He heard more screams as he shoved the door shut hard behind him as he ran into the cabin. Voices began yelling loudly and he heard Alberto's louder than the others.

"I'll get him," the big man shouted as his heavy footsteps began pounding up the stairs.

Albert locked the door and ran across the room to open the safe. For a split second he feared that the typewriter would be gone; that he would be stuck in a nightmare that perhaps he deserved according to every fable. But the glossy black machine sat there waiting as always.

He had barely taken it out before Alberto's large frame hit the door. Albert rushed over and threw his own weight against the door as Big Al hammered on it. He braced himself and tried to balance the typewriter on his lap whilst keeping the door shut.

Just then the big man on the other side must have taken a running jump at the door as the wooden frame bulked inwards and Albert lost control of the typewriter which spilled from his grasp and landed hard on the floor. His heart wrenched at the cracking sound that the machine made as it hit the ground. Desperately he grabbed for a nearby chair to prop under the door handle. All he needed was a couple of minutes to write himself out of this horrendous situation, if only he had the time.

He slid to the ground and arched his back against the door as Alberto's voice was joined by others trying to get in.

"Gonna string you up boy," Alberto screamed through the door. "Gonna get us a lynching going."

Albert reached out his foot and tried to pull the typewriter whilst keeping his weight against the door. His foot caught the machine and then slipped. He quickly kicked off his boot and tried to use his toes to hook it. His face bulged with the unnatural effort and a slick sweat river ran down his back as he strained every fibre. He caught the machine again, slipped and then managed to jam a toe beyond the keys. He ignored the pain and roared in triumph as he dragged the typewriter back to him. He s.n.a.t.c.hed it up into his lap and prayed that it hadn't been too damaged when he'd dropped it. With terror in his heart he hit the first key and the rea.s.suring clack of the key hitting the paper made his spirits soar.

He found that his anger towards Big Al ruled all and he decided to deal with him first. He had just been walking in the field minding his own business when the bully had struck and ruined everything like bullies did.

He had to write quickly as the gathered mob led by Alberto hammered against the door. Albert wrote a hard and painful death for the man full of sharp teeth and tearing claws. He wrote of a creature's face that sent a man insane with a glance. He hammered away at the keys with every foul image that he could dredge from his warped imagination until the hammering outside went still.

He pulled himself to his feet as a single soft knock hit the door. There was no more angry mob raging outside and he opened the door wanting to see the mess that had been Alberto, before he set the rest of the world to rights.

The creatures gaze did indeed send him insane with but a glance. As his mind emptied of all reason and the teeth bit and the claws tore into his flesh he only caught a glimpse off the cabin floor.

The typewriter had indeed been damaged, only slightly, but ever so crucially. The letter "O" key had snapped off and was lying useless on the floor. Where Albert had typed "Alberto" the crucial letter "O" was missing from name leaving only "Albert".

tale 7.

"recycling can be hazardous"

Duane Jones looked at the outside of the funeral home and his heart sank. It was bad enough that he was going to have to spend his summer working, but here of all places was almost too much to take.

Duane was 23 with a handsome face and a winning smile that made up for his lack of charm. He was around six feet two and athletically built, but also religious about his diet and exercise; it wasn't easy looking this good. He had light blonde hair that fell back in waves and crystal blue eyes that twinkled on cue. His mother was a cold and distant trophy wife and his father never stopped going on about how the world wasn't handed to him on a silver platter.

His father was a self-made millionaire who owned a whole slew of properties, both domestic and commercial around the city. As far as Duane was concerned his father should have worked hard so that he didn't have to. Summers were meant for beaches and bikinis, as most of his friends were currently finding out whilst he was stuck suffering in the sweltering city heat.

He had been aghast when his father had first dropped the bombsh.e.l.l that his summer was gone, but further shocked at his choice of position for him. His father owned a handful of bars and restaurants that Duane could see the benefits of working in, but he had been stuck with the funeral home. Apparently the old guy that had been running the place had managed to up and die at the most inconvenient time for Duane. His father had been too d.a.m.n cheap to find a replacement and had instead stuck Duane with the place for the summer. At first Duane had been determined to show his father just what a poor choice the man had made, however, his father had soon made it abundantly clear that if he failed, his inheritance would disappear just as quickly.

"Huntsacker Funeral Home" was an old and run down business on the outskirts of town. The surrounding community had once been thriving but now the streets were deserted and dog s.h.i.t scarred the sidewalks.

The building itself was still in reasonable shape and there was a small chapel and a large burial ground behind. The idea being that it was a one stop shop for the more needy residents of the area. According to his father the books were firmly in the red and Duane's job was to turn the place around and show his father that he had some worth.

He looked up and down the empty street and crossed the road to his summer home with anger in his heart.

The door opened with a soft swoosh and he heard a buzzer sound somewhere out the back. As if by magic a small elderly man appeared as smoothly as though he was on casters.

"Good morning young sir," the man said quietly. "How can I be of a.s.sistance at this difficult time for you?"

"You Hardman?" Duane asked looked around the showroom.

"Do I know you?" The old man asked.

"You're gonna. I'm your new boss, at least for the summer or until I can figure a way out of this s.h.i.thole," Duane answered looking at the man for the first time.

Karl Hardman was the old fart that ran the place, and had presumably been running it into the ground. He was the only full time employee and worked as both a mortician and an ordained minister capable of performing the funerals. The man was supposed to be in his sixties but to Duane's 23 year old eyes he looked about the same age as Moses himself. Hardman was shortish at around five feet five. He had a thin white dusting of hair and his face looked like a leather saddlebag left out in the sun too long. His shoulders were slightly sloped and he wore an old black suit that had seen better days. There was a slight glint from his hands as he absently twirled a small coin between his fingers.

"Oh you must be young Duane, your father told me that you were coming," Hardman said gently as he extended a hand in welcome.

"Let's get one thing straight right off the bat," Duane snapped. "My name is Mr. Jones, not Duane, not kid or sonny or anything else, got it?

Hardman's head bobbed up and down slowly whilst his expression remained a poker face.

"Now my father has had to send me down here to try and sort out the mess that you've been making of our business," Duane continued as he started to walk around the funeral home's outer lobby. "Now I don't appreciate having to take time out of my busy schedule to waste down here, but we are going to sort this place out as quickly as possible, ok?"

"Yes sir Mr. Jones, I'm real lucky to have you here," Hardman replied and Duane found it hard to know if the old man was mocking him or not.

The outer lobby of the funeral home was tasteful, if a little dated. The floor was thickly carpeted in a dark brown and the walls were a dark velvety red. There was a deep dark oak reception desk and respectful down lighting. There was one large double door that led back into an open viewing room. Duane followed his nose and headed towards the back.

"Shall I give you a tour Mr. Jones?" Hardman asked, but Duane had already left the lobby.

The viewing room was dark and oppressive. The walls and carpet were a deep blood red and thick curtains blocked any natural light from the windows. There was a wide archway at the front of the room with drapes pulled across. Chairs were set out in neat rows for the mourners and Duane felt like he could feel the grief and sorrow that had soaked into the building's walls over the years. He felt another stab of anger at the thought of his friends sunning themselves on golden sands whilst he was stuck here.

The drapes that covered the small staging area fluttered slightly and caught his eye. He wondered if the place had a current guest on show behind the drapes. His mind was suddenly split between unease and curiosity.

He had never seen a dead body before or even been to a funeral. When he was 12 he had seen Tommy Delphey jump into Rosewater Reservoir trying to impress some girl and he had got his foot caught on some tree roots. A couple of guys from the football team had jumped in and pulled Tommy out. Duane remembered Tommy's face being pale and ghostly white as some girl who had been on a lifeguard course performed CPR. Duane had watched in fascination as Tommy's chest had suddenly exploded into life as he spewed reservoir water out of his lungs and his face turned pink again. It was as close to death as he had ever been and he remembered being fascinated by the thin fragile line that we all walk.

"This is our viewing and service room," Hardman made him jump from behind.

"No s.h.i.t," Duane said irritably, annoyed at being spooked by the old man. "I guessed that it wasn't for showing movies on a Friday night."

Hardman only nodded and smiled.

"Where's my office?" Duane demanded. "I think it's time to see just what a mess you've been making here," he scoffed, angry at Hardman for making him jump like a schoolgirl.

An hour or so later he sat back in the chair as it creaked beneath his weight. The office was small and dark without any window. The light overhead buzzed and flickered and his head was already beginning to thump.

He was studying business economics, or at least he was supposed to be. He was already cutting most of cla.s.ses and most of his a.s.signments were already being bought. He had enough of a brain, however, to see that although the funeral home had a small overhead, their profit margins were just too d.a.m.n small. He flicked through the monthly accounts again, the small numbers were starting to jump around on the page as his mind was unused to even an hour or so of thinking time.

"HARDMAN?" He yelled and the old man appeared around the office door in an instant as though he had been hovering outside the whole time.

"Sir?"

"What sort of mark up are you charging here?" Duane asked flapping the sheet of paper at the old man.

"Mark up sir?"

"Yes profit, you know where you buy an item for a low price and then sell it for a higher one," he said impatiently, rubbing his temples.

"Well we're not really that sort of business here sir," Hardman replied with a strained expression. "The sorts of folks that come to us do so because they can't afford anywhere else. We only really charge what they can afford."

"How the h.e.l.l do you expect to make any money this way?" Duane asked incredulously.

"We're here to provide a service sir, not to make money; I thought that your father understood that?"

Duane understood now that his father had set him up to fail. It was a hopeless task to turn this c.r.a.p hole of a company round. There were barely any clients and those that did come were apparently paying with magic beans. He squeezed the bridge of his nose and fought the onrushing headache. His father had made it clear that this was to be his audition for entry into the family firm; if he failed then he would be cut off and cast aside.

"What's with that coin you keep playing with?" Duane asked as Hardman kept running the small silver coin over his knuckles.

"Just a small keepsake, it brings me luck," Hardman smiled infuriatingly.

"It doesn't seem to be working," Duane said as he pointed at the balance sheet. "What are these amounts here?" he asked pointing at multiple zeros.

"Those are our stock and trade," Hardman replied enigmatically.

"Huh?"

"Caskets sir."

"And they cost that much?" Duane whistled. "Two thousand, three, this one's six."

"People don't like to skimp on a final resting place for their loved ones."

"I just bet they don't," Duane said slowly as an idea started to bubble beneath the surface of his dubious mind. "I bet they don't."

It was six weeks later and Duane allowed himself a moment to relax and reflect with a smug grin and a stiff shot of whisky. He prided himself on having a strong stomach, but even he needed the alcohol to take the edge off.

The day had been long and he was glad for the night that was closing in. The weather outside was filthy and the rain was battering hard against the windows, but his mood was in stark contrast to the howling gale outside.

Over the last few weeks the "Huntsacker Funeral Home" had gone from one of his father's biggest losers to a growing success. His father hadn't wanted to know the finer details and for that Duane was grateful, it wasn't something that he was keen to explain.

The idea was criminally simple; you sell the client the most expensive casket they can afford, and then you pull a switch and bury the dead in a cheap pine box. They always sold the same high-priced casket reducing the price to the client as necessary, as they were never really buying it. The crimson coffin had cost over eleven grand to buy, but in eleven services they had already recouped well over five times that amount. The most they had got for the coffin was nine thousand and the lowest was three, but it was all profit and word of their generosity was already increasing business.

If the service called for a cremation then the casket rolled back through the curtains supposedly for the furnace and you made the switch without even needed to waste a pine box. If they were burying the client out back in the cemetery then you had a slightly trickier job. Luckily the family would never wait around until the casket was all the way buried, they were led away from the grave whimpering and wailing. Duane only had to wait until they were out of sight before carefully lifting the casket back out of the polythene laid hole. For this reason they were pushing the cremation option hard. During the last six weeks they had performed eleven ceremonies all with the same one luxurious and deluxe casket.

Hardman was of course the only problem. The old man had been horrified at his initial suggestion, but Duane had cared little. He had coaxed and bullied the weary old fart until he had reluctantly agreed to go along. Duane wasn't stupid and he knew that Hardman would lose his nerve pretty soon, but at least the doors of the home were still open and they were still caring for the community, at least on the surface. Duane had even allowed Hardman to carry out three services entirely for free. The old guy seemed to have a circle of friends that were going to be too poor to bury themselves. In exchange for going along with Duane's sleight of hand economics, Duane agreed to carry out as many free burials as Hardman needed. It was a short term offer as far as Duane was concerned, but he needed to buy some time while he figured out what to do with him.

Meanwhile the books were firmly in the black and that was all Duane cared about. In his father's eyes he was doing the impossible and that would keep him in the will and the money rolling in. Duane already had ideas for branching out their services further afield. Whilst the hardworking community was able to stump a few thousand here and there, there were richer fish to be caught. The whole area was caught in poverty and crime ridden and there were a lot of young men dying on the wrong side of the tracks; a lot of young g.a.n.g.b.a.n.gers with thick rolls of cash in their pockets ready to be milked. If a truck driver could find five grand for the casket, some hood could find three or four times that amount. Duane already had his eyes on a fifty grand coffin that he could resell over and over again.

He was picturing those fat cash rolls when he spied Hardman out of the corner of his eye lurking as usual. "What is it Hardman?" Duane demanded irritably as if he didn't already know the answer. The old b.a.s.t.a.r.d had spent the last week constantly flitting around like a nervous b.u.t.terfly, wringing his hands like an old woman and always with that d.a.m.ned coin in his hand.

"I'm really not sure about tomorrow," Hardman started.

It was a conversation that they'd had every day for the last week. Tomorrow's service was for some old woman, one that Hardman had apparently taken some kind of special interest in.

Mrs. Olivia Lincoln was an elderly widow that had belatedly joined her husband. Her family was distant and cold during the d.i.c.kering over the service and Duane had been sure that Hardman could have gotten them to spend more than they had agreed to. Duane had listened at the door as Hardman conducted business, seemingly with little enthusiasm. For some reason Olivia Lincoln had gotten to Hardman more than any of the others. Duane had later found the old man in the mortuary below the home preparing the woman for her upcoming debut.

Duane did everything that he could to stay away from the mortuary and those that slept below. Just how Hardman managed to get a single night's sleep in his apartment above the home was a mystery to him. The mortuary had to be kept cold, but the air sank a chill into his bones far deeper than the temperature should have. He always made sure that he was out when Hardman was working below the stairs. The sound of the suction pump as it drew the fluids from the bodies reverberated throughout the home and turned his stomach at the mere thought.

Hardman had started whining about Duane's plan to operate business as usual from the get go. It was a burial ceremony which was always a pain in the a.s.s. They had developed a working relationship where Hardman performed the service and Duane operated the digger. Hardman was a naturally warm and attentive recitalist and he was able to keep the service moving and the people along with it. Duane wasn't completely useless and he found that he actually had a pretty decent work ethic when properly motivated. The digger was surprisingly easy to operate and he knew that he had to be careful with the merchandise so as not to damage the casket. Despite packing the coffin with as much protection for the lifting process it was already showing too many signs of wear and tear to last much longer. Hardman was supposed to push the cremation option as the casket had to do little else but lay there and slide along some rollers at the end. For some reason Hardman had been unable or unwilling to push the cremation on the woman's family and they were stuck with a burial.

"How many times are we going to go through this?" Duane said throwing his hands up in the air in frustration.

"I just think...., that is to say..." Hardman said falteringly as his fingers fidgeted with his coin.

"Oh for Christ's sake Hardman, do you want this place to close down? Is that what you want? Because another day of us losing money and that's exactly what my father will do," Duane lied.

"It isn't right sir, it's unseemly," Hardman said stiffly. "I'm afraid that I can't be a part of this any longer, this has to stop."

"Don't you go getting any rash ideas Hardman," Duane warned. "You're in this as much as I am, right up to the neck in fact."

Duane stared hard at the old man as the wind battered the funeral home and the soft sound of water ran down the guttering and into the overflowing drain outside. The office was dimly lit and the light buzzed and flickered as always. Their gazes were locked and the air crackled between them.

"I'm sorry sir, but I can't rest whilst knowing what I've been a part of here. The dead deserve rest and respect and I have to come clean. First to your father and then to the authorities," Hardman spoke firmly with only the slightest of wavers.

"Think about the good that we are doing here with the money that we're making," Duane pleaded. "Those freebie funerals, we couldn't afford to do those without making money."

"I'm not a stupid man Mr. Jones," Hardman said primly. "I'm well aware that the cost of those was a drop in the ocean compared to what you must have been making."

"What if we do more goodwill for the needy? What if we split the profit between the business and our, shall we say, charitable services?"

"I'm sorry sir," Hardman said shaking his head. "But it's just not right and it has to stop."

"What if I cut you in for a slice of the profits?" Duane offered as the old man turned to leave pulling on his coat. He immediately regretted the offer and cursed himself for the notion that Hardman would care about himself.

Hardman turned and withered him with a stare that was both pitiful and contemptuous at the same time. It was the same sort of look that his father often bestowed upon him and Duane was on his feet before he realised it. He s.n.a.t.c.hed the whisky bottle from the table and swung it hard at Hardman and his father's imagined face.

The gla.s.s shattered against the old man's thin skull and Duane's stomach rolled as Hardman's head caved in on one side under the blow. Hardman sunk to the floor like a heavy sack dropped from a great height. There was no balletic motion, just the collapsing of an elderly corpse.

Duane stood there clasping the remnants of the bottle as the shards bit deeply into his hand. Soon his own blood was dripping slowly onto the office floor as Hardman's eyes rolled back in his eyes and lay forever open.

He tried to think through the fog of fear and panic that threatened to overwhelm him. He looked across at the telephone sitting expectantly on the desk and his hand even reached out for it, but then he saw his father's face. The man was a doer and a winner, a man of iron will and granite nerve. Duane knew that his father would shower him with nothing but disdain for his lack of control and scorn for his failure to deal with the mess he'd created.

Surely the biggest problem with getting away with murder would always be either seen committing the crime or seen disposing of the body. Here there were no witnesses and didn't he have the perfect disposal opportunity at his fingertips?

Absently he stood back from the spreading pool of Hardman's blood and thought harder. He couldn't ever remember Hardman speaking of family or even friends. The man lived in a small apartment above the home and was here first thing every morning and stayed until late every day seven days a week. In the six weeks since he had started here no-one had ever phoned for Hardman and no-one had ever called into the home for him. He lived upstairs and seemingly never left the premises. Duane started to wonder if perhaps tomorrow's service could be a buy one get one free funeral. If Hardman had been so concerned for Mrs. Olivia Lincoln, well then he could sleep next to her for eternity.

Duane sat back exhausted, but the strain was more mental than physical. The service had amazingly gone off without a hitch.

He had pulled in a minister to perform the service from a neighboring parish with the aid of a large contribution to his church. Mrs. Olivia Lincoln had been laid to rest as several young relatives had struggled under the surprising weight of her casket. What they obviously didn't know was that Hardman was safely tucked underneath her.

The viewing had been the day before when Hardman was sitting alone in the dark in the mortuary below. So there had been no reason to open the casket again on the day of the funeral. Duane had snuck a small smile at the straining faces of the young pallbearers as they struggled to carry the extra body without showing it. Fortunately Mrs. Lincoln's family had proven to be every bit as cold and distant as Duane had hoped. They turned up to the funeral presumably for appearances sake before all shuffling off the moment that the casket hit the dirt. It was with some reluctance that Duane shifted the digger and dumped scoops full of dirt onto the coffin. He hadn't been planning on replacing the show casket just yet, but this seemed like the perfect time to do so. Besides even he didn't want to push his luck too far and move Hardman's body again. Let the two old farts rot in the ground together, he'd simply have to replace the show coffin and start reselling it again tomorrow, it was a small price to pay for getting away with murder.

His head was fuzzy and he looked down to see that the bottle was half empty. He was surprised to find that guilt wasn't gnawing away at his guts. There was only the satisfaction of a man who'd overcome a great obstacle. He'd faced a great test of character and he'd succeeded flawlessly.

He took another long gulp from the bottle and toasted his victory. The dark night had drawn in around him and the sound of rumbling thunder came over the hills to announce the approaching storm.

He still had a mountain of paperwork to get through as he was now a one man band. He had given thought that he would need to hire extra help, but he couldn't come up with a foolproof way to find the right candidate, one who wouldn't balk at his creative accounting.