Pulp Fiction Dead Storage Novels & Stories

By the time the guards discovered them, their intertwined bodies had already started decomposing in the room. Just like that, the Thornroot pack was wiped out. … Jax and I were having our nightly storytime together when we heard about this. Neither of us was affected by the news, and Jax even ate a few more cookies than usual. After observing Noah, who was tidying up the place for us, Jax whispered, "Mommy, will I get a new daddy?" Chuckling, I nudged his nose and said, "No, my little pup. I don't need someone else to protect me anymore."

“I thought he was in a maximum-security federal block." “It was a year ago,” Agent Jeremiah said, his voice grim. “He was found in his cell. It was... brutal. The coroner’s report was suppressed, but I saw the photos. He looked like he’d been mauled by a large animal. There were deep claw marks, Solana." A cold chill washed over her, settling deep in her marrow. "And the cameras?" "Every frame of the hour he died was deleted from the server," he replied. “No digital footprint or witnesses. It had the workings of a very powerful cleanup crew."

“You should rest. Process. Grieve.” “I’ll grieve after I stop the Collective.” I headed for the elevator. “Clara died protecting me. Protecting whatever’s in that storage unit. I’m not letting that be for nothing.” The storage facility was across town. Old building. Rusted metal doors. Security cameras that probably didn’t work. Unit 2847 was in the back. Away from the main walkways. Isolated. The key turned smoothly. The door rolled up with a metallic screech. Inside was a single filing cabinet. Four drawers. Each is labeled with a name.

The room felt ten degrees colder than it had a minute ago. "Boss said we screen everything. Let me call the techs." "No. It’s addressed to me. Personally." Phineas slid the blade under the velvet. The fabric gave way with a soft, sickening hiss. "Lucian doesn't send bombs. He sends messages. He wants me to see it." "Phineas, don't—" The lid came off. The scent hit first. Copper. Formaldehyde. The sweet, cloying rot of a body that had been dead for exactly forty-eight hours.

It was then he knew this was his last day on earth. Outside Maddy, Kate, Mike, Porella, Andre and several bodyguards waited for one sound. Just then a loud gunshot whizzed through the air, it entered the window and hit its target right in the temple. Within minutes a crew came in and stripped the façade and revealed several containers that were retrofitted just for the purpose of this meeting. When they were done the only thing left was a dead man, sprawled across a table with a hole in his head. The next morning as the sun came up, the news hit the headlines – Defense Force DIRECTOR BEN JOHNSON FOUND DEAD on an empty lot in St. Greg.

The number of dismantled Civil War-era corpses piled up in the storage unit was a testament to Papa Nightmare’s lack of military acumen. Roo and Fernández had pushed the zombies out of the storage unit once. After dismembering the initial attackers, they’d used Roo’s truck as a tank, ramming anything wearing blue or grey. The vehicle had given its life for the two men and the soon-to-be-awakened Golem. Riddled with a couple dozen bullet holes, steam rose from the deceased engine. Two tires had been summarily shredded by nineteenth-century weapons fire, and the zombies were lining up for a final push. Papa Nightmare might have been inexperienced, but he learned fast.

Chapter 20 BIANCA The storage unit was located on the outskirts of the city, surrounded by fences and security cameras that probably hadn't worked in years. I'd been paying the monthly f*e for seven years since my mother died for a space I'd visited maybe twice entirely during her death.

Diro said. But Maurice was already swiping to accept the call. He put it on speaker. A voice came through. Male. Unfamiliar to Beverly. Cold and professionally neutral. "Mr. Maurice Reed?" "Yes." "This is a courtesy call. Your evidence cache at the storage facility on Riverside Drive was located and destroyed seventeen minutes ago. Fire. Very thorough. Nothing survived." Maurice's face went white. "Your backup cache at the law office of Morrison and Associates was accessed twelve minutes ago. All files deleted. Hard drives removed."

I heard the clicking of camera shutters, but no one called the ambulance. My blood drained dry. My body became cold. Finally, Yvette Skye was no more. I died all alone at the corner of the street. No one cared. My corpse was not a pretty sight. My eyes were wide, unseeing, and there was a large hole in my stomach. My legs were twisted together. One of my arms was flung by the side of the road. My legs were useless now. I was ugly. No wonder the little girl cried. Floating in the air, I stared at my mutilated corpse.

I thought one more risk could buy us a new beginning. So I swallowed the drug. Five hours later, they gave me a prepaid debit card and sent me home. By the time I reached our basement apartment in Queens, pain was spreading through my lower back, and my mouth tasted like rust. I stopped outside the door, heard enough from Adrian’s phone call to understand everything, then covered my mouth as blood surged up my throat. My parents were alive. Liz was alive. The debt was fake. And the past five years had only been a punishment.