Table Of ContentDeath Alarm
A collection of three horror stories
By
Douglas R. Brown
Published by Epertase for the Kindle
Copyright © 2012 Douglas R. Brown
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any mean without prior permission
of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book
review.
Edited by Bobbe Ecleberry
Cover art by Steve Murphy
Visit author Douglas R. Brown on the Web at
http://www.epertase.blogspot.com
Follow Douglas on Twitter @Rasi22
Like 'Epertase' on Facebook
Books by Douglas R. Brown
Tamed- Jan. 2012
The Light of Epertase: Legends Reborn - August 2011
The Light of Epertase: A Kingdom's Fall - August 2012
The Light of Epertase: The Rise of Cridon - August 2013
A note from the author:
Thank you for checking out my collection of horror short stories. I
wrote these three stories while preparing my fantasy novel, The Light
of Epertase: Legends Reborn, for publication with Rhemalda
Publishing.
The first story in this collection is a violent tale about a rookie
firefighter on the emergency call of his life. Death Alarm follows this
young firefighter as he brutally discovers life doesn't always end with
death.
My next twisted tale is titled Janitor where sometimes sickness gets
the best of people.
And finally, Skelwaller Lane shows you that everything isn't always
what it seems in the beginning.
Be warned, my stories don't always end with happily-ever-afters.
Read at your own risk.
After you finish my collection of three short stories, continue on
and take a peek at the first two chapters of what has been called, "The
Jurassic Park of werewolf stories" in my free preview of Tamed
included here.
If you enjoy my writing be sure to check out my novels from
Rhemalda Publishing or visit me at www.epertase.com.
Thanks for buying and I hope you enjoy.
DEATH ALARM
By Douglas R. Brown
“Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it.”
~George Santayana
FIRST ALARM
Their airhorn roars like a freight train as the engine screams and
weaves through the monotony of rush hour traffic. The rookie can't
imagine a tornado's rumble being much louder, yet Engine 15's wails
hardly make an impact on the surrounding heavy traffic. Self-
absorbed drivers yak on their cell phones in their airtight, soundproof
Cadillacs and SUVs, failing to heed the warnings. Do they not hear, or
do they just not care? Don't they know someone needs help, that
someone's home could be burning at this very moment?
"Hey, rookie," the lieutenant shouts over the squealing sirens.
"You're on the knob."
Jackson's heart beats faster than the frenetic beat of a heavy metal
drum thrashing. This could be the one, he imagines, and I get the
nozzle.
The dispatcher reports some poor schlep's smoke detector is ringing
which could mean anything from a fire to a false alarm.
There's a part deep within Jackson, to his core, that prays for a false
alarm. He's not ready. Hell, he was sure the nine months of drill
school had prepared him, but now, facing the real deal, he's not so
confident. That's it, turn this heap around. Let's go home. We'll do this
another time.
He slings his air bottle's awkward harness over his shoulders and
cinches it tight across his chest.
"You hear me, rook?" the lieutenant shouts from the front seat.
"You're on the nozzle."
"Yeah, yeah, Lieu, I heard ya."
They pull in front of a house straight out of the horror movies,
complete with boarded windows and a front yard that looks more like
an overgrown field than a lawn. We're goin' in there?
The lieutenant barks into his microphone, "Engine 15's on the
scene. We got a two story split-level residential. Nothin' showin'. We'll
investigate."
Jackson leaps from Engine 15, knocking his precious lid from his
head. The chauffeur, as firemen call their drivers, shoots him a look
that says, "Hey, kid, calm down." It's a look he's all too familiar with
already in his short career. With a damn-the-calming-down zeal he
rips the top section of hose from the engine and lugs it to the front
porch, proud of his aggressiveness.
The lieutenant tilts his head forward and shakes it, his lips pressed
tight together. "A lot of hose to pick up for a fire alarm, kid." Jackson
feels ten years old again, having just smacked a baseball through his
parent's minivan windshield. All his blood rushes to his cheeks and he
looks away. "Stupid," he whispers to himself.
The rough-looking homeowner who meets them at the front door
needs a bath and a dentist. He doesn't seem overly concerned. "I saw a
puff of smoke in the basement just before dat smoke detector went
off," he says through a gap where his front teeth should be.
The lieutenant asks to walk through the basement just to be safe and
the guy hesitates, but ultimately agrees. A dog more like Cujo than
Benji raises all kinds of hell from behind a flimsy child gate at the top
of the stairs and Jackson thinks twice about going in. But since the
lieutenant goes in, he cautiously follows.
"Leave the hose, Rook."
Jackson drops the nozzle and hurries to catch up.
The basement is a dungeon with its only lighting coming from a
dim, 40-watter that dangles from exposed wires off in the farthest
corner. It's not much help. Jackson switches on the flashlight hanging
from his coat. The lieutenant's light is already on, not that it’s doing
much good all charred and covered in soot.
"Nice junkyard, huh, Lieu?"
"I'll tell ya, if my junkyard looked like this, I'd be embarrassed." He
smirks. "You played with one of these yet?" he asks and passes the
rookie something looking more like a ray gun than a piece of low-bid
equipment typically provided by the city's bean counters. "Point that
at the walls and tell me what it reads."
Jackson holds the thermal imaging camera up to his face. "It says
eighty-six degrees, Lieu."
"Yea, that's what I figured. Not hot enough for fire to be behind that
drywall. Come on." He stomps back up the stairs. "Oh, yeah," he
adds. "Watch your step." He points his flashlight at the cement floor
which reveals piles of dog feces scattered like landmines among the
mess.
Jackson lifts his feet to his knee one at a time and shines his
flashlight on each of his boot's soles. He's relieved at his clean
findings and gingerly walks to and up the stairs. Before he reaches the
top landing he freezes in his steps, the hairs on his neck standing on
end. Something, though he can't quite place what, doesn't feel right.
The lieutenant hollers for him to get moving so he shakes off his
unease and scampers out to the front porch.
The driver and lieutenant huddle around the spaghetti of hose in the
front yard with their hands on their hips.
Jackson doesn't need them to say anything to know he'll never hear
the end of this mess.
"Well," the lieutenant finally says. "Get this mess gathered and
loaded."
"By myself, Lieu?"
"You got it off by yourself, didn't ya?"
Oh, damn.
