Free Buried Slaughter by Ryan Casey Page A

lads,” John said, getting nearer to the edge of the trench. “Lightning’s striking. Wouldn’t want you to fry now, would we?”
    He stopped at the edge of the trench. He could see the blue mat that Bob and Harry had been folding out loosely dangling over the trench. Another bolt of lightning flashed, making John jump.
    “Gotcha, boys. Gonna make sure you stay down here for this. Quit messing around, you lame fuckers.” He grabbed the edge of the blue mat and pulled it aside.
    As he did, he tumbled back. There was a bright light shining from the trench. A flashlight that Harry or Bob definitely had not had beforehand. At least, not that he knew of. And it was shining right up at him, blinding his eyes.
    “Je…‌Jesus, lads. What are you…‌what are you doing down there?”
    It was as John’s vision started to adjust to the light that he realised there was no joke after all.
    His heart raced. His throat went dry. “Oh shit…‌Just…‌Oh shit.” He turned to run away, but something stopped him. An invisible force gripped his heels and sent him crashing into the wet ground as he tried to throw himself away.
    “Shit! Somebody! Please!”
    As he dug his bitten-down nails into the dirt, he knew his screams were in vain. He had a sense of what was happening, but his mind still wanted to believe it was all a joke.
    “Please,” John sobbed. He stuck his fingers right into the sloppy ground at the edge of the trench as the force pulled him from behind. “Quit…‌Quit playing around. Whoever it is, just…‌Please.”
    Another bolt of lightning struck in the distance.
    A hard thump crashed into John’s back, harder than anything he’d ever felt in his life.
    He fell into the trench, his back stinging as it hit the ground.
    “Pl‌—‌Please. Please, just…‌”
    John looked to his side. He could see their faces as another bolt of lightning flashed overhead. But that’s all there was. Faces, detached from their bodies, blood dribbling from their neck.
    And beside them, bones.
    The silhouette grabbed the blue cover at the top of the trench.
    “Please don’t…‌I’ll do anything. I’ll do…‌”
    The last thing John Brabiner saw in the flash of lightning was the glint of a bloody sword, as the silhouette pulled over the cover and jumped back into the trench…‌

Chapter Eight
    When Brian woke the following morning, he stretched out his arms and nudged into Hannah’s back. She was completely still, only her steady breaths in and out breaking the illusion of perfect serenity. A smile crept across Brian’s face as he held his eyes tightly shut. There was no feeling of dread in his stomach. No feeling of guilt. He had two weeks off work‌—‌well, suspended anyway. Two weeks to get his priorities straight again, and nothing was going to stand in his way.
    He opened his eyes and looked around the room. A beam of sunlight peeked in through the gap in the middle of the cream curtains‌—‌something that Hannah always insisted on. An OCD kind of thing. Brian pulled the bedding from his body and edged to the side of the bed, hitting the digital alarm clock so that it wouldn’t wake Hannah. 6:09 a.m. He’d be able to get up, make some breakfast for when she rose and started whatever freelance work she had for the day. He didn’t really have much “making up” to do, but there was nothing like a bit of cooked breakfast as a gesture.
    Plus, he had to make himself useful. Two weeks doing absolutely nothing and he’d go batshit crazy.
    He plodded across the spongy floor towards the partly open bedroom door. Another of Hannah’s OCDs. Some shrink or another might have a dodgy theory about how she must feel “closed in” or some crap like that. And she’d lap that bullshit up. Which is exactly why she wasn’t going to a shrink any time soon, not on his watch.
    Brian pushed the door slightly as he left the room. Hannah was still fast asleep under the covers, a half-smile on her lips. A warm