In the Blood by Nancy A. Collins Read Free Book Online

you, even if you are a sinner! If you confess your sin now, and kneel with me and pray for deliverance of your soul, it may not be too late for you . . "
    Palmer shook his head, too overwhelmed by the woman's conviction and madness to say anything. It wasn't until he'd disentangled himself that he realized she'd slipped a tract into his pocket. The title dripped red ink like slime and read: Are You Ready
    for the End Times?
    Judging from the crude illustration beneath the question, no one was: terrified
    "sinners" in tattered rags ran from flying insects the size of dachshunds; haggard derelicts tried to slake their thirst at drinking fountains gushing blood; a busty MTV-style Whore of Babylon lolled on the back of a seven-headed Beast, while in the background a nine-hundred-foot-tall Jesus beamed beatifically at the hundreds of souls zipping skyward from a tangle of wrecked and abandoned cars on the interchange.
    Disgusted, Palmer hurled the offending tract to the ground and hurried away in search of beer.
    He passed the next few hours drinking concoctions with so much grenadine in them the back of his throat puckered. Darkness came, and, as if upon clandestine agreement, the families vanished from the area, leaving only the hardcore to bid farewell to the flesh.
    A shrill, almost hysterical, sense of abandon tinged the masquers' celebrations.
    Drunken horseplay turned into open brawls. Palmer couldn't tell the difference between screams and laughter. The eyes of the revelers gleamed from behind their borrowed faces, as if compelled to cram as much as possible into the few hours remaining to them before returning to their real lives.
    The need Palmer glimpsed in their bleary, unfocused stares was both repellent and fascinating. It was as if he were surrounded by thousands of empty people desperately trying to fill themselves. He was overwhelmed by an image of himself being attacked by the screaming, laughing, empty people, devouring his soul as easily as a lion cleans the marrow from a broken bone.
    Gasping, he pushed past a group of masquers dressed as cockroaches and stumbled inside one of the all-hours tourist traps that lined the street. He leaned against a postcard rack and shivered like a drunk with the DTs. There was still an hour to go before he could consider his job done. He decided to lay off the booze so he would be in the condition to talk with the elusive Ms. Blue. Or if he meant to steer clear of the nuthouse, for that matter.
    He could still remember the day the men in the white suits took Uncle Willy away, screaming at the top of his lungs about the worms crawling out of his skin. Palmer's father had been quite upset. People on TV didn't have members of their family

    Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( http://www.novapdf.com ) carted away. At least not on Leave It to Beaver and Father Knows Best. It happened on the soaps his mom liked to watch all the time, though.
    "You awright, mister?"
    Palmer jerked his head up and stared at the man behind the cash register. The shopkeeper was the overall shape and size of a small foothill, dressed in khaki pants and a I Saw the Pope T-shirt. He chewed on an unlit cigar, eyeing Palmer warily.
    "You ain't gonna be sick, are ya? If yer gonna puke, do it outside, fer th' love 'a Gawd! I awready cleaned up after three people awready t'night! Jesus!"
    "I'm okay, thanks. It was a just a little... crowded out there."
    "Yeah, ain't that the truth! I'll be glad when ever'body goes home so's I can get some sleep. I-Hey, is that some friend of yours?" He pointed at the busy street on the other side of the glass.
    Palmer spun around, the hairs on the back of his neck erect. A well-fed tourist couple stood and stared at a "lifelike" plastic turd stapled to the brim of a synthetic baseball cap that bore the legend Shithead.
    "You mean them?"
    "No, it was some guy in a suit. You know, dressed like them queers down at the art galleries. He was smokin' a