Riders on the Storm and Other Killer Songs

By Dave Franklin

With stories set in 1950s America, 1970s Australia and Victorian London, Dave Franklin turns three killer songs into horrifying tales of crime:

 

Riders on the Storm (The Doors) 

Then Came the Last Days of May (Blue Oyster Cult) 

Nice Man Jack (John Miles) 

 

In this murder-packed anthology, a young man vows to live by the gun and roam, three boys dream of escaping their outback town, and a well-respected gentleman takes to the streets of Whitechapel.

 

Nice Man Jack & Then Came the Last Days of May are also available separately. Dave Franklin has written ten novels.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Baby Ice Dog Press
• Release date: Jan 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524216207

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

Riders on the Storm

Where are you taking me?

Peggy Welch tutted as Dwayne Beeler glanced sideways at her and smirked while tapping his fingers on the wheel to American Pie. She’d already asked the question four times in one form or another since getting in. They were on Range Line Road and nearing Northpark Mall but couldn’t be going there because he’d told her to bring warm clothes and a flashlight.

Besides, there was no way a chocolate sundae at DQ followed by a wander through Penney’s aisles was Dwayne’s style.

At least, she hoped not.

She listened to the Beetle’s noisy phut-phut and stared out at Joplin’s shops, many of which were already decorated with tinsel, fairy lights and brightly wrapped presents in their windows. Snow dusted the sidewalk. As they passed the mall and turned right onto East 7th Street, she turned up the heating and settled back to take a few sneak peeks at her new boyfriend.

Dwayne Beeler. Mmm...

She liked his dark eyes and wavy, collar-length hair, as well as the offhand way he talked to teachers and all those stories about him getting drunk and fighting with the other kids over at Parkwood. At some angles he looked a bit like Jim Morrison, especially when pouting in his black leather pants. As the car slipped onto Route 66 she was seized by a mad fantasy that the Doors frontman had magically come back from the grave and they were now heading out into the great unknown for endless adventure...

But if they were eloping or something, why had he barely said ten words since picking her up? Not once had he remarked on her cute cherry lip gloss or blue eye shadow and it had taken her ages to get both those things just right. In fact, he seemed distracted, as if concentrating on something nearby much more important, an all too common Dwayne Beeler mannerism that made her want to simultaneously give up and try harder.

Boys.

She slowly exhaled. Her eyes left his profile and dropped to the front of his pants. A tingling sensation grew in her stomach.

But was she going to let him do anything like Cindy Robertson had done with her boyfriend?

No, it was far too cold. And her first time was most definitely not going to be in a car.

Perhaps second base would be OK, though. After all, they had been seeing each other for almost two weeks.

Well, whatever happened, tonight was bound to be a lot more exciting than last year’s birthday watching The Brady Bunch round at grandma’s.

She glanced up from his lap only to find him looking straight at her and grinning.

See anything you like, babe?

N-no... I was just...

She felt the heat rise in her face, prompting her to reach for the radio as he laughed in a mildly contemptuous way.

Why’re we listening to Don McLean anyway? You said he was boring!

He smacked her hand away from the radio’s pushbuttons, causing the car to swerve.

"Ow! What’d you do that for?"

My car, my rules. KTGC tonight.

"Yeah, but there was no need to hit me."

He half-smiled. I’ll kiss your little pinkies better later.

No, thanks. I don’t want your cooties.

He gave another infuriating smirk. Is that right?

His hand left the stick shift and squeezed her left thigh. She shouted, but he simply smiled again and for a moment she hated him. Arrogant bastard. She waited for an apology while rubbing her hand long after the sting had faded, but his attention was back on the road. Feeling invisible again, she had a good mind to demand the car be stopped. Lucky for him they’d come a bit too far from her home and it was only about thirty-five outside.

Then she saw the woman who’d been married to Richard Johnson struggling along the sidewalk with an armful of shopping.

Hey, look! She pointed through the windshield. There’s Richard’s wife. She frowned. "Widow. Isn’t it weird saying ‘widow’ about someone so young?"

Huh...?

Let’s give her a lift.

Why? Who is she?

"You know, Richard’s wife. He was a friend of my brother’s."

Dwayne looked blank.

The one who was killed by the tornado.

Dwayne nodded. Right, he managed, without any discernible trace of sympathy.

Slow down. Now they were close enough to pick out the woman’s bell-bottoms, blonde hair, green earmuffs and the little clouds of white vapor escaping her mouth. Let’s... Ah, Dwayne! You passed her now.

Peggy turned in her seat to keep her in view, although she didn’t really know why. It wasn’t as if they’d ever met or talked or anything. She’d just seen her picture a few times in The Joplin Globe. She turned again and folded her arms, feeling a little deflated.

I can’t remember her name.

So?

Richard... Well...

Well, what?

He’s the only person I’ve met who’s gone and died.

Dwayne grunted. Heavy.

Peggy was certain the tornado that had struck Joplin eighteen months ago was the most exciting thing to have ever happened there, especially as it arrived without even a squeak from the town sirens. She’d just sat down to dinner – mom was serving the mint peas – when a fierce sense of foreboding grabbed her. She looked out the window to witness the extraordinary moment the tornado touched down on 22nd Street before it smashed into Sears Plaza and swerved toward 7th Street on its five-mile wide trail of destruction.

The tornado caught up with Richard Johnson in Anderson’s Trailer Park over in Prosperity – what a dumb name! – and she sometimes wondered what his last moments had been like. Did he have the slightest inkling Death was barreling straight toward him? Only a couple of weeks beforehand she’d watched him from her bedroom window throwing a baseball around the backyard and he’d seemed so, well... alive.

Her take on things hadn’t quite been the same since the tornado, especially as she caught reminders of its violence – a half-demolished wall, a space that an entire building used to occupy, or a piece of twisted metal high up in a tree – pretty much every day. Now it seemed life was random and unpredictable and anyone could buy it at anytime because you never knew who or what was going to cross your path.

Like maybe at the next intersection an enormous truck would run a red and make mincemeat out of them. She stared out of the windshield as the notion gained strength, causing her to clench her hands. She could even see the bearded trucker in his cab reaching behind for something, his eyes momentarily off the road. There’d be a second or two to scream, the sixteen-wheeler’s steel grille would T-bone their tiny car, and her last thought would be about something stupid like her algebra homework lying on the bedroom table.

But then they reached the junction and the traffic was orderly, leaving them to smoothly turn right onto Schifferdecker Avenue.

As they drove past the park and into Chitwood, the cars began to thin. They crossed Turkey Creek and the street lighting fell away.

Where was he taking her? Smithfield? Carl Junction? Were they leaving the state for a jaunt into Oklahoma?

There was very little up here, except huge poisonous piles of chat, sink holes in the woods, abandoned mining equipment, and plenty of places her folks had warned her to never play in. Patches of freezing fog started drifting across the narrow road. The trees on either side seemed to be bending toward the car as a sorrowful Don McLean sang about the day the music died.

She bit her lip and glanced at the pair of silver flashlights lying in the footwell.

Where are you taking me?

You’ll see.

Dwayne...

She wiped away some condensation on the glass and peered out, convinced the headlights had lost a little of their power. No other cars passed.

There’s nothing up here. Nothing at all. I wanna go back.

Then there was an odd pause that felt like a breach in existence, a tiny puncture in the fabric of time that was going to rapidly expand and swallow her. A split-second later the car violently backfired, the sound as loud and threatening as a gunshot.

Sorry, Dwayne said. Sometimes it does that.

He slowed at a T-junction and turned left onto Peace Church Avenue. Suddenly she knew where they were going. The knowledge was mystifying, if not a little unsettling. They were on their way to the Baptist church with its sprawling, neglected cemetery that was the last resting place of the town’s pioneers and Civil War dead.

But why? Why in God’s name would he be taking her to such an awful place?

She wasn’t even sure the church was still in use, especially given the semi-derelict nature of its graveyard. In the handful of times she’d wandered round there she’d never seen a living soul. Many of the tombstones were broken or covered by rampant undergrowth.

But what made things worse was that some said the place was haunted, that strange noises could be heard at night and spectral shapes –

Dwayne slammed on the brakes, causing her to tumble forward and shriek.

"You idiot! What’d you do – "

He had a finger against his lips as he pointed at the radio. She rubbed her jarred arm and stared at him, hearing nothing at first. Then she picked up on heavy rain pattering against a road and the DJ saying: "And this one goes out to a little lady by the name of Peggy Welch."

Her eyes widened and she clapped a hand over her mouth.

"Now I’ve been told it’s Peggy’s sixteenth birthday and her boyfriend Dwayne Beeler – a squeal escaped her – wants to say happy birthday on her big day by dedicating this very special tune – already a KTGC fave, as well as Peggy’s all-time favorite – to her. Happy birthday, Peggy! Hope all’s well with you and that you can lie back and enjoy The Doors and Riders on the Storm."

Peggy lunged across the passenger seat and tried to hug Dwayne’s side as the song’s familiar thunderclap gave way to its insistent bass line.

"Oh, thank you! Thank you! Thank you! She frantically kissed his cheek as he half-heartedly protested. That’s the best birthday present anyone’s ever – "

OK, OK. Let’s listen to the song.

"Drive! She pushed him, a bit harder than intended. We’ve gotta be driving while this is on. Oh, if only it was raining! Why can’t it rain?"

Dwayne put the car into gear as Jim Morrison’s moody vocals started. Peggy grabbed Dwayne’s upper arm and held it tight.

"Slower! Drive slower!"

The Bug began crawling along the lonely road at twenty-five miles per hour. Peggy quietly sang along to every word, making prolonged eye contact with Dwayne when told she had to love her man. It was as if she’d fallen into the song and sometimes it felt like the electric piano’s bursts of shimmering, descending notes were being played right down her spine. When the brooding, rain-lashed song finished, Dwayne drove for another minute or so in silence before gently stopping outside the cemetery. The headlights illuminated a badly faded sign on one of its pillars.

They looked at each other.

Peggy leaned across and kissed him deeply, allowing his hand to find her breast. She sat back, not quite able to control her breathing while running her tongue along her lips. Was that whiskey she could taste?

"Thank you, Dwayne. That’s gotta be the best song ever. And I’ll never forget that dedication. I’ll never forget this moment."

He looked down and seemed almost bashful. It’s OK.

Now the DJ was playing a Neil Diamond song they both hated. They laughed as Dwayne turned it off.

But...

What?

"How... Why are we here? At this place."

Well, there’s bit of a story to that.

She smiled. Go on.

Remember that assignment I gotta do for ol’ peg leg Leadbetter?

She frowned. Er... the town history thing?

Yeah, it’s a right pain in the ass. He turned off the ignition and lights, plunging them into darkness. I was in the library looking up –

"You? In the library?"

– all Joplin’s important people and I happened to find out about some real badass called Billy Cook.

Yeah...?

Yeah. He killed a whole bunch of people back at the start of the fifties.

That’s terrible.

And guess what?

She shrugged, prompting Dwayne to raise his eyebrows and nod toward the cemetery.

Are you saying... She looked out into the darkness beyond the car. "Are you saying he’s buried in there?"

"Yeah, they gassed him at San Quentin twenty years ago tonight, but cos he was a local boy, they brought his body back to his hometown. He smiled. Good ol’ Joplin, Missouri in the U S of A."

Peggy squirmed in her seat. Oh, Dwayne, don’t...

What? You should be grateful for his little murder spree.

Why?

"What do you think Riders on the Storm is about?"

OK. She frowned, aware of the ticking, cooling engine. Her eyes had adjusted to the inky blackness, but she could hardly make out any details of Dwayne’s face. "But... why have we come here?"

He reached down across her lap and a moment later had switched on one of the flashlights. Guess.

She looked at the cemetery again. "You mean...? No... You’ve gotta be kidding. It’s my birthday, Dwayne. I can’t – "

What better way to spend a birthday? Didn’t expect me to take you to the flicks or something, did ya?

Yeah, but... looking for the grave of a mass murderer? At night?

And we might have to look for a while. They didn’t want him buried on any hallowed ground, you see. He’s somewhere on the outskirts. No one’s quite sure where.

But... Can’t we take a rain check? Come back tomorrow or something?

Why?

"Go figure, Dwayne. It’s freezin’."

You’re just scared.

No! No, I’m not. It’s just... She shook her head. This is crazy.

Let’s go. He opened the door and an icy blast of cold air rushed in. She didn’t move. C’mon, scaredy cat. Where’s your sense of adventure?

Peggy tutted, got out and put on her mittens. Her nose began to tingle as she vigorously rubbed the tops of her arms. Then Dwayne half-ran at her making ghostly noises with a flashlight switched on under his chin. She backed away, laughing.

Stop it, you douchebag!

He slowly reached out and took her hand. Even through her mittens the contact was pleasant and reassuring. She looked at the sky, unable to see the moon and only the faintest twinkle from a star or two. A pronounced chill began creeping up her legs.

Don’t worry, little Peggy Welch, I’ll protect you.

Make sure you do.

You ready?

Yes.

They kissed and hugged again, but just as she wanted more, he broke off. They say Billy Cook doesn’t rest in peace, you know. They say he still wand –

Stop trying to scare me, Dwayne! I don’t believe in the... supernatural. All that... nonsense.

OK. Sure.

Then he was pulling her toward the desolate graveyard as the ghostly voice of Jim Morrison warning of a killer on the road echoed inside her head.

****

Hard luck.

Billy Cook lay on his back on the prison bunk, staring at the words tattooed on his left knuckles. He flexed the hand, callused and scabbed from months of making license plates, and formed a fist as he replayed stalking into the showers.

Three naked cons had seen the look on his face, sensed something was going down, and scuttled out of the way. At the far end Ray Stead stood shrouded in mist, the thin jets of water beating on his upturned face.

Billy willed himself to do it, but halted with his unnaturally straight arm carried slightly behind him. He stared at the dark green jailhouse tats on the older, much more thickset man and knew he’d never win a fair fight. Wouldn’t stand a chance.

It had to be this way.

Stead glanced over, cocked his head, and stepped out from under the shower. He didn’t even reach for a towel as he put both hands on his hips and gave a slow grin.

"What?"

They stared at each other before Stead raised an upturned hand and beckoned with tiny movements of his fingertips.

Billy swallowed as a hot fog pounded away behind his eyes. He felt drained and chalky and really thought he was going to slink away with all the weeks of taunting unavenged.

Stead’s grin faded. Thought so.

He hawked and spit, leaving Billy to stare at the yellowy globule on the wet floor. By the time he looked at Stead again, the man had not only returned to the shower, but had turned his back and was running both hands through his thick, curly hair.

And then he glanced over his shoulder and said: You still here, Cock-Eyed Cook?

Billy made some sort of strangulated noise as the broken pool cue he’d been concealing up a sleeve slid into view. Stead’s eyes widened – Billy cherished that detail – and the man backed off, but with the green-tiled wall right behind there was nowhere to go.

Billy cried out and dashed forward with the raised cue. A moment later it smashed into a thigh. Stead dropped shrieking before Billy punched him so hard he fancied he’d left the words inked across his knuckles imprinted on the bastard’s face. The next minute or so remained a blur as the joyous blows rained down.

That had been two days ago and Stead was still recovering in the prison hospital. It had been a risk doing him, but Stead was no snitch and would undoubtedly try to sort things out himself.

Billy just had to keep a low profile and remain on guard.

So far, so good and in less than half an hour he’d never have to worry about Ray fucking Stead ever again.

Then his chest began aching and he realized he hadn’t been breathing. He sucked in a juddering breath, able to taste the damp air coming off the Missouri. It was a river he’d viewed from the prison train on his way into The Walls and never again since.

Still, with most of the men outside in the yard, at least A Hall was quiet. No clanging cell doors, jangling keys, tin cups being dragged against the iron bars, threats or screams, boots thudding into flesh or guards barking orders.

Peace. Blessed peace. Time for a man to think.

Billy fingered the five-digit number on the left hand side of his raggedy coveralls, experiencing an odd urge to tear it off and eat it. Instead he put his hands behind his head and squinted at the ceiling.

Despite the murky light, he could just about make out a water droplet forming on the bright red pipe six odd feet away. Over the past three weeks he’d discovered it took between five and five and a half minutes for it to become heavy enough to fall.

No one had done a damned thing about his bitter complaints. He’d tried getting his latest cellmate – a small but hard as nails wetback called Rodriquez who spoke little English – to swap, but all his wheedling had come to naught.

He slowly exhaled. What did a leaking overhead pipe matter anyway? Soon he’d be making some easy dough and be out on the town wolfing down a fat, juicy T-bone before catching a John Wayne western at The Fox.

And boy, were things gonna be different in little ol’ Joplin. This time people were gonna do what he said.

He turned to the wall and studied the black and white photo stuck on it of a smiling, middle-aged woman with homely eyes. His focus softened. He concentrated and tried to conjure up some images, but nothing would form. Instead a dim memory of last night’s dream took shape, something about being terribly thirsty, seeing a well and stumbling toward it before clambering up onto its side and reaching for the bucket of water, only to tip forward and tumble into its endless darkness...

He thumped a fist into the thin mattress and shifted onto his other side to study the cell’s fixtures – a tiny washbasin wedged in the corner, a metal john that lacked a lid, a four-inch wide slit that passed for a window, and a thin rectangular shelf jutting out from the white wall. A couple of mugs and a carton of milk sat upon the shelf, along with Rodriquez’s almost-completed matchstick model of an arch bridge.

Then he heard footsteps approaching from the right. Were Stead’s goons finally going to try something?

He leapt off the top bunk, whipped out a plastic shard of mirror, and poked it through the bars.

He breathed out. No need for his toothbrush/razorblade shiv hidden in the half-full milk carton. It was just Father Schlattman, one of the chaplains.

Billy paced the five steps to the door and back again to the stone wall that was bone-cold to the touch. A downward, rolling stomach cramp made him halt – the slop they served up in the dining hall was making him sick again – and he didn’t know whether to laugh or shout or cry.

Good afternoon, William.

He turned to see Father Schlattman, a paunchy, balding man in his sixties with cavernous nostrils and trembling hands. The desire to taunt flickered through his head but then he noticed the green apple in the priest’s hand.

What you want?

I always try to bring the men some sort of treat and a cigarette on their last day.

The priest held the Granny Smith out, savvy enough not to put his hand through the bars. Billy grabbed it and bit into it, forced to pause as pain flared in his bottom row of teeth. He waited for the discomfort to fade and began slowly chewing. The tart taste was so intense that he sat on the lower bed to relish it. It must have been more than three weeks since he’d had any fresh fruit. Or decent chow for that matter. Yesterday there’d been mouse droppings in the vegetable soup, leaving some of the men to joke that at least they were finally getting some protein.

I understand you’re getting out today, William.

Uh-huh, he said through a mouthful of apple.

I just came by to wish you the best of luck.

Well, t’riffic, but I’d rather have some cash.

The priest smiled. Same old William.

C’mon, father. Give us a few bucks. They been payin’ us next to nothing in the factory. Fuckin’ slave labor.

You are a prisoner, William. Anyhow, I’ve just given you an apple.

Billy stared at him. As usual, the priest didn’t know which eye to focus on, his vision flicking between the two and then dropping to the floor.

Do you have any plans?

Yeah, hundreds.

The priest waited. And what are they?

Going back to Joplin to see my ma.

"Your mother...? I thought..."

Look. Billy stood on tiptoe, reached over the width of the top bed, and pulled the photo off the wall. He pushed it through the bars. This is her. She’s already promised a freshly baked cherry pie when I walk in through the door. Real good cook, my ma is.

Father Schlattman frowned and turned the picture over. But this is a...

What?

Nothing. That’s good, William. He smiled, almost sadly. That’s really good you’ve somewhere to go. He handed the picture back. And what about work?

Billy pocketed the photo and shrugged. Does it matter?

Of course it matters! The priest leaned back against the red guardrail. It’s vital to have a plan, some... goals. Structure and discipline keep us on the Lord’s path.

Billy exhaled. Here we go, another bloody lecture about the devil. For a moment he imagined the cell door magically sliding open, enabling him to step forward and push the priest over the side. Then he’d look down at him sprawled on the floor fifteen feet below, his head leaking like a broken water melon.

When you’re released, you must watch out for the devil, William. A plump finger with a badly chewed nail wagged at him. Beware of the devil. He will take many forms and try to tempt you in many ways. Strap on the full armor of God so you will be able to stand firm against –

– the schemes of the devil. Yeah, yeah, heard it all before. Can’t you change the bloody tune?

William, I’m just trying to...

Billy sat on the bottom bunk again and concentrated on the delicious apple while doing his level best to blot out Schlattman’s droning. Then he heard another set of footsteps on the tier and from the heavy clomp knew it was a bull. Officer Lewandowski, a granite-faced slab of meat, promptly appeared with nightstick in hand.

It would have to be that bastard.

Billy smoothed his hair and stared at the faded bloodstain on the floor, already sensing the way the Polack’s top lip had curled upward.

Prisoner 66495, on your feet.

Billy dropped the core and back-heeled it under the bed.

Lewandowski sighed. Don’t make me ask twice, boy.

My name’s Billy. Billy Cook.

He pointed the nightstick at him. Not until your scrawny ass is outside those front gates, sunshine. Now get up.

Officer, is there any need to speak to the man so –

Father! He swiveled to face him. With all due respect, you speak to the prisoners your way and I’ll speak to them mine. He turned back to Billy. You want outta here or not?

Billy slowly got to his feet.

Turn around. Eyes against the wall. Hands behind your back. He bellowed down the tier. Open fifty-eight!

There was a buzz, the sound of screeching metal, and a loud electric hum as the door crashed open.

Billy turned and stared at the unlocked cell, momentarily puzzled as to why his feet didn’t want to move. Instead he put his palm on top of Rodriquez’s matchstick bridge and slowly crushed it.

"Oh, Billy, that was a beautiful piece of –