Ian's Gang IV (Ian's Gang Anthology)

By Ian Kidd

The fourth "Ian's Gang" anthology includes six more extraordinary adventures!

Ordinary families are used in a terrifying scheme to unleash the Devil in "Straight Out of Hell"; Ian, Dean and Cody are flung into a terrifying future where humanity is all but extinct in "The Animal Lover"; alien vampires terrorise Whitby in "The Nightmare Brigade"; a murder mystery weekend turns all too real for Cody in "Dream Holiday"; a small town is infested with a toxic alien goo in "Terror of the Ooze", and mind-controlling alien pimples attack in the hilarious "Spot On"!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ian Kidd
• Release date: Jul 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476167404

Ian Kidd

I grew up in South Yorkshire, England, before emigrating to South Australia at the age of sixteen. My writing ambitions began as a child, when I became notorious in my class for writing short horror stories that would probably have them calling in the child psychologists nowadays! I have written everything from non-fiction ebooks to published short fiction, and served as script editor on two proposed horror feature film scripts for an LA based director. In terms of fiction I have written dozens of novellas, including more than 70 stories in the "Ian's Gang" sci-fi adventure series. I still live in Queensland, where I work as a freelance writer.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Nick Boothey gripped the shotgun tightly, surveying his hostages. There were three of them, two teenage girls and the store's owner, a small, oldish, balding man with bad breath. All three looked terrified and he couldn't blame them. If those bloody army pricks didn't do what they were told and fuck off, this little deli would be splattered with blood. He had four bullets left - one would, if worst came to worst, be for him. He had no intention of going to jail. The Juvenile Detention Centre had been bad enough, but now he was over the age, and if he didn't get out of here, it would be prison for sure.

The phone rang, surprising no one. It had rung on and off, insistently, for the last two hours. It was the army, trying to 'establish communication'. A one-fingered salute was all the communication they'd get from now on. He'd told them to clear out and no one would get hurt. But no, the fucking pigs knew everything. If they thought he was going to give up, they were madder than he was. He'd held up two petrol stations, sold drugs, and raped an underage girl. Rape bullshit. That Talia bitch had been more than willing to go three - make that four - rounds with him in her parents' bed. She'd even gone along on the second petrol station job, the one where he'd lost his rag and blown the stupid fucking attendant to Kingdom Come. After that, Talia had turned on him. Bitch. He knew it was the danger that had attracted her to him, but as soon as there got a bit of real heat, the cowardly slag ran a mile.

Smiling, Nick took a look at the teenage girls in the store. One blonde, one brunette. Big tits. Couldn't be more than fifteen. Just the way he liked 'em. So fucking innocent, but given the right circumstances, so fucking wild. Just like Talia. Take your clothes off, he told them. They stood, staring, not wanting to understand. I said take your fucking clothes off, you whores, he pointed the guns, or I'll blow your brains out. The girls started to whimper with fear. And none of that crying shit, neither, I want you two whores smiling.

Terrified, forcing sick grins, and trying to hold back tears, the two teenage girls stripped down to their bras and panties.

Nick felt a hardness in his trousers, and his throat was dry. And the rest, he ordered. He noticed then that the stupid old bastard behind the counter had also stripped down to his string vest and Y-fronts. Not you, you sick old fart, he spat. Although I might let you have a bit of fun with one of those two slags. He thought about it for a moment, and grinned. Yeah, come on, old man, which do you want, the blonde or the brunette? Mm? The old man looked at him uncertainly. Come on, old-timer, make up your mind or I'll plaster that fucking counter with your genitals. Well?

The b - brunette, the old man stammered.

Pants off, take her, Nick ordered. The old man came out from behind the counter, naked. Nick grimaced. Guess some things don't improve with age, eh Pop? You girl, show him how it's done. Do it!

The naked young girl took the sagging old man in her arms. The old man's hands moved to cup her supple young breasts, needing no encouragement. The girl's nubile young body spread around him, arms and legs encircling him as he lowered her to the floor.

Nick watched with amusement. Bet that's the most fucking fun you've had in fifty years, ain't it Pop?

The naked blonde girl, shivering in the cold, looked at him in fury. Well, come on, big boy, are you going to get around to me or do you just watch because you can't manage it yourself?

Nick blew her brains out, showering the deli with blood. The unlikely, writhing couple on the floor screamed. Nick put a bullet in the old man's head. It sang through him and smacked into the girl's brains.

It was not a dignified way to die.

The deli door was kicked open.

Nick whirled.

Two army men came through the door, guns raised.

Nick fired, shattering one young man's face, knocking him to the ground and killing him instantly.

The remaining man fired twice. Two bullets streaked into Nick's body, throwing him backwards. He fired a reflex shot, that hit the army man's groin, and shattered his manhood forever. Nick collapsed, blood streaming from his chest, unmoving.

It was moving day at long last.

Thank God.

The two removal vans had gone, and chubby, jolly Chester Shaw was immensely delighted that it was only a few personal items left to pack in the boot of their car before he and Kate could leave and head for their new home.

He thanked God for Kate. In this last year, if it hadn't been for that wonderful little girl, he might have just given up altogether.

First his wife of twenty years, Cherie, had left him and quite literally run off with the milkman. It was despairing and humiliating. But the biggest tragedy had been Charlene, his lovely teenage daughter. Once a bright, spunky girl, she had become withdrawn, sullen, and uncommunicative. Her grades had slipped and she'd dropped her friends. At the time, he'd been so full of his own self pity over Cherie's leaving, he'd barely noticed the change, and when he had, he'd attributed it as her reaction to her mother's departure, not wanting to believe that it was anything that might require his attention.

Then one night Charlene hadn't come home.

They'd found her the next morning, dumped in a rubbish tip like a piece of trash. Dead. Allergic reaction to solvent abuse.

The shock had been devastating, and without Kate, Chester knew it would probably have been the final blow. But the sight of that beautiful eleven year old in tears over her sister's death had pulled him back. He pulled himself together, got another job (he'd quit his old one after Cherie's departure, believing his colleagues were laughing behind his back) and put the house on the market. He was determined to forge a new life for himself and Kate, and he swore he would not let her down the way he had Charlene. If he hadn't been so consumed by his own inner torment, he might have noticed, and perhaps saved his daughter's life. He would not make the same mistake with Kate.

He picked up the last box of personal items, turned to the door and stopped, smiling, watching as his little dark-haired wonder scrambled about in the boot, moving boxes in order to make one more fit in. She'd been complaining of a headache earlier, but she was lively enough now, so it couldn't be that serious. He'd give her some Paracetamol when they got to the new place, though, just in case.

Kate jumped out of the car boot and ran toward him, smiling, which was always a wonderful sight to behold. When his little girl smiled, the world smiled with her. Daddy, she began, I've moved enough - she paused, her smile fading, suddenly looking uncertain, insecure.

Kate? Chester frowned. Baby? What's the matter?

Without a sound, Kate pitched face forward onto the ground.

Kate! Terrified, Chester dropped the box and ran to his daughter. He turned her over. She was unconscious, but he could find no sign of anything physically wrong with her. Even as he ran for the house to phone an ambulance, he was seized by the terrible certainty that she was going to die.

CHAPTER TWO

The motel room door opened and Jenny entered, closing and locking it behind her. She was young and very beautiful, but her eyes showed fear. Tossing her suitcase onto the bed, she double-checked the door was locked, and made certain the window was secure. It was the highest room in the motel, and led out onto nothing, not even a balcony, but she had to be sure. She then went to the bathroom, to the sink, turned on the cold tap and splashed her face, gasping with the shock of the cold water on her skin. She turned off the tap, dried her face and went back to her room, unlocking the suitcase and throwing it open.

In her case was everything one might expect from a young woman on a trip - skirts, blouses, make-up, underwear.

And a gun.

Chester had been in the reception area of Maltby Hospital twenty minutes before anyone spoke to him. Twenty minutes not knowing where Kate was, what the Doctors were doing to her, not even whether she was alive or not.

Finally, a middle-aged woman with slightly greying brown hair and a face still attractive despite the unmistakeable presence of wrinkles, came over to him. Mr Shaw? I'm Doctor Jenkins.

What's the matter with her? Chester was on the edge of hysteria.

We've done some tests, Jenkins frowned. To put it simply, Mr Shaw, Kate has a tumour on the brain.

Will she be alright? Chester interrupted before her lecture became too technical.

She'll be going into theatre in a few minutes, Jenkins told him. It's a complex operation, but not a rare one.

Can I see her? Chester asked.

I'm afraid not, Mr Shaw, Jenkins told him. She's being prepped for surgery.

Chester tried to calm himself. What are her chances, Doctor?

Jenkins pursed her lips. I won't lie to you, Mr Shaw. At this stage, we cannot tell if the tumour is benign or malignant. But she's in good hands, Mr Shaw, she's in good hands.

This did not comfort Chester. The only thing he could think was that the remains of his once happy family were about to be brutally shattered.

Elizabeth Stamp had been a pathologist for several years. At twenty-nine, she should have been used to terrible lines like What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?, delivered by unfailing macho and unfailingly stupid cops/army men, but they never got any easier to bear. The fact that she was a woman - and an exceedingly attractive one - and a pathologist seemed to create an ignorant disbelief in law enforcement types, and in truth in society as a whole, including her own family. The latest moron, Lieutenant Carter or something like that, was even worse than the usuals. He wasn't just sexist and stupid, he was also pushy.

Her latest 'client', as he so sardonically referred to the latest corpse brought into the mortuary of Maltby Hospital, had been killed after a siege situation had ended with all three hostages killed, an army officer shot dead, and another no longer in possession of his genitals. The poor guy had been a newlywed, too. Elizabeth felt sorry for the maimed officer, but she sure as hell didn't feel sorry for Carter, who half-heartedly tried to apologise for his rudeness by saying he was under all kinds of pressure from Commander Wilburts, who was trying to avoid a major scandal as to how the siege had gotten so disastrously out of control. What Carter wanted was a quick autopsy, which would preferably show that the gunman, Nick Boothey, was high on drugs or something, and was so far gone no amount of clever bargaining would have prevented the massacre. Privately, Elizabeth hoped he hadn't been, just so Carter wouldn't have an easy day.

Reaching the cabinet, she quickly re-read the report. Boothey had been brought in about three hours ago, with two bullets in him, and had died on the operating table under Doctor Jenkins. Elizabeth felt rather sorry for Olivia. She always got the dirty jobs. Women always do, Elizabeth thought, pulling the drawer open. It was empty.

Neil? Elizabeth shouted for her assistant. Neil, where's Boothey's body gone? I've an autopsy to do, I haven't time for him to play musical drawers!

Drawer Four, Neil hurried in. I put him there myself, he stopped by her side.

Elizabeth looked at the empty drawer, a sceptical look on her face. Well, he sure isn't there now, is he? What did he do, get up and walk out? Neil didn't know what to say.

Briefly, Elizabeth wondered how Carter was going to explain this one to Commander Wilburts.

* * * * *

Henry Boothey stared down at the little monument and wasn't sure what he was supposed to feel. The monument was a sad little commemoration to his son, Nick. He and his teenage daughter, Maia, did not even have a 'proper' funeral to attend, as there was no body to bury. Somehow, the mortuary had 'mislaid' him. How can you mislay a corpse? The hospital had apologised profusely, hugely embarrassed, but it was the least of his worries.

He looked to the far end of the graveyard, where Maia was leaving, her best friend Talia Patty beside her. Maia was fifteen (and ten months, as she'd point out), Talia a few months older, a doe-eyed, pretty thing with long fair hair and an air of immeasurable innocence about her. Henry looked at her retreating back and felt a pang of guilt. Nick, his own son, had 'deflowered' her, and dragged a sweet young girl into crime. Henry shook his head, running his finger along his upper lip, and realising he had forgotten to shave in the rush to get to the pitifully small ceremony. He sighed, and began trudging up the path after the two girls. Nick had been a troublemaker all his eighteen years, a rebel, but the past year he had been getting progressively out of control, and the last few months he had virtually been a maniac - unreasonable, insane, and irrationally violent. It was now just over three weeks ago that Henry had gotten the phone call telling him his son had been gunned down after killing four people and maiming one.

If Henry had been surprised at how well he'd coped, he was both stunned and immeasurably proud of the way Maia had dealt with the tragedy. He knew she had admired her elder brother, idolised him even, and Henry had expected her to go to completely to pieces. She hadn't, and her strength had helped him no end. She had cried for an hour or so, and then pulled herself