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Back Black Ambrosia Save as PDF
Chapters (46)
  1. CoverImage
  2. Introduction by Grady Hendrix
  3. Acknowledgments
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. About the Author
  46. About the Cover

“The coffin was patched together with bent nails and rough edges, it was no more than a coffin-­shaped box—a crate, actually. I looked at that thing and knew I was going to open it, and wondered what the hell I was doing there. I tried to steel myself, and lifted the lid.

“It was empty, but not completely. My initial rush of relief that there wasn’t somebody inside was quickly overcome when I smelled the scent from the box. I leaned over and sniffed, and it was unmistakable. Then I knew. I knew for sure. There was no doubt. It was Angelina’s scent. I knew it from memory, she’d left it inside of my truck, impressed on my coat, everywhere. She had a particular smell, as we all do, but it always smelled like perfume in my mind.

“Now, here, it smelled the same, there was no mistake. It was strong, but it was also different, it was more . . . God, how do I describe it? Feral? Animal? It’s like once you’ve smelled a foxhole, you never forget it. Like that.

“So I knew in that moment that finding Angelina would be no small task. She had turned, all right. She’d be crafty. But I also had some important things on my side. She was really sick. Really sick. Sick enough to sleep in a . . . God.

“Sick people, unless they get well, keep getting sicker.”

23

23

There was little traffic that Christmas Eve. I walked the highway bearing southwest out of Seven Slopes, quickly leaving the entire experience behind me. I walked into the endless night, freezing cold, with only the stars for light. My body was heavy, burdened with sadness, with loneliness.

Two miles down the highway, I connected with the main freeway. A light snow fell and I kicked pebbles out of my way and felt through the soles of my boots for the vibration that indicated an approaching truck. With each one that passed me by, I stepped more boldly into their paths so they inevitably honked their monstrous air horns and had to steer around me. Couldn’t they see that I needed a ride? It was Christmas, after all. Where had Christianity gone? Then the truck would roar past, the backwash nearly knocking me from my feet, sucking me into the giant tires, and just for a moment, it would be warm, warm from the friction, and then it was cold again, in the freezing wind, and soon the silence returned, always deeper than before, and then even the asphalt vibration ceased. The world was a desperately lonely place.