Then Came The Last Days Of May

By Dave Franklin

Inspired by the elegiac Blue Oyster Cult song, this novella set in the Australian outback can also be found in the dark fiction anthologies Riders on the Storm and Other Killer Songs & Begin The Madness: The Straitjacket Blues Trilogy.

 

Dave Franklin has written ten novels.

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Baby Ice Dog Press
• Release date: Mar 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507002414

Dave Franklin

Dave Franklin is a Brit who lives Down Under. He has also written ten novels ranging from dark comedy and horror to crime and hardcore porn. His naughty work includes Looking for Sarah Jane Smith (2001), Begin the Madness: The Straitjacket Blues Trilogy (2014), The Muslim Zombies (2018) & Welcome to Wales, Girls: A Violent Odyssey of Pornographic Filth (2018).

Book preview

Then Came The Last Days Of May

Dave Franklin

Published by Baby Ice Dog Press, 2015.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

THEN CAME THE LAST DAYS OF MAY

First edition. March 18, 2015.

Copyright © 2015 Dave Franklin.

ISBN: 978-1507002414

Written by Dave Franklin.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Then Came The Last Days Of May

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Jack stood more than three feet down in the grave.

Four days straight over ninety and with Aaron on holiday and Al off with a stomach bug, the backhoe loader couldn’t have picked a worse time to go kaput.

When the bloody hell was this heat wave going to break?

He was desperate to rip his sodden, stinking T-shirt off and have a smoke, but that really wasn’t an option with O’Reilly conducting a funeral less than eighty feet away at a grave he’d only finished a few hours ago.

He glanced across at the cranky old Mick, wiped his brow, and rested his trembling arms on the upright spade. For a while he lacked the will to do anything but stare at his clay-spattered, steel toe-caps as the sun tightened its grip on the back of his neck.

A slight breeze picked up, enabling him to catch a few of the priest’s solemn words.

"O God... mercy the souls... faithful find rest..."

Jack grabbed a water bottle and gulped down some tepid mouthfuls. Then he poured the rest over his head, his eyes drawn toward a white, barefooted statue of Christ at the head of the grave. It stood with its arms thrown open, waiting for the body to arrive.

He squinted at the burning sky and was about to start tossing dirt out again when he noticed a crack in the grave’s right wall. His guts shrank. Collapses were becoming more common because the cemetery was running out of space, resulting in plots being dug ever closer, but if this one fell in after a solid two hours’ work he felt sure he’d scream.

He slowly bent to examine the damage. Not too bad and it should hold, although the voice of experience nagged at him to clamber out, trudge over to the equipment shed, and get a support to shore up the side. However, his aching limbs refused to move, resulting in a long stare at a writhing worm between his boots as he battled a curious urge to lie down in the squelchy, clinging clay.

Then the pressure dropped in his left ear and a high-pitched hum sprang up that felt like something shiny was spinning through his head. Disorientated, he took a half-step back, bumped into the wall, and sat on the side of the grave as a kind of murmuring voice tried to speak. He looked over at the small funeral party, but they were too far away and had their backs toward him for the whispery sound to be coming from them. There didn’t seem to be anything near him capable of making such a noise, either.

Fruitlessly slapping his head, he covered his ears and looked at O’Reilly as he shook hands and offered condolences. It was as if he were peering at the quiet churchyard scene through a telescope from miles away. He observed the priest turn and walk toward St Mary’s with a military bearing that was still noticeable despite the pronounced limp. The bulk of the mourners trailed behind him, some pausing to hug while others offered thin-lipped smiles of support and tightly controlled grief.

O’Reilly caught his eye and gave a discreet but curt upward hand movement. Jack wearily got up as the word Bushmills popped into his head. The ground tilted under his feet, forcing him to put out his arms. The priest halted and seemed to be on the verge of coming over before he turned away again.

Jack hung onto the upright spade, waiting for him to head for the rectory and disappear around the side of St Mary’s. Oddly chilled, he sat down again as the humming petered out. For a while he flexed his tired, aching hands, clearly able to picture Degsy and a bare-chested Mike standing next to a dead wild pig with their rifles slung over their backs. They were nudging the bloodied animal with their feet, joking and laughing about something as they poured beer over its head.

Jack blinked a few times, fearful of fading into the ground. He pinched a blistered thumb and watched the clear fluid ooze out. Behind him the church loomed, as if the building had somehow crept up on him.