Stories from the Edge

By Pro Se Press

The Edge is a place that exists on the shadowy fringe of our everyday world. One step beyond and yet right in front of our faces. Where desperation, desire and the unexplainable collide to determine who gets what they want...and who gets what's coming to them.

In Stories from the Edge, Spencer Loeb takes us to The Edge for the first time with four short stories set in - and just beyond - the American southwest. Tales in which a thief steals from Death and a man seeks out “The Shaman Shrink” to sleep again. Stories of a fateful train ride for bad men and a gambler who bets and raises himself into a strange world where it may be too late to call.

Stories From the Edge by Spencer Loeb. From Pro Se Productions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pro Se Press
• Release date: Aug 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370690459

Pro Se Press

Based in Batesville, Arkansas, Pro Se Productions has become a leader on the cutting edge of New Pulp Fiction in a very short time.Pulp Fiction, known by many names and identified as being action/adventure, fast paced, hero versus villain, over the top characters and tight, yet extravagant plots, is experiencing a resurgence like never before. And Pro Se Press is a major part of the revival, one of the reasons that New Pulp is growing by leaps and bounds.

Book preview

STORIES FROM THE EDGE

By

Spencer Loeb

Published by Pro Se Press at Smashwords

STORIES FROM THE EDGE

A Pro Se Publications

All rights reserved under U.S. and International copyright law. This book is licensed only for the private use of the purchaser. May not be copied, scanned, digitally reproduced, or printed for re-sale, may not be uploaded on shareware or free sites, or used in any other manner without the express written permission of the author and/or publisher. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Written by Spencer Loeb

Editing by Jason Norton

Cover Art by Andrew Ritchie

Book Design by Antonino Lo Iacono

www.prose-press.com

STORIES FROM THE EDGE

Copyright © 2016 Spencer Loeb

Table of Contents

Worse Things Than Death

Desert fun Amusement

Rail 715

Into the Night

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Worse Things Than Death

Dash shot down the desert highway towards the smoldering, setting sun on his silver Ducati. He’d stolen from Death, and thanks to last night’s downing of a dozen or so vodka-Red Bulls the miserable fossil wasn’t far behind. He bit his lip in frustration as the fiery orange sphere cast its blinding rays against the ruby-colored horizon.

How could he have been so stupid? If Dash had just stayed in his paint-peeled motel room and watched the Lakers game, he’d have been on the road by sunrise with a good six-hour lead on the Reaper. But he’d gone out, gotten hammered, and almost lost the gem. A near disaster that would have wrecked his only chance to make things right with a crime boss like Storm.

And for what?

He swerved as the highway curved northward.

So he could take a coked-out stripper back to his motel room. And what a winner she’d been. If Storm and his Black Circle goombas knew he’d almost ruined the deal because of a thieving pole dancer and a wicked hangover they’d probably kill him on the spot. But he’d been lucky. He’d woken when the drugged-out dummy had stumbled in her spiked heels as she’d tried to sneak off with the diamond. It was a lifesaver that he’d already had the silencer fastened to his gun. He’d clipped her in the leg and sprung forward, forcing the girl to the floor. Killing her wasn’t an option since the Reaper would appear the instant she died. With the weapon pressed against her head, he’d reached into his overnight bag, pulling out a syringe and a bottle of sodium pentothal. Dash had then injected her with the perfect dose to put her into a nice, long coma. "There are worse things than death," the girl whispered as she’d faded into oblivion.

I doubt it, baby, he’d said back.

The sun dipped behind the California mountains, making life easier on Dash’s eyes as the skyline faded into a soft, tangerine glow. It would be dark soon and Dash flipped on the bike’s headlight just as he passed a sign that read Death Valley, 32 Miles. Dash took another look back. Still no sign of the big guy. Maybe the rumors were true, Death was losing his edge.

Storm had set a portal to appear in Copper Hill, a ghost town two hours northwest of Vegas. The mob boss and one or two of his Black Circle boys would be waiting for him on the other side in The Void; an infinite realm where nothing could be born, and more importantly, nothing could die. A realm forbidden to Death.

Dash smiled as he buzzed by blurred silhouettes of rocks and cacti. No one could have pulled the number on the Reaper that he just did. Storm had known that. And that’s why instead of putting a bullet in Dash’s brain, he’d offered him a job.

Of course, Dash hadn’t known that Stacia was Storm’s lady when she’d picked him up at Manhattan’s Rattler Club. But three days later, when a couple of bruisers kicked down Dash’s apartment door, slammed his back against the floor and shoved a black-and-white photo of Stacia in his face, he’d pretty much figured it out. Storm’s goons then took Dash to The Black Hammer, a smoky dive bar where AC/DC blared from the juke box and the leather-jacketed boozers pounded their whiskeys and beers. One of the apes had placed a heavy hand on the back of Dash’s neck and guided him to a bourbon-colored booth at the back of the bar. In it, with his hands neatly folded on the silver metal table and his jaw set tight, had sat the Storm Murphy. Or, as those not within a thousand feet liked to call him, Little Napoleon.

Storm had pointed to the vacant side of the booth and the heavy hand shoved Dash into it so hard he’d banged into the brick wall at the opposite end. He’d straightened himself and pulled a pack of Marlboros and a silver Zippo from his jean pocket. Slipping a cig out with his teeth, he’d lit it, taken a draw, and blown the smoke at Storm’s thugs.

Storm watched him with narrowed, blue eyes. After a few seconds he slid his left hand into his suit jacket and pulled out a Glock 26. He’d set the gun on the table. Explain, he said.

So Dash did. He’d told him how he hadn’t known who Stacia was when she’d picked him up at the Manhattan club. And that he’d never knowingly cross Storm or the Black Circle.

Both statements were true.

Little Napoleon had listened quietly and then looked down at his hands, nodding as he rubbed them together. His expression softened. Even the tiny hothead knew he was involved with a two-timing slut.

So Storm had made him an offer. Bring him Death’s Diamond and he’d pretend the mistake never happened. It was a hell of a deal for Little Napoleon. He’d been after the diamond for almost three years and he knew Dash was the elite thief in the sacred charm underworld. Things always came back to business in this world, and regardless of the sexual smoke, Dash and Storm were still professionals. The mobster wanted the stone and Dash could get it for him. Problem solved.

Dash glimpsed the upcoming road sign. Copper Hill: 15 Miles. He checked behind him. The highway appeared clear of any avenging angels. Tapping the I-Link button on the bike’s digital green display, his carbon racing helmet filled with moody synthesizer and percussive beats. A jagged bolt of white lightning flashed across the sky. Great sign. Portals discharged electrical currents which often influenced the weather.

A jack rabbit darted onto the road and Dash leaned hard left, barely missing it. He straightened up and glanced back to see the ugly sucker bouncing down the highway. That’s why he wore the racing armor. One bad slip without the Kevlar and you’d be getting a bone-shattering body rub. Dash eased on the gas as another sign streaked by. Copper Hill. 10 Miles. Almost there. Once he reached the portal he would pass through to the Void. He’d never been in there but he knew the essentials. Besides the life/death thing, the Void served as a sort of hub where you could then open another portal and go anywhere in the world you wanted. Once Dash no longer had the diamond, Death would lose interest in him and Storm would be able to throw the Reaper off his trail by jumping to whatever city or country he felt like.

A flash of fire reflected off Dash’s side mirror.

He whipped his head around to see a set of blood-red flames charging down the starlit desert highway. Damn it. The Reaper had caught up.

He kicked the bike in the guts and it shot up to 100 but soon the entire road glared with Death’s hellish night beams. Dash saw the nose of The Reaper’s black Lamborghini Diablo creeping up on his left. The Diablo swerved in, forcing him to jerk the bike so that it skirted against some stubby Cholla cacti scattered along side of the road. Dash steadied the cycle, throttled back and fired ahead, his body pressed tight against the bike as it screamed down the highway.

At this speed, the ghost town would come up too fast. He couldn’t just ride into the Void; the combined force of the cycle and the portal would cause the bike to explode, most likely killing him before he hit the other side. Dash snapped open the holster strapped to his left thigh and pulled out the Smith & Wesson. He couldn’t hurt Death but maybe he could damage his ride.

Controlling the bike with his right hand, Dash snapped off a shot. There was a puff of smoke as a handful of orange sparks bounced off the car’s tinted windshield. He aimed at the hood and pulled the trigger again. A few more sparks. Bastard’s got the thing enchanted. Maybe the tires.

The bike swayed and Dash brought his left hand back to straighten course. A heavy thump