Public Enemy

By Hope Sullivan McMickle

Take a bloody, creepy, fast-paced ride with Clyde Parker and Bonnie Krause as they sweep like a black virus across the country on a week-long crime spree. Clyde's stopping only for gas, beer, the occasional robbery - and to let Bonnie feast upon the living.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hope Sullivan McMickle
• Release date: Oct 29, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465730039

Hope Sullivan McMickle

Hope Sullivan McMickle is a horror fiction writer and a musician with a penchant for the things that lurk in the darkness, and of course, for the shambling, insatiable undead. She resides in Indianapolis, Indiana.

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Public Enemy

by Hope Sullivan McMickle

Copyright 2008 Hope Sullivan McMickle

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The exit ramp beckoned to him – a bright oasis of light in the midnight blackness of Interstate 70 – and so he took it. He jerked the steering wheel hard to the right and veered across two empty lanes, careening off the Interstate at more than 65 miles an hour. Clyde savored the rush of adrenaline and squinted at the rapidly approaching intersection. He readied his foot above the brake and shoved down the clutch. The truck’s momentum carried it forward; he was running on fumes, anyway. Clyde wanted to be ready for the stop sign. He’d missed them before, most recently near Fort Collins, when he’d stopped for gas and a breakfast of frozen burritos. Bonnie gazed dispassionately out the window, her head turned away from him. Clyde could see her opaque eyes reflected in the glass.

As he coasted forward, Clyde hit the turn signal and rolled through the stop, taking a decisive right turn toward the Conoco station lit up like a casino about a quarter of a mile down the road. He passed a green reflective sign welcoming them to Russell, Kansas and inviting them to stay awhile. The darkness blanketed the flat, featureless terrain and swallowed the small truck. Clyde reached past the gearshift and into the cooler at Bonnie’s feet. A can cracked and hissed open. He downed the contents in three big gulps and grinned, licking beer of his upper lip. He wedged the can against his crotch as the truck approached the 24-hour convenience store. Clyde slowed the truck to an unremarkable 35 miles per hour and they drove past, scoping it out.

Two islands of gas pumps stood sentinel in front of the small store. Faded posters in the front windows advertised daily pizza specials, live bait, ice, and beer. A neon blue Bud Light sign flanked the entrance to the door, and a cheerful red keno sign flashed on and off on the other side. No cars were at the gas pumps and none were in the side parking lot. No headlights approached, and when Clyde glanced up, nothing but darkness filled his rearview mirror.

Let’s do it, babe, he said, twisting the steering wheel and forcing the truck into an aggressive U-turn. Clyde pulled the truck into the Conoco parking lot and slid a .38 from under his seat. He had a speed loader in the right front pocket of his leather jacket. Stepping out of the truck, stretching the muscles in his road-weary lower back, Clyde casually slipped the revolver into the loose waist of his jeans. The jacket fell forward, concealing the weapon. He walked around the front of the still running truck and opened the passenger door. Bonnie stepped out into the darkness. A gentle breeze tugged at her hair. She made no move to smooth it back, standing silent and still in the moonlight. As Clyde wordlessly moved to the entrance of the store, she followed.

The bell above the door jangled and caught the third-shift clerk’s attention. Neil Caldwell had just finished a bowl of very good weed behind the store