Comeback

By Richard Freeland

1941. The Dahlonega Rebels, one of the top teams in the Dixie football league, are on a course to meet their arch rivals the Roanoke Skippers in the championship game.

But then, inexplicably, the Baton Rogue Gators, perennial league losers, start to win.

Now the Gators, owned by scheming Bull Fannin, are on a roll, knocking off opponents one by one.

But there's something strange about the Gators. Something frightening.

Why are they so focused? Why are their faces so white, and lacking in expression?

And why don't they bleed?

Jake Corbin, known as the the "Iceman" by his team mates, is the quarterback and player-coach of the Rebels. He's looking for answers.

But what he uncovers is a nightmare of evil perpetuated by two feuding gangsters that threatens to destroy them all.

Now Jake must stop the evil before it's too late.

But first he has to survive the "Comeback".

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Freeland
• Release date: May 14, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476014869

Richard Freeland

I write horror and thriller fiction as well as non-fiction about gardens and landscapes. I'm a fair singer/songwriter, and a family man. I love to travel and hike with my wife Martha, play a little tennis when my bum knees let me, make and sip a great margarita, play on the water with boats, and go on adventures with my two boys. I also love Jekyll Island, Georgia, our home-away-from-home, and have another website devoted just to our adventures on this wonderful island (www.jekyll-island-family-adventures.com). Hope you enjoy my writing, and keep a weather eye out for "Seed", my upcoming novel.

Book preview

Comeback

Richard Freeland

Smashwords v. 3 Edition

Copyright 2016

Cover by istolethetv, Flickr

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

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Comeback

The nurse paused before the door to the old man's room, turned to David Steinway and frowned. Remember, now, she said, even though he's in a wheelchair, he's not senile. He still possesses all his faculties. Show some respect, young man.

Steinway felt his cheeks flush. I will, Ma'am. I promise.

She nodded, and, turning, tapped on the door.

Yes? came a querulous voice from within.

Mr. Corbin, I have a Mr. Steinway here to see you. May he come in?

Come ahead, said the disembodied voice, and the nurse eased the door open with a gentle push.

The room was dim, and smelled of antiseptic and stale food and a sickly sweet odor that Steinway always associated with his grandmother. He entered with a little trepidation.

Corbin sat hunched in a wheelchair, staring out the window at the grey day. He wore a faded black Pink Floyd t-shirt with Dark Side of the Moon printed across the front. A piss-yellow blanket covered his lap.

Steinway flinched as the door sighed closed behind him. The nurse had abandoned him to his fate.

He cleared his throat. Mr. Corbin? I'm David Steinway, sir. You remember our telephone conversation a few weeks ago? You granted me an interview for today.

Corbin spun the chair with a dexterity that Steinway would never have guessed a man so old—even a former footballer—would possess. There's nothing wrong with my short term memory, boy, Corbin said. Let's get on with it.

Steinway mentally kicked himself. Already he'd violated the nurse's advice.

As Corbin watched, Steinway pulled his laptop from its nylon carrying case and placed it on the edge of a bedside table. He removed a wireless lapel microphone and held it up for Corbin to see. May I? he said.

Corbin nodded, and Steinway fixed the microphone to the collar of the old man's t-shirt.

He ran a few sound checks, Corbin watching his every move like a sniper zeroing in on a prime target.

I appreciate your agreeing to this interview, sir, Steinway said to cover his nervousness. But I have to admit I was surprised. You'd turned down the requests of all those other researchers wanting to get the story behind the Rebel's final season.

Corbin sniffed. Figured it was time. Those old accounts about that period ain't much more than rumor and speculation at best, with some wild-ass guesses thrown in for spice. I won't be around much longer, and the story should be told by someone who was there. Just make sure you get the facts straight, boy.

I always do, Steinway said. He was regaining his composure. Don't let my youth fool you, sir. I'm a seasoned reporter and sports historian, with several books under my belt.

Corbin raised an eyebrow. "I read Numbers Up: the Georgia Tech/Cumberland Blowout. And that book you did on Lombardi. They were well done. That's why I picked you."

Steinway acknowledged the compliment with a nod. I aim to do your story of the Rebels' last season justice, sir. It's a tragic tale just begging to be told. All those young men in that final game, on both teams. Killed by a lightning strike.

It wasn't lightning that done in those men, Corbin said.

Steinway paused in adjusting the gain on the computer. He wasn't sure he'd heard right. But all the sources…the old newspaper stories, the books about the era. They all said the storm and the lightning were responsible. He felt like a man who'd missed the punch line of a joke.

That entire season seemed to be nothing but bad weather, Corbin said. "There was a storm that day. With lightning dancing all around us. But none ever struck the field."

Steinway gave Corbin a long look. The old man's eyes were sharp as glass and shone with intelligence—and an old, lingering fear.

Not lightning, Steinway whispered. Then what…

He clicked record. A red light blinked on. And Corbin started to speak.

***

I played my entire professional football career with the Dahlonega Rebels in the Dixie Football League.

We were one of six teams in that minor league at the time. Going into our last year, the Roanoke Skippers were at the top of the heap. Then the Rebels, along with the Charlotte Admirals, followed by the Birmingham Bootleggers, and the Lexington Generals. The league's bottom