Free Dead Horizon by Carl Hose

ass—”
    Something fell out when Billy opened the door. He aimed his light at the ground at his feet and saw Leon’s head staring up at him, eyes wide open, terrified of whatever it was that did this awful fucking thing to him. The top half of the head was missing.
    “Sweet Jesus,” Billy groaned.
    He whipped the flashlight beam up to examine what was left of Leon in the truck. No goddamn head, just bloody shoulders, and say all you wanted about Leon’s beer farts, but a smell like that would’ve been welcome right about now.
    “Aw, Jesus, Leon . . .” Billy dragged the decapitated corpse from the truck and climbed inside. “I’ll send somebody back for ya,” he said.
    He was fumbling for the key and pulling the door shut when the glass on the passenger-side shattered. Billy jerked his head to see what it was and damn near lost his dinner when he saw a rotten corpse hanging through the broken window, groping at him with mangled fingers. The son of a bitch was missing an eye, and its jaw was so decayed it was falling away from the dead thing’s face.
    Another one came at Billy on the driver’s side. Billy could smell its rancid breath as it leaned in to get at him. That smell was worse than any beer fart Leon could ever spit from his ass.
    Billy kicked and screamed. He tried to get the old truck started, but the sons of bitches were everywhere now, climbing all over the truck, squeezing into the cab, coming up from the holes in the quarry.
    The truck finally started. Billy hit the gas and tried to plow through the dead fuckers, but he couldn’t see a goddamn thing, and then one got hold of his arm and took a big bite out of it, Billy let go of the wheel.
    Something started chewing on his neck, then there were teeth sinking into his scalp and maggot-infested tongues licking at his wounds.
    His walkie-talkie sputtered.
    “Come in, Billy,” came the control-tower voice. “You wanna get your fat ass away from the Springer show long enough to find Leon?”
     
     
     

Dead Inn
     
     
     
    “Are you sure we’re going the right way?” Jennifer asked, trying to read the map by the dome light. “I think we should’ve turned onto Route 89.”
    “This way is shorter,” Brandon said, agitated.
    “It’s not even a real road,” Jennifer complained.
    It wasn’t a real road by any stretch of the imagination. Deeply-rutted dirt with a gravel coating, just barely wide enough for one vehicle, and a thick stand of trees on either side. That was the extent of it, but Brandon was pretty sure it was a shortcut.
    “This will bring us out at least ten miles down from where eighty-nine would’ve taken us. It’ll save a bundle of time.”
    The car sputtered and spit steam from under the hood.
    “Great,” Jennifer said. “We’re about to break down in cow country.”
    She rolled down the window and lit a cigarette.
    “Those things are going to kill you,” Brandon said.
    “Jesus, Brandon, a lot of things could kill me. You don’t smoke, fine, don’t smoke. I don’t care. Just skip the sermon, okay?”
    “Don’t bite my head off,” he said. “I’m only—”
    The car sputtered again, then it stopped running altogether. Brandon cranked the ignition. Something under the hood rattled.
    “What now, rocket scientist?” Jennifer said, blowing smoke in his direction. She got out of the car, slamming the door behind her. Brandon got out, looking flustered. He popped the hood and fiddled around with the engine, not really doing anything of use.
    “Don’t pretend you might be able to figure out the problem,” Jennifer said. “We both know you don’t know jack shit about cars.”
    “I’m about ready to slap you. I’ve had enough of your shit.”
    “Jesus, Brandon, the day you get the balls to slap me, I’ll drop down and blow you on the spot,” Jennifer said.
    Brandon huffed and started pacing. It would be dark in less than half an hour, and on a road like this one, there would be no way in hell they’d be