Novel & Cerita The Quick And The Dead Novel

My younger brother, Jason Callahan, died the day before school started. He jumped from the sixteenth floor of our apartment building. His head was twisted unnaturally to one side. There was not much blood. His tiny body lay curled in a dark pool beneath him. However, the strangest thing was the expression on his face. He was smiling. The moment people saw that smile, the entire crowd sucked in a sharp breath. It was still the face of a child, young and innocent at first glance, yet the smile carried something vicious and unsettling far beyond his age.

It tries to send the memory through her knees, her hands, her throat. Maya lets it arrive. Then she steps left. The dead follow sound and motion. They do not think. They do not plan. They do not fake low and attack high. They are patient appetite in a ruined suit. “Behind?” she whispers. Clear within twenty feet, LUS says. “Lovely.” The dead man reaches. Maya lets him commit, shifts inside the arc, hooks her foot behind his ankle, and drives the crowbar hard into the side of his knee.

“Ma’am, we can show you a photo first, so you can confirm whether it’s your daughter. It’s just… when we found her, she had been dead for three days, and the body had started to decompose. You should prepare yourself.” With that, he pulled out a photo from the scene and handed it to her. In the picture, a small, blood-soaked body—mine—was curled up on the bed in an unnatural position. My colorless lips and my sickly, bluish-purple skin told her one thing: I was dead. Mom’s eyes widened. At last, she could no longer lie to herself and burst into tears. “How could this happen? How could this be? She was fine just a few days ago. How could she be dead? Daisy, you cursed child, you’re just like

Woods said a quick, silent prayer, hoping that the big southern girl didn’t freeze her ass off on her way up to the Pearly Gates. Thirty simple seconds tick-tocked on by, and despite the electric crackle of expectancy in the air, Mama Metcalf remained well and truly dead. Even her blood had stopped flowing, ruby diamonds on a cigarette-butt strewn patch of land. The old woman across from her, Wanda Mabry, would also never move again. Her index finger was curved inwards as though still depressing an invisible trigger that shot invisible bullets of hatred at a sky that would never die. Sirens sung in the distance. When the hospice alarm was activated an automatic call out was prompted to the f

However, come sunrise, she was struck by a heart attack and died right then and there. My husband Chester and I, devastated by the loss, handled her funeral. That same night, Chester dreamt of Dad too. "Chester, it's been ages since I've had a bite to eat. I'm longing for your liver pâté and a shot of strong whiskey." He woke up, bought the best liver pâté he could find, popped open a bottle of single-malt whisky, and dashed to the graveyard. However, shortly after he got back, he was rushed to the ICU with liver failure and died three days later.

I gripped tight, but he slipped right through and fell. I watched helplessly as Brandon vanished from my sight, tumbling into the abyss. Not a sound from him. Brandon's death was not on me, but it happened right before my eyes. My brain short-circuited for a second before it hit me to call the cops. Maybe Brandon could still be saved? Revenge had crossed my mind, but I never wanted blood on my hands. I dialed 911, and the cops were on the move in no time. The rescue team found Brandon at the cliff's base, his head cracked open on a rock—dead on impact.

‘Obsess’ is honestly the right word. How does this make sense? She was dead. Well, almost dead. A coma that she was never going to wake up from. Vale had just been too hasty and messy with the job, that one shot in Quinn's chest had failed to kill her. Although I suspect a miracle in her survival. Nevertheless, when I was really ready to take matters into my hands, she would be tossed into the black hole. With the way I've thought about her an unhealthy amount of time these past few days, I feared I might do something really…nasty. Unethical.

Once it told her where she could find the rest of her daughter. “In gullets,” it had said. “Building the bones of strong animals. Feeding the universe. Decaying with the leaves.” “That’s lovely,” she had told the voice in her dream, and then it wrapped around her neck like a lover’s hands and tried to strangle her. “I’m back,” she answered him now. “You ran off so quickly before that I wasn’t sure I would see you again.” Casual. Nonchalant. Simply a murderer unknowingly talking to his victim’s mother, after all. A warm sunny day in the poor district of the city.

“Every detail he chose for you is flawless.” I was about to reply when the news anchor’s voice from the TV in the studio caught my attention. “We interrupt with breaking international news. Chicago mob boss Axel Thorne was murdered late last night on his private dock. The killer has been identified as his former mistress, Seraphina Croix. Both fell to their deaths in the Chicago River…” I froze.

"Is that so? I am just one step away from happiness. This is my last chance to become happy in this broken life of mine. I will not allow you to ruin it." After saying that, she approached me and wheeled me into the fire escape. I watched as the wheelchair neared the stairs. "Are you planning to kill me?" I asked. Upon letting out a long exhale, Selena released her grasp slowly. "That's nonsense. It was just a slip of the hand." My wheelchair started rolling forward on its own as Selena guffawed. Right before my wheelchair would roll down the stairs, I held the brakes. While propping myself up on the wheelchair, I rose to my feet.