A Thousand Yesteryears by Mae Clair Read Free Book Online Page A

carloads of people camped out waiting to spot “the bird.” UFO fanatics came, too. Spiritualists, hippies, all sorts of whackos, even reporters. People used to ride around with guns like vigilante hit squads, waiting to nail the monster that had put Point Pleasant under a microscope. He’d done his share, tossing down a six-pack as he rode point with a loaded .30-06, best damn gun he ever owned. No one wanted to be caught off guard by the Mothman—especially since cars often stalled on the deserted stretch of road for no reason. Sure kept the cops hopping in those days.
    Eventually, the crowds dwindled and the reporters went away. After the Silver Bridge fell, the Mothman disappeared, too. Now it was just birds, trees, grass, and abandoned ammunition igloos. A lot of the old WWII shells were still there, most in bad condition. Some of the bunkers had even exploded, causing temporary shutdowns. There’d been a few injuries, lots of bad press. People tended to stay away now. There was talk of contaminants and red water seepage, rumors the TNT was slated to become a government Superfund site. Local kids still hung out and curiosity-seekers went looking for the Mothman, but for the most part, the area was deserted.
    Which is why the man he thought of as Reaper insisted on meeting there. He’d never call the bastard that to his face, but the name fit. The guy was like a leech, sucking life from everything he encountered. Too bad some of his nastier habits were about to blow up in his face.
    Amos took another drag off his cigarette, then crushed it under his foot as a big car rolled in beside him. The mother never did anything small-scale.
    Reaper got out of the vehicle, straightened his shirt, and walked around the front of the sedan. “You screwed up.”
    He hadn’t expected an accusation, or the black look Reaper gave him. It wasn’t his fault the guy hadn’t given him enough information. Hell, Reaper hadn’t even paid him much now that he thought about it. A couple measly hundred to toss the place and search for a photo negative. Reaper hadn’t told him what it was, just said Amos would know when he saw it. Probably a shot of the guy getting his rocks off or balling someone’s old lady. Whatever it was, Rosalind Parrish had held it over his head, and he wanted the damn thing back.
    “I tore that cursed dark room apart.” Amos jutted his chin to emphasize the words. He’d done his part. The guy wasn’t getting no money back. “I trashed the house like you said to make it look like vandalism, but I couldn’t find no film negative. It woulda helped if I’d knowed what I was lookin’ for.”
    “Asshole.” Reaper cracked him across the face.
    Amos staggered, shocked by the abrupt violence. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Spittle flew from his mouth. Ain’t no way some puffed-up cretin was going to put their hands on him. Damn, it hurt. “No one takes a crack at me.”
    Before he could swing, Reaper hit him again. Open-palmed, as if he was slapping some worthless bitch. Amos gave a squawk when the third blow fell, driving him against his car. His ears rang, and his cheek burned with a powerful sting like bees had burrowed under the skin. He tried to catch his breath but Reaper hit him again. And again.
    Oh, hell. He was getting the shit beat out of him like Doreen Sue when he smacked her around. This couldn’t be happening. Not to him, not Amos Carter.
    He raised his arms to protect himself, crumpling to his knees as Reaper rained blow after blow on his head and shoulders, using his fists now instead of his palm. The pain was excruciating. He couldn’t even find the wherewithal to strike back.
    “Who did you tell?” Reaper demanded.
    “What?” Blood coated his tongue, making it hard to talk. A meager spark of hope sprouted in his gut. “What do you mean?”
    Reaper kicked him in the ribs, sending new agony barrel-rolling through his chest. He groaned and tried to curl into a ball.