugged at my collar, and then the Mexican dropped the other guy. A second… Less than a second and it was over. The silence didn’t come again, this time there were sounds in the silence. The hound dog up and baying. Excited voices in Spanish somewhere close by.

“Now we go,” the Mexican said. “Now we go, Amigo.”

I needed no coaching. I was in the truck and backing out of the gas station fast. The rear tires hopping
and screeching on the pavement. A black Caddy sat on the tarmac, just past the pumps, engine idling. The doors hung open.

“Stop!… Stop!” The Mexican yelled. “Get them bags back!”

I stalled the truck stopping without pushing the clutch in, ran to the Caddy and got the bags along with
two others from the back seat. I threw them all into the back of the truck and I had started back to the driver side when the Mexican shot.

I didn’t think I just hit the ground and I didn’t come back up until the Mexican began cursing at me to
get back in the truck. I looked back at the gas station when I did. The man with the greasy-black hair lay sprawled in the open stall. A shot gun off to one side. The hound dog stood stiffly, head in the air, howling. Blood ran from the man’s body toward a floor drain. Voices raised in Spanish, loud, somewhere close by. And the Mexican yelling at me. I threw myself into the cab, got the truck started and got out of there fast. And here I am now running across the desert heading to Mexico.

Sunday night

The rest of the time has been fast driving. I kept expecting the cops at any moment, but they never showed up. I didn’t even know the Mexican had been shot again until later on when I realized he was coughing up less blood and sounded as though we were drowning instead. I could not even say when it was that he died, but sometime late afternoon if I had to guess. He had not spoken in some time and when I looked over at him his lips had turned blue.

When I pulled him out to bury him in a little dry wash off the highway, I saw a new hole in the upper part of his chest. Right through the shirt and into the lung on that side, I guessed. Two lung shots, and a head shot, and he had still been going. I couldn’t see how he lived so I wasn’t surprised that he had died.

He died well. As well as can be expected considering it’s dead after all. He didn’t cry or beg, or curse. He just died. Slipped away.


After I buried the Mexican, I checked the suitcases and duffel bags. After all, they were mine now. And I
wanted to know what everybody was in such a hurry to die for.

The duffel bags were no surprise. They were stuffed full of money and guns. They were big duffel bags.
They held a lot. An awful lot.

Two of the suitcases were surprises. I thought drugs, what else do people get killed for? But, no.

Of the others, one held more money, clothes and passports. I.D. That sort of stuff. All with the Mexican’s picture. Then the other two suitcases that shocked me. One contained the body of a dead dog. Shot full of holes and stuffed in there.

The other held the head and hands of someone I was sure was wishing he had them back. The last two
suitcases did contain drugs. More than I’d ever seen in one place before.

I took out the money and added it to the duffel bags. I buried the Cocaine and the dog along with the
Mexican. I had no idea what the suitcases were all about. I still don’t. And I don’t want to know. I do know there was a fortune in Cocaine and I did not want to tempt myself with it.

Later I got the truck cleaned up at one of those self-car washes on the other side of the border, turned off the highway with a full tank of gas a few miles up the road from there, and I’m running in the moonlight. I’ve got a map of South America. I hope to find a road before I run out of gas. I figure I’ll work my way down into South America as far as I can go. I don’t know where I’ll go from there, there hasn’t been time to think about where…

I hope you enjoyed the story. If you like the way Dell writes check out the first America the Dead book!

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