Husk Read online

  PRAISE FOR

  HUSK

  “Matt Hults delivers a crackling, creepy tale. A fast-paced read with a generous body count, ‘Husk’ will make your skin crawl.”

  —Scott Nicholson, Bestselling author of They Hunger

  * * *

  “Remember the first time you read Joe Lansdale’s The Drive-In, or Freezer Burn? Remember how exhilarated you felt as you tore through the pages as Lansdale kept knocking your jaw to the floor with his endless inventiveness, unexpected belly-laughs, and those even more unexpected moments of terror and pathos? Miss that feeling of being completely at the mercy of a writer’s imagination and boundless energy for his subject? Fret no more, friends—you now have Matt Hults’s Husk. This sucker is the real thing, an in-your-face, rollicking, scary, funny, and unexpectedly poignant potpourri of a horror story, an unabashed and unapologetic throwback to the early pulps infused with a vindictive modern-day sensibility that will have your head spinning and your mouth hanging open. It doesn’t get any more fun than this.”

  —Gary A. Braunbeck, winner of the Bram Stoker Award and International Horror Guild Award, author of Coffin County and Destinations Unknown

  * * *

  “Suspenseful and gruesome, with just the right leavening of hopefulness and nod-wink humor.”

  —Dr. Kim Paffenroth, Bram Stoker Award Winner for Dying to Live.

  * * *

  “Husk is wild, bloody, scary, action-packed, and entertaining as hell. Matt Hults seems to be having a blast telling his tale, and I had a blast going along for the ride. Great fun!”

  —Jeff Strand, Bram Stoker Nominated Author of PRESSURE

  * * *

  "'Husk' is a chilling and relentless tale that will make you want to check your closets, lock your windows and keep an eye in your review mirror...but don't think that'll save you!"

  ––Fran Friel, Bram Stoker Nominated Author of Mama's Boy

  * * *

  “Husk is violent, intense and terrifying. The characters are as real as you and I, and every triumph is rapturous while every death is harrowing. Matt Hults proves himself as a master of the genre with his striking debut novel. It will leave you feeling skinned alive and dying for more.”

  —Joel A. Sutherland, Bram Stoker Nominated Author of Frozen Blood

  * * *

  “I have come across some pretty mind-blowing demons on paper, on the big screen, and especially in my mind. But the ‘Husk’ Matt Hults created in this his first novel breaks all my thresholds for fear, and believe me I have built some pretty sound barriers in my time.”

  —Giovanna Lagana, author of With Black & White Comes the Grey

  * * *

  CONTENTS:

  Introduction

  Husk

  James Roy Daley - Terror Town

  James Roy Daley - Into Hell

  Gary Brandner - The Howling

  Gary Brandner - The Howling II

  Gary Brandner - The Howling III

  Paul Kane - Pain Cages

  BOOKS of the DEAD

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, events, dialog, and situations in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of reprinted excerpts for the purpose of reviews.

  For more information, contact: [email protected]

  Visit us at: Booksofthedead.blogspot.com

  HUSK

  Copyright 2011 by Matt Hults

  Edited by Matt Hults and James Roy Daley

  Photo Credit - Danielle Tunstall

  Cover Model - Paige Rohanna Walker

  Graphic Design - Cynthia Gould

  E-book Design - James Roy Daley

  FIRST EDITION

  * * *

  Great books from:

  BOOKS of the DEAD

  BEST NEW ZOMBIE TALES (VOL. 1)

  BEST NEW ZOMBIE TALES (VOL. 2)

  BEST NEW ZOMBIE TALES (VOL. 3)

  CLASSIC VAMPIRE TALES (VOL.1)

  BEST NEW VAMPIRE TALES (VOL. 1)

  MATT HULTS - HUSK

  MATT HULTS - ANYTHING CAN BE DANGEROUS

  JAMES ROY DALEY - TERROR TOWN

  JAMES ROY DALEY - 13 DROPS OF BLOOD

  JAMES ROY DALEY - INTO HELL

  JAMES ROY DALEY - THE DEAD PARADE

  GARY BRANDNER - THE HOWLING

  GARY BRANDNER - THE HOWLING II

  GARY BRANDNER - THE HOWLING III

  PAUL KANE - PAIN CAGES

  * * *

  ~For my family~

  Introduction

  JAMES ROY DALEY

  Matt Hults is one of my favorite writers. Not one of my favorite ‘new’ writers, not one of my favorite ‘up-and-coming’ writers, but one of my favorite writers period. A big statement considering this is the man’s first book, I know, but it’s true.

  When I started my little Books of the Dead publishing company, one of the first things I did was announce a submission call for my Best New Zombie Tales Anthology Series, which at the time wasn’t a series at all, but rather a simple idea for a single book. The submissions came flooding in and I was shocked by the amount of stories I received. Some were good, some were bad; many were somewhere in-between. A couple of months into my editing journey I announced a submission call for my Best New Vampire Series, and once again I had more stories than I knew what to do with. In all, I waded through over 800 tales within the span of a few months. Of the 800, twenty would find their way into each book. The other 700+ stories would be cast aside. Matt’s stories were accepted––not once, not twice, but three times. He was the only writer to achieve this. Not only that, but in every book I produced I placed his story strategically, in a place of importance.

  Why?

  Because his stories were that good.

  And before I started my company I must admit, I’d never heard of the man.

  With Best New Zombie Tales, I wanted to put Matt’s Feeding Frenzy in first. In fact, I was planning on putting it in first right up until the moment I worked out a deal with WHC Grand Master, Multiple-Award Winning Author Ray Garton, accepting his novella Zombie Love.

  Here’s something to chew on––if you’re going to put a novella into a book of short stories there are only two places you can put it: first, or last. If you put it anywhere else you’ll end up dividing the stories into sections.

  With the decision to include Ray’s story made, Best New Zombie Tales became a series, Matt’s story was pushed into the second slot of the book, and Feeding Frenzy became the first “true” short story in the collection.

  In Zombie Tales Two I went a different route. I decided to have Matt’s story The Finger be the strong piece that ends the show. I thought about putting it first, but I felt as though he had already been given that honor in the first volume, even if I was the only one that realized it. So, with this in mind, The Finger became Zombie Two’s closer and the book finished on a high note.

  Then came my Vampire Collection, which––as I write this––has been edited and formatted but hasn’t quite made its way out the door.

  The vampire book was a whole different story.

  I asked Matt if he had any vampire tales he’d like to submit. He said no. Then, after a little bit of harassment, he changed his position and said he had something that might fit.

  What I received was a story called Anything Can Be Dangerous.

  I’m not exactly sure what Matt was smoking when he wrote that story, nor do I have any idea what he was thinking on the day he tried to sell it to me as a vampire tale, but two things are for certain. ONE: stories that are centered around plastic bags that run across the city eating people are NOT vampire stories. And TWO: Matt’s brain travels a creativ
e highway that is unlike any other.

  After he gave me his bag story, and I rejected it––I had to reject it, not because I didn’t love it but because the anthology wasn’t called Best New Plastic Bag Tales––I learned something. I learned that if you give Matt a little time, and you close your eyes for a while, he’s like magic. He’ll say he doesn’t have something but then suddenly––he does. In spades.

  Do have any vampire stories?

  No.

  Are you sure?

  Yes. Well, I don’t know . . . is this a vampire story?

  No, Matt. That’s a story about a killer garbage bag.

  Oh.

  What about this?

  He hands me Through the Valley of Death––one of the best vampire stories I’ve ever read.

  Are you kidding me?

  Where the hell did this come from?

  The story earned the first spot in my vampire series, and haunts my thoughts still.

  It was around this time that I started hounding him for a manuscript. My idea was simple enough: you are an evil genius, Matt Hults; you need your own book.

  I said, “Matt . . . lets plunk all of these great stories into a collection!”

  And sure enough, in true Matt Hults fashion, he says, “I’m not sure if I have enough stuff for a book. Let me see what I can do. I’ll try to dust off a few stories for you.”

  Time passes. Nothing happens. I figure nothing will. Then he says, “Oh yeah. I forgot that I have this 100,000-word novel. It’s completely done and ready to go . . . do you want to see it?”

  * * *

  I imagine Matt as a child, at home, sitting on the floor in a large empty room with his only friend.

  His friend says, “Do you have anything to play with?”

  Matt shakes his head. “No.”

  “You don’t have any toys? No robots? No videogames? No Lego?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “You don’t have anything at all, not even a ball?”

  “Well . . . is this a toy?”

  Shoulders slump. “No, Matt. That’s an empty water bottle with a dead bug in it.”

  “Oh.”

  Hours roll by. Slowly. Painfully. Matt’s friend says, “I’m so bored, I can’t take it anymore! I wish you had some toys.”

  Matt looks across the empty room, scratches his head and shrugs. “Sorry. I don’t have anything. Unless . . . I just remembered; I do have one thing. Is this a toy?”

  Then, out of nowhere, he pulls out a full-sized ROLLERCOASTER, which is connected to the world’s greatest AMUSEMENT PARK.

  This is Matt Hults.

  And Matt’s first novel––Husk––is Matt’s amusement park.

  So strap in, the rollercoaster is about to leave the station.

  Turns out he has more toys than he realizes.

  ~James Roy Daley

  * * *

  MATT HULTS’

  HUSK

  STILLWATER, MINNESOTA

  Five Years Ago…

  Black.

  The suspect had painted every inch of his house black.

  Obscured by snowfall, it looked like nothing more than an apparition in the storm, but through the binoculars its sinister presence loomed as large and solid as a monolithic tombstone.

  Homicide detective Frank Atkins lowered the binoculars and handed them to his squad partner as the remaining S.W.A.T. officers took up positions to their left and right.

  “This is it,” Frank said. He unslung the HK sub-machinegun from his shoulder and flicked off the safety. “We’re going to need to move fast to cross that field without being spotted. This psycho is a slippery son of a bitch. We can’t give him the slightest opportunity to get past us.”

  Martin DeAngelo peered into the binoculars. “You do your thing, Detective. We’ll do ours.”

  “I mean it,” Frank replied. “I want this bastard taken down once and for all.”

  The officer smirked. “Just because you’re qualified for this shit doesn’t make you my commander. Follow my lead and leave the noble quest for vengeance up to the prosecutors, okay?”

  Frank looked to the house with the word on the forefront of his mind. Vengeance. That’s exactly what it came to. Vengeance for Christine Mitchell. For Katie Hart. For Sean Edwards. Vengeance for the adolescent boy they still couldn’t identify. Vengeance for all of them.

  “Jesus,” DeAngelo commented, still gazing through the binoculars. “I can already hear the insanity plea.”

  Frank racked the first round into the breach of his weapon. “If I find him first, he won’t be going to court.”

  Maybe it was the hiss of contempt on Frank’s tongue, or the soft squeak of rubber as his hands wrung the handle grip of is weapon, but DeAngelo’s stare broke from the house and regarded him with a creased look of uncertainty.

  “You don’t really mean that, do you?”

  Frank held his gaze. “Like you said, lieutenant: You do your job, I’ll do mine.”

  The man opened his mouth to reply when the voice of the taskforce commander came to life on their radio headsets.

  “Move in! Everyone, move in!”

  The tactical team plunged out of their cover of evergreens and charged toward the farmhouse, plowing through snowdrifts to the war-drum beat of the twin air-units approaching fast from the south.

  The black house loomed ahead. No lights, no sign of movement.

  They’d closed within yards of the target when a cataclysmic blast of thunder exploded overhead, shaking the air with the concussive force of a bomb. Three serpents of lightning slithered earthward through the flurries, striking a canted weathervane atop the killer’s rooftop. Sparks showered in every direction.

  Several of the men stopped in mid-stride, dropping into defensive postures.

  “Jesus!” someone yelled over the radio.

  “What the hell was that?”

  “Everyone in formation,” Frank roared.

  Praying they hadn’t lost the element of surprise, he crouched behind DeAngelo, staying close when the man hefted his riot-shield and rushed up the front steps to the porch. Another officer, Sergeant Rice, heaved a battering ram against the front door, pulverizing it in a hail of splinters and paint chips.

  “Police! Search warrant,” Rice shouted as a second officer tossed a stun grenade into the farmhouse’s foyer.

  Inside, the decoy device exploded, sending out a mild concussion to disorient anyone in the immediate area. The tac team rushed through the smoke in a stacked, two-by-two formation, spurred on by Rice shouting, “Go, go, go, go!”

  Frank followed in line behind DeAngelo, moving fast and low. He kept one hand on the S.W.A.T. officer’s shoulder and held his breath when they crossed over the threshold.

  Smoke swirled in the air.

  Combat boots hammered the floor.

  Three groups of officers, all entering the house from separate locations at once, began calling off cleared areas of the home. Frank and his squad entered a brightly lit foyer flanked by open doorways. Ahead lay a staircase and a long hall that extended toward the back of the house.

  Contrary to the exterior paintjob, the walls and floors inside the home appeared immaculately clean. The walls looked smooth and unblemished by age, dotted by dozens of pictures in decorative frames. Ornate woodwork made up the baseboards and trim. Hardwood floors gleamed, exuding the scent of fresh polish.

  From the hallway, Frank glanced into the living room on his right. He spotted a host of nick-knack covered end tables, chairs with white doilies draped over the armrests, and a plastic-sealed couch with an eye-sizzling floral print.

  “That room’s clear,” DeAngelo said. “Stay with me, Detective.”

  Frank’s hand had come away from the officer’s shoulder while he contemplated the dichotomy of their suspect’s strange dwelling, and he rushed to catch up. The forward half of their twelve man team raced up to the second level, leaving Frank and DeAngelo to lead the remaining squad members deeper into the house.
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br />   A third of the way down the hall, they came upon a half closed door yet to be checked.

  “Basement,” DeAngelo said. He kicked the door open, and the stairwell beyond expelled a hot breath of putrescence. The stench of decay invaded Frank’s lungs, causing his chest to heave with a reflexive cough.

  “Police,” he yelled. “We’re armed.”

  He followed DeAngelo down the stairs, passing between mortar-caked stonework that brought to mind the crumbling tunnels of a subterranean tomb. A bare light bulb over the lower landing cast a fiery glow on the walls, and combined with the smell of death assaulting his nostrils, Frank imagined he’d not only trod into the domain of a killer but had descended into Hell itself.

  Four steps from the bottom Kale Kane lunged into view. Their suspect sprung from an open doorway to the right of the landing, brandishing an automatic weapon that exploded to life in a blaze of fire and noise.

  “Look out!” Frank cried, but it was already too late.

  The first barrage of gunfire hit DeAngelo’s shield center-mass then trailed up the stairs toward the other officers behind them. Bullets cut a dusty trail of destruction along the walls and risers as stray shots whined off the house’s cave-like foundation.

  Hot lead cut the sleeve of Frank’s uniform. More screamed past his helmet.