Free Midnight Solitaire by Greg F. Gifune Page A

darkness, through the snow. Something perhaps twenty feet above the ground in the middle of the parking lot, gently swaying in the wind.
    “Do you see it? There, it’s moving with the wind.”
    “I see it,” Doc says. He follows the shape up higher into the sky and notices something else just barely visible in the darkness and snow. He looks to the road. Nothing. Without another word he starts off across the lot with Greer in tow.
    Just before they reach the object, Doc steps in something wet and spongy that makes a squishing sound beneath his weight. He springs back and looks down at a human liver wrapped in several feet of intestines tangled about it like slimy lengths of rope. He looks up, realizes now that there is a flagpole in the center of the dirt lot he hadn’t before noticed. The snow has not yet managed to fully cover the entrails or the enormous halo of blood staining the ground at the base of the pole. Behind him, Greer gags. No flags fly, but the decapitated body of a heavyset man hangs upside down by his feet, arms dangling low and swinging in the wind.
    Before Doc can get her out of there, Greer doubles over, vomits, and then staggers back in the direction of the motel.
    She stops and turns back to him, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Jesus Christ! Where the fuck is his head?”
    “He took it.”
    “Why?”
    “Body parts are very important in his black magic.” Doc starts toward her. “He’s building his power, consolidating it. He knows I’m close, he knows this is it for one of us. Showdown’s coming and there’s no way out.”
    “This has nothing to do with me, I—”
    “We need to get back inside.”
    “I don’t want to be in the middle of this!”
    “It’s too late for all that. He’s drawn to you, to all of us.”
    “What the hell are you talking about? He doesn’t even know me!”
    “He knows you enough. Trust me, he can smell you from miles away. He can see your nightmares while you sleep, hear your darkest thoughts when you’re awake. They draw him to you.” She looks at him helplessly. He’s seen it before in many others but can only hope this time things will end differently. “Greer, we need to get inside. Now. Right now.”
    “But…” she points to the body without looking at it, “we can’t just leave the pour soul up there like that.”
    “His soul’s not here anymore.” Pulse pounding in his ears, Doc grips the shotgun tight, takes Greer by the arm and keeps walking, pulling her along behind him as he goes. “It belongs to The Dealer now.”

 
     
    ELEVEN
    Body aching, Luke moves back to the front desk and leans against it a moment. He runs a hand over his face. It comes back with flecks of dried blood from the bloody nose he had earlier and a patch of road rash on the right side of his forehead. He can’t remember the entire event out on the road but does recall the impact, how he just barely got out of the way before the van clipped him and sent him airborne. Throughout his life, Luke has been involved in numerous physical confrontations, and in some cases has endured tremendous beatings at the hands of other men. But never in his life has he been struck by anything with such violence. It is the closest he’s ever come to death, and he can still feel the residue of terror and confusion coursing through his veins.
    Where is the sonofabitch? Is he really coming back or has he moved on, barreling down that dark and desolate highway in search of new victims? The tension is unbearable and reminds him of his time in prison when the block would become deathly quiet. Whenever the constant din in prison ceases, it means something’s about to go down. Something bad. Something violent. Everyone waits. Quietly. Knowing sooner or later the screams will come, the pleading and begging for mercy, and finally, more silence. And then comes the eruption, the screams of those who have survived and live on in this hell while the victim lies dead or dying