We All Die Suddenly

By Andrew R. Murray

Amy Goodman was always such a supportive wife. Imagine her surprise when she discovers her husband is leaving her. He’s leaving her with more than confusion and a broken heart. It turns out he cheated on her, and due to the encounter, contracted a new form of HIV that he has now passed on to Amy.
The prognosis is bad, and Amy must face it herself. She is given a year to live, but she will not go quietly into that dark night. Instead, Amy burns the home she shared with her lying husband to the ground. She then begins a cross-country expedition that will end with her husband’s death.
She travels from Wisconsin to Colorado to California, leaving ruined men in her wake. The authorities find a man handcuffed to a bed in a motel room, and after her house burns down, they realize this case is more serious than they thought. Amy Goodman is out for bloody revenge, and nothing will stop her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Apr 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9781665705226

Andrew R. Murray

Andrew R. Murray was born in Des Moines, Iowa, and spent most of his life in southern Wisconsin. When he was twenty-one, he hopped on a bus to Florida with thirty-five dollars in his pocket. He was fleeing a life of drugs and ended up living in a cave behind the Stanley Hotel in Estes Park, Colorado. It was there he fell in love with the landscape and eventually he returned to Wisconsin, where he dedicated his life to writing.

Book preview

1

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T he train was leaving the station and Hank Goodman was getting on it—taking the Amtrak 41 all the way down the line into Canada. He packed his bags quickly and abruptly. There wasn’t enough room to fit his entire life in a briefcase, but he managed. He also didn’t have the heart to tell his wife Amy that while he was out workin’ late , he was actually deep in the city banging a ninety-five-dollar hooker, and contracted HIV. Worst of all, she didn’t know that the goodbye fuck would eventually kill her.

Why are you leaving?

A man has to do what a man has to do. He said. I’ll write.

What do you mean, you’ll write? She pleaded, holding onto his jacket with both hands. Take me with you.

I can’t.

He didn’t look back as he walked; out the door, into his car, down the road, out of her life, gone. The back of his neck. She would always remember the back of his neck. There was a swollen mark the size of a fifty-cent piece that could have only been the lips of another woman sucking his skin into her mouth. Amy let him go.

About a week later, feeling ill—thinking it was heartbreak—she paid her monthly visit to the esteemed Doctor Charles Fredricson. He introduced her to the unfortunate news. I’m sorry, Mrs. Goodman, he said. I’ve never seen anything like this.

Don’t call me Mrs. Goodman.

Pardon?

My name is not Mrs. Goodman. She said. Mrs. Goodman is dead.

2

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C lyde Bumpkin waited for the number nine bus. It would take him to the beachfront where he could watch the waves shine and reflect a glare from the morning’s sunshine. He’d have a few beers, examine all of the women who were scattering along the shore, and maybe he’d get lucky.

The bus pulled around the corner a block away just as he dove into his khaki shorts for some change. They only accepted quarters and one-dollar bills, exact change. Damn, he said, coming up with only three quarters. He looked around for some chivalrous strangers to barter with. No such luck on this day.

Traffic was stalled before him. He noticed a woman in a red truck. She was giving him a particular look. Her windows were rolled down. He could see her leaning, and the lining of her figure. He was impressed. Also intrigued by the fact that she sat in a red truck, at a red stoplight, wearing a red dress, and her hair was a blossoming bouquet of rose-colored curls.

He realized that he’d been staring too long. He noticed that she noticed. Then the light turned green, and she sped off with the rest of them. The bus pulled up to the stop and its doors opened for him. Sorry, man, Clyde said. I don’t have the funds.

The driver was in no mood and closed the doors almost as quickly as they had opened. A few minutes later, after the bus was completely out of sight, and he’d decided to head back to the apartment, a familiar truck came to a stop before him. A familiar face inside with familiar blushing cheeks. Hey there, Amy said. You need a ride somewhere?

Yea, Clyde said, poking his head inside the truck. A rich scent of caramel cloaked the stale fragrance of cigarette smoke. Ever since he was a child, the smell of cigarettes made him sickly and weak. The initial whiff sent fatigue crawling up his shoulders. He held it together though, this woman was quite beautiful—and most of all—she seemed to be interested. Why else would she have made an illegal U-turn, and come back for him? I was planning on the beach, but I haven’t the money for it.

I’m going that way, she said, smiling.

There was a faint look of curiosity in her eyes and what appeared to be desperation. Clyde always struggled at composing himself in front of a lady. He was not a smooth operator by any means. She on the other hand seemed to be the right fish. Someone, if he’d play his cards right, he could see more than just her curious eyes.

You’ll take me to the beach? Clyde asked.

Sure, why not.

He hesitated a moment. My mother used to warn me about taking rides from strangers.

Do you want the ride, or not?

He didn’t hesitate any longer and got in. What’s your name, babe?

Babe is fine.

She ran her fingers through her hair and thumbed the radio dials allowing an enthralling amount of funk music to spill into the truck’s cabin. Amy set a cigarette in her mouth and snapped a match to light it. The smoke swirled about her. That grey smog seemed to be her aura. Clyde gagged, reaching for the button to lower his window.

Does the smoke bother you?

No, I love it. he said. Absolutely adore it.

I can put it out if you’d like.

Would you?

She tossed her filthy habit out the window and rested the hand on his thigh. He jumped at her touch. Now I want you to do something for me.

What can I do for you?

We are going to stop at a motel I’m staying at, only for a while. I want you to fuck me and then I’ll take you to your beach.

Is that all? he laughed, sounding certainly amused.

Yes, that is all.

They arrived to the place, Grateful Nights. He made a pun about the name expressing how grateful he was. She merely nodded and showed him to room number seven. Home sweet home, she said, flipping the light switch on.

Am I your first guest today?

What’s that supposed to mean?

You mean you’re not a—

No, she said politely. I’m no whore.

She pointed to the bed and locked the door behind them. If you don’t mind, I’m going to freshen up in the bathroom. Make yourself comfortable.

How long does it take to step out of a dress?

Amy attempted to ignore the comment. Not long at all, she said, and pointed at the bed again. Sit.

There were a few lines of cocaine already cut and prepped on a dinner plate atop the bedside table. Are these complimentary? he asked as he removed his sneakers.

"Have at it, but save me some. Take a good toot, but not too much. I need your boy’s downstairs in mint condition."

They’re ready to run a fucking race. He picked up the straw and snorted two good bumps, leaving the rest for her. Halleluiah!

She returned and stood next to the bed leaning with one hand against the wall. Her long hair draped over her naked body. If someone shouted, Go! just then, any man would have gone—full breasts jiggling with her footsteps, an apple-bottomed butt, an enticing look of readiness. She held two pairs of handcuffs, one in each hand. She tossed them on the bed and picked up the straw to have a nice snort. A sneeze followed and she laid down next to him holding the plate outright. Go ahead. To be high is to be happy.

After taking another hit, he asked, What are the shackles for?

Just a safety precaution, you understand? That and I don’t want you running away on me.

I’m not going anywhere, babe.

Okay, she said. Then put them on. One for each wrist.

He did as he was told. She finished the job, locking each arm to the bed posts. The crazy shit I get myself into, he remarked.

We’re just getting started. Her grin was sharp, her voice stern. She held onto his hips as she went down on him. He had never received such a blowjob. Her lips were tight, wet, and soft. Her tongue was something like a serpent—he couldn’t believe what she could do with it—seemingly constricting his shaft with it. She could feel him giving way and pulled off. No, no, no. Not yet. I want the finale inside me.

What, huh? he said, still squeezing the bed posts tightly. What about protection?

That’s what the cuffs are for, she said, giggling. Before he could say another word, she mounted him, letting it rise inside of her. He gave maybe ten or fifteen good strokes before blasting every drop into her. The deed was done. She rolled to the other side of the bed whispering, Thank you.

She snorted another line, and lit a cigarette. Once again, the smoke rose and circled around her as if her body was emitting the smog—as if the smoke was coming from her. She grinned, taking long drags, watching him breathe and wondering, What’s next?

Wasn’t that sweet? she said. So, so sweet.

The smoke made him feel nauseous and light-headed. More so than he already was. How about we get these off of me now?

She sucked another deep drag, staring at him—staring at this weak man who couldn’t defend himself. She thought of her husband, the lying, cheating, scheming bastard. All of her hatred for him swarmed around her. I—don’t—think—so. She said, saying each word slowly, emphasizing each.

What? Clyde nearly screamed, swallowing a wad of what he thought was saliva, but then realized it was sweat. Twas a horrid thought he had just gulped down to his stomach.

Thanks for everything. Amy said. She walked about the room, collecting her belongings and packing them into a bag. We fight all day and night for something that we may never know— She paused. —love.

You’re joking, right? he asked with a sort of insecure chuckle. C’mon, babe. Stop playing around.

Once she slipped into her dress, and finished packing, she set the bag on the chair next to the door. She walked over to the bed, kneeled in front of it, and leaned close to him. Look at these eyes. Do you see them? You’ll never know of the pain they hide.

He said nothing, watching her and her only, for he could not look away.

A candle burns the wick down to the wax and once the wax is gone, all that is left is the flame, and the glass shatters. She got up to stand on her feet and walked backwards, towards the door, staring at him all the while. I’m the glass.

Please don’t leave me like this!

You’ll be fine. They’ll come for you, eventually.

She tossed the bag over her shoulder, opened the door, and turned once more. This is the beginning of the end. She locked the door behind her. His muffled screams would not be heard until the next morning, and by then he was much to worn for woe.

3

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I t looked to be a short road ahead, for Amy did not know how long she had. Dr. Fredricson told her that with the medicine he’d prescribed, and the proper treatment, she could live for another ten to fifteen years before the virus took its final course. But that was the thing. He’d never seen a case like this. The HIV cells were multiplying at an astounding rate—which was unheard of! They usually attach themselves to the body’s CD4 cells, suck them dry, and they burst. A healthy human has between 500 to 1,400 CD4 cells per cubic millimeter of blood. Amy Goodman had a level below 200 cells. Theoretically, he gave her a year to live. Optimistically, there was a chance that the virus would become dormant and dispel over time, but the only way to do that was to constantly flush it out. I’m not telling you to have intercourse with other people, but it seems in your case that consistent masturbation would benefit you. He pointed at the charts. Relieving muscle tension could potentially slow the rapid multiplication of these cells. Now, this is only a theory.

Amy thought of one thing; Revenge. Her sole objective was to find the scumbag she married and pull his heart out. The brain remains active for three to five minutes after the heart stops which gave her just enough time to show it to him, so she could see the look on his face as she sank her teeth into it. In the meantime, until she found him, she would go to work on the others. Any man that reminded her of Him, she would give them the incurable disease. She was going to spread her vengeance until it was only mana a mana; Hank and Amy.

She wasn’t doing this for herself either, no. This was for all the women who couldn’t fight the good fight. ‘May women inherit the earth’.

This is my world now, Amy said as she pulled onto the highway out of Wisconsin, heading west. She hadn’t a plan yet, but several things were in motion. She thought of these fellow sisters more and more—every story she’d ever heard of an innocent girl getting stalked, followed, and raped. And the cowards that beat their wives into a coma. This was all fuel for the fire. These bastards were about to receive there just desserts and hung on live television so the world could see how pathetic they were.

Roberto Benson was on his way to becoming one of these bastards. He had never taken advantage of anyone, or laid a hand in an unfamiliar way on a woman. He was a young man who knocked up his girlfriend and wasn’t ready to commit his life to raising a family. He was fleeing the scene by foot. His thumb faced the west, his backpack hung over one shoulder, and coming from the east was the big red truck. She pulled alongside the lad.

Need a lift? she asked.

Where you heading?

Nowhere really. I was out and about. Hop in.

Roberto threw his bag in the flatbed and ran to the other side. They drove off together.

I’m Ms. Glass.

Hey there, he said. I’m Roberto.

They shook hands. The tension was relieved by that one simple gesture.

So, where can I take you?

As far as you can. He said. I’m trying to get out to California.

Well, let’s go there then.

You’ll take me there? he asked, quite surprised. He wasn’t expecting this so soon.

Yeah, I can do that, provided that you do something for me.

Her hand rested on his inner thigh. She was getting good at making the first move. As her hand lay there, the lad became aroused almost instantly. She felt his erection growing beneath his jeans. A ride and a lay, huh? I hit the jackpot.

You sure did. Amy said, casually retaining possession of the wheel.

You mind if I roll a joint? he asked. This calls for a celebration.

Go right ahead, sweetheart.

She glanced to her left and saw horses galloping in their pasture attempting to keep up with her. So, tell me about yourself.

What’s there to tell? he said, licking the seams of the paper. I just graduated from school.

Oh, splendid. What did you major in?

High School, he snickered, and lit the joint.

A thick fog filled the cab. Suddenly Amy wasn’t so sure of herself, or her motives. This was just some young kid with his whole life ahead of him, and she wondered even if he’d been a college grad, would it have mattered? He was still so young, so bright. She said, Well, that’s wonderful.

Roberto held the doobie out for her, but she waved in refusal. I was never partial to drugs. She lied, but she had to. Kids were getting so fucked up these days. She didn’t want to contribute, giving him any impression on what’s right or what’s wrong.

It’s good for ya, he insisted. I never found no harm in weed. How come they persecute people who just want to get high and happy, but they advertise the hell out of alcohol? That’s the nasty shit. It’s poison. They make it seem all holly jolly on television, but in reality, it’s killing people left and right and tearing families apart. All weed ever did was bring people together, but Uncle Sam don’t like that cause’ he ain’t getting his twenty percent. All folks care about is money. Greed is like gold to those depraved chicken fuckers.

I like you, Amy said. And she did. He was really rubbing off on her. You have some good points.

She looked to him through the corner of her eye. He was returning the smile. Alright, let me hit that shit.

4

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M r. and Mrs. Congreve were celebrating their tenth anniversary. The sun was glaring down on their morning, shining bright like their spirits. Terri had finally convinced her sister, Vicci, to look after the boys. Every babysitter in town seemed to know of the Congreve boys. They were notorious and not in a good way, which made it hard to get away. To Mommy and Daddy’s face they were little angels, but behind their sleeping backs and closed doors they turned into little sadists.

They duct taped the last one, a young girl named Stephanie. They left a breathing hole for her mouth, but the rest of her body was tightly wrapped with tape. When asked to explain the affair the boys responded with, She got really drunk and started runnin’ tape ’round herself.

At the time she had been drinking, and there was a bottle on the table to prove it, so their parents bought the lie. Stephanie cried and adjured, attempting to explain what had really happened, but it was of no good use. Afterwards she was given the boot without pay. John asked the boys how she managed to do such a thing. Rick, the oldest, already had a well-placed fib waiting in the hangar bay. She wrapped some tape around the table, Daddy. Started spinnin’ circles, yelling bad words. You know, pa? The F-bomb.

She had been connected to one of the legs of the table, so all the proof was right there. The bottle of whisky, the table, the tape, all factual—all believable.

Terri’s sister, Vicci, was a big ole girl. She was six feet tall and weighed close to three hundred pounds. Surely, she could handle the whipper snappers. She had always been the last resort. The boys didn’t like that. Simply because she could handle them, and they knew it.

Please don’t leave us with her, Johnny Jr. said. He tried every line in the book from, She beats us. to, She touches us down d’ere.

She does not! Terri snapped. Don’t you dare talk about your Auntie like that. You will behave yourselves and that’s final. Otherwise you will not watch TV for a year!

The children relished the time they spent with the tube, and maybe that’s what was wrong with them. Rick was ten and Johnny Jr. was eight and they were already asking for cell phones. That’s the number one item that kids wanted for Christmas that year. Not a pony, not a bb-gun, not world peace; a cell phone.

Vicci showed up