FIGHTS: Preview - La Lechuza: Revelation of the Blood Queen

New adventure pits
La Lechuza vs. Vampires in the Border Patrol

First ZBFbooks.com title of 2018 pits the hard fighting, hard loving Paula Belle Luna, Codename: La Lechuza, against the forces of darkness!  Vampires have infiltrated the Border Patrol, and its up to Paula to stop them.

In the following excerpt, Paula has discovered the menace and wants to confirm if the malevolent beings are capturing illegal immigrants and holding them prisoner for their precious blood.  She gets a ride to the Border Patrol facility just outside of San Uvalde by her arms provider, Reverend Farkas.

This book is a work of fiction.  People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental. 

Copyright 2016, 2017, 2018 Bowie V. Ibarra and ZombieBloodFights.com.  All Rights Reserved.

CHAPTER 11

LATE NIGHT INFILTRATION

          “Are you going to tell me anything, Paula?”

          “Didn’t Jesus say, ‘Silence is Golden’, padre?”

          “That wasn’t Jesus.”

          Paula had to reach out to Rev. Farkas if she was going to undertake her reconnoiter on the Border Patrol.  Making sure the kids were taken care of at the house, she had picked up most of her gear.  There was enough supplies for her recon, but she needed one last important element.

          A ride.

          “Why couldn’t you take your own car?” said Rev. Farkas, shifting the steering wheel to avoid a pothole on the road.

          “Because everyone knows my car.  Besides, your company and blessing are needed.”  She gripped her hands together, tilted her head, and fluttered her eyes in an insincere gesture.

          “You always have my blessing, Paula,” said Rev. Farkas patiently.  He couldn’t help but huff and shake his head with a grin as he turned onto a road just outside of town near the Purple Sage.  “But I’m not going with you.”

          “I’m just doing recon,” said Paula. “And I just need you to pick me up in an hour… right here.”

          Paula could see the Border Patrol building in the distance and called for Rev. Farkas to stop.

          “Alright.  Simonize our watches to one hour,” said Paula, prepping her timer on her teched-out googles.

          “Synchronize?” said Rev. Farkas, prepping his watch.

          “Whatever,” said Paula.  “On one.  In 3, 2, 1.”

          Farkas and Paula started their timer together and Paula slung her gear pouch, storing a rope and a grappling hook as well as a few other supplies, across her shoulder.  But before she stepped out, she looked to Farkas.

          “How about that blessing, padre?”

          Smiling and making the sign of the cross over Paula, Rev. Farkas gave Paula her blessing.  “Lord, bless and protect your daughter and servant, and bring her back to me in an hour.  Amen.”

          Their eyes locked.  A moment.

          “Amen,” said Paula, stepping into the night and running into the brush a few hundred yards from the facility.

          Without her original outfit, Paula had to improvise.  She had picked a pair of black spandex leggings with a thin green stripe running down the side of her legs to her green Addidas wrestling high tops.  Her throwing knives were strapped around her right thigh.  Her Bowie knife hung from her right hip.  The spandex top she was wearing matched her leggings, complete with green trim on the shoulders that ran down to her wrists.  Green trim also laced the material around her generous cleavage. And if you looked hard enough, you could see a soft belly behind the black spandex.  The lenses of her high-tech goggles were yellow and her hands were covered with loaded SAP gloves.

          Jogging through the brush, she crouched down and snapped a pic of the facility using her goggles.  Then, using the device’s projector app that produced two screens in front of her, she opened the screen and dialed up the coordinates of her location.  It was projected in one of the screens, then copied and pasted to a satellite imagery app.

          Even though she had resigned from the clandestine organization she once worked for**, the tech and apps still worked for her.  And Rev. Farkas, along with Sister Joyce, made sure to secure the apps and have access to any upgrades without ever losing info.

          As the satellite photo was being downloaded, Paula was studying a blueprint of the main building taken from the San Uvalde municipality database on the other open window.  She twisted and turned her hand in front of her face, manipulating the size of the image with the projector app.

          That’s when a text alert blinked above the open windows.

          It was Mickey.

          What R U wearing?

          “Dammit, Mickey,” whispered Paula as she checked out the now-available satellite image.  “Some other time, man.”

          The image was in great resolution, and showed not only the main office building, but the location of the warehouse, hidden in the trees and brush a few hundred yards behind the main office.  The same office from the vision.  Upon closer examination, Paula noticed a non-paved road to the warehouse was hidden in the trees.  Though a few vehicles were parked around the hidden building, there was no evidence of guard towers or people in general.  No security walking around.  Curiously, there were no windows on the upper level of the warehouse.  So there was no question the main target to investigate was the warehouse.

          So, staying in the shadows, Paula crept through the trees and brush to the warehouse.

          As she made her way, a deep sense of dread began to fill her heart with fear.  She stopped, cloaked in darkness and looked around.  She felt like a pair of eyes, or more, were looking at her.

          She turned on her infrared vision.

          Nothing.

          Night vision.

          Nothing.

          FLIR.

          Nothing.

          “Enough with the fear, Paula,” she whispered, returning the goggles to normal vision.

          Fighting through the fear, Paula emerged from the brush, still in the cover of darkness, near the building.  She clicked on the ‘Camera Freeze’ app on her goggles screen that freeze-framed security camera transmissions.  She then had the goggles perform an electronic assessment of alarms and locks.  While she let the apps do their work, she checked out the building exterior.

          Similar to the main office, this big warehouse had no windows with the exception of one large window on the third floor.  Paula assumed there was a matching one on the opposite side.  The building was made of cinder blocks and had two large metal doors at the front, big enough to drive a large vehicle through.  She switched to X-Ray vision app and immediately noticed she could not penetrate the walls with the app.

          “Hmm.”

          The electronic assessment of the alarms returned, and she optioned to have them turned off.  But the locks to the main door were not electrical.

          Taking another look at the aerial shots, Paula noticed large vents and skylights on the top of the building.  That was a new option.

          “Glad I brought you,” said Paula, pulling out a rope and hook from the bag.  Finding a good edge that looked strong enough to allow the hook to grip on the flat roof, Paula spun the hook and rope before getting enough momentum to throw it up.  The hook caught hold of an edge, and after a quick test, Paula climbed the wall.

          Reaching the rooftop, Paula quickly pulled the rope up and placed it back in her

pouch after tying it up again.  She scoped out the rooftop and could see the skylights she had viewed in the satellite images.

          “Let’s take a peekski,” she whispered, walking to a skylight.  The rocks that were spread across the tar roof crunched under her boot.  She looked around her, sensing she was being watched.

          Scream.

          Looking down into the warehouse, the lights were off.  All she could see was the soft glow of computer monitors stuck on a screen saver and other electrical devices near the floor.

          “I need light,” she whispered, activating the night vision of her goggles.  Clicking it on, she peered through the skylight.

          Help.

          Her eyes grew wide as the night vision app brought to light what was hidden.

          Help me.

          Below, in the large warehouse, were rows upon rows of white tables.  Lying on the tables, strapped down and set with multiple intravenous devices, were humans.  Apparently, they were dressed in the clothes they had been caught in and set on the tables.  Very clear streams of blood were passing through the IVs.  A mask was set over their nosed and mouths in which Paula assumed was the gas that kept them under and, perhaps, oxygen to keep them alive.

          But the most fascinating aspect was how the tables were arranged on multiple conveyer belts.  The belts ran diagonally in a cycle.  The setup reminded Paula of the old mills that cycled through with buckets scooping water into the mill, spinning it.  Even though this machine was not working now, Paula assumed that’s how it ran.

          They must cycle through every day and harvest the blood, she thought.  Fed intravenously.  Diabolical.

          “It’s quite a setup, wouldn’t you agree?”

          The voice startled Paula, who immediately turned and shined the light from her goggles on the source of the voice behind her.  The source of the comment held up her hand to the bright light.  Paula could see the woman’s lips, laced in red lipstick, curve into a smile.  She knew exactly who it was.  Bolts of fear shot through her body.

          “Why, Deborah Robins.  Taking a midnight stroll on a rooftop tonight?” said Paula, trying to stay calm.

          “You could say that,” she said.  She could feel Paula’s fear.    

          Ms. Robins was wearing a Border Patrol uniform.  Her top was unbuttoned.  Paula hated how the bitch showed off her rack.  The wind caught her jet black hair and ruffled her straight bangs.  “Just doing my job.”

          “Security, right?”

          “Right,” she replied, walking to Paula.  “You’re coming with me.”

          “How about ‘no’, dear,” said Paula, unsheathing three throwing knives from her thigh strap and jetting them toward Agent Robins.  They whistled through the air and struck true.  One struck Ms. Robins’ throat.  The second, in the chest, right between her two large breasts.  Third, her stomach.  They set in Ms. Robin’s body in a line.  Blood sputtered from the points of entry, soiling her top.

          Agent Robins gurgled in pain, removing the knives and staggering.  “You cunt,” she whispered.

          Paula pulled out the hook and rope again and untied it, ready to go over the side again.  “I’m the boss here, bitch.  Don’t fuck with me.”  Some confidence was returning.

          Ms. Robins’ gurgles turned to laughter.  Her throat sizzled and healed before Paula’s eyes.  Steam rose from the other wounds as they also healed.

          “No,” said Ms. Robins, dashing to Paula at an unearthly speed.  “I am the boss!”

          Not expecting the move and the speed, and with no time to respond, Ms. Robins shoved Paula into the air.  Taking flight, out of control, Paula was sent over the edge of the building.  Having just scaled the wall, she knew exactly what was below her.

          Paula’s body was on a crash course for the hard stones and dirt on the ground below.

          ** see ‘Codename: La Lechusa’

=  == === ==== === == =

What happens next?  Buy it now in Paperback or Kindle before the paperback HERE!

Get the hot action 1st title from the Lechuza series HERE!

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FIGHTS: The Weird West with Dominic Stabile

A STRONG VOICE IN THE WEIRD WEST GENRE SITS DOWN WITH ZBFBOOKS.COM

ZBFbooks.com - What part of the world are you writing out of?

Dominic Stabile - I’m currently living in a small Maine town called Penobscot. I’m from South Carolina, so most of my fiction takes place in the South East.

ZBF - What got you into the weird west genre?

DS - Joe Lansdale’s Jebediah Mercer stories. I had been writing for about a year when I read “Dead Man’s Road” in a Lansdale issue of Weird Tales. I had never read anything like it. Most of the Horror I had read up to that point would build suspense, reveal the horror, and then end with the character either dying or going mad. I was expecting the same from Dead Man’s Road. But what blew me away was that after the horror was revealed, and the hero, Jebediah, narrowly escaped death, the story kept going. He went after the creature, and the story ended in a climactic battle. It was a refreshing break from the norm, but it also crippled my own writing for years, because nothing I did could stand up to it.

ZBF - Do you have any favorite weird west stories?

DS - Well, “Dead Man’s Road,” for sure, as well as the rest of Lansdale’s Mercer stories. A novella of Lansdale’s called “On the far Side of the Cadillac Desert with Dead Folks.” The films Seraphim Falls, Bone Tomahawk, Blood Moon, and others I’m sure I missed.

ZBF - Tell us about your title.

DS - The synopsis for Full Moon in the West goes: Juan “Tezcat” Medina is about to take the law into his own hands. Having lost his wife and daughter to a gang of outlaws, he strikes a deal with a local witch. She can resurrect his family. All he has to do is kill the six outlaws before dawn and bring their souls back to her. But there's something different about this gang of outlaws, something Tezcat isn't aware of until it's too late, and he's forced into a showdown with evil.

I originally wrote this for an anthology, but never submitted it. The story grew and took a path that didn’t fit with the anthology’s guidelines. By the time I was done, I had a story that was too long to submit to magazines and too short to submit to book publishers. I came across Grinning Skull Press’s Grave Marker Series, which focuses on publishing ebooks of stories in this range. They accepted it, slapped an amazing cover by Jeffrey Kosh on it, and that’s that.

ZBF -  Man, that sounds like an excellent story.  Where can people get your title?

DS - Full Moon in the West can be purchased for Kindle HERE.

ZBF - How can readers keep in touch with your progress?

DS - I write movie/book reviews at dominicstabile.com. I’m also active on facebook, Instagram , and twitter . I’ll be giving updates on my progress through the third book in my Scifi/Noir series from Mirror Matter Press (Stone Work is available on Amazon, Stone Wall and Stone Factory pending), as well as my progress on my Horror/Magical Realism novel, The Youth Room.

7.       Do you have a favorite alcoholic drink?

Oh yes. Maker’s, neat.

====

BOWIE V. IBARRA is the author of the Weird West title 'The Cruel Fate of Dr. Brewster McGill', available in paperback and Kindle format. Network with Bowie at his official website, ZBFbooks.com.

FIGHTS: Review - Sonambulo fights crime in 'Sleep of the Just'

 EX-LUCHADOR TURNS DETECTIVE IN THE RAFAEL NAVARRO TITLE
by
Bowie V. Ibarra

Rafael Navarro is one of America's most talented independent comic book artists.  I recently had the opportunity to pick up his title, 'Sonambulo in Sleep of the Just'.  It was a real find.  The story is a noir-style mystery mixed with elements of lucha libre.

The story revolves around our hard-boiled hero, Sonambulo, which is Spanish for 'Sleepwalker'.  Sonambulo was once a lucha libre star until he had a fateful run-in with the mob, who beat him down, shot him, and left him for dead.  Instead of dying, however, he fell into a kind of hibernation state, waking up years later.  When he woke up, he never went to sleep again and was afflicted with the superpower to 'see' other people's dreams.  It's that ability that helps him put puzzle pieces together to solve crimes.

The story itself is a lot of fun.  But the best part of the title is the art.  Navarro has a very distinctive artistic style that brings its characters to life.  The black and white story helps add to the spookier elements to the story, and also give you that 1950s TV feel of the story.

If you have the opportunity, find this graphic novel or the individual copies of each chapter.  'Sleep of the Just' is not only well-crafted story with dynamic art, but a fitting tribute to the tradition of crime fighting luchadors.  This title is ZBFbooks.com approved!

You can pick up a copy of 'Sleep of the Just' and other works from Rafael Navarro at his official website HERE.

And if you like lucha libre stories with zombies, pick up the ZBFbooks.com title, 'Sword of the Angel'.  It's about a Mexican luchador who faces the zombie apocalypse with spectators after a pro-wrestling event in San Antonio.  It's a great title you can find HERE in paperback or kindle.

BOWIE V. IBARRA is the author of the 'Down the Road' zombie horror series from Permuted Press.  Bowie likes to refer to his works as Tex-Mexploitation, as they all feature strong cultural elements of south Texas, where Bowie was raised.  Some titles include 'Codename: La Lechusa', 'Tejano Star and the Vengeance of Chaplain Skull, and Alamo Rising.

Network with Bowie at his official website ZBFbooks.com.

FIGHTS: Read an excerpt from 'Room 26 and the Army of Xulhutdul'

by Bowie V. Ibarra

Coming summer 2013 is the new superhero adventure 'Room 26 and the Army of Xulhutdul'.

Below is an excerpt from the book.  Check it out, then keep an eye out for its release in early summer 2013.

 

ROOM 26

And the

ARMY OF XULHUTDUL

BY

BOWIE V. IBARRA

COPYRIGHT 2010 BOWIE V. IBARRA

PROLOGUE

 

GUATEMALA, 1933

 

            Bill Frasier could hear the ancient spirits moving swiftly behind him. 

The noise the ghosts made as they pursued Bill was like the wind dancing across a treeline, or the collective exhale of a group of people.  Their shadows danced across the moist trees, green vines, and leafy foliage like the hands of a child making shadows of monsters on a nursery school wall.  The disembodied voices taunted him in a language long forgotten, audible over his heavy breaths, his hands slapping away flora, and the squishing of his boots against the muddy jungle ground.

            Fear laced the blood that was pumping through his heart as he turned to look at his ghostly pursuers.  Their gray, snaking mists swirled and dashed after him around ancient trees.  Sinister expressions shifted around the malevolent fogs like faces in the clouds.  Long, misty arms stretched out like the branches of a tree long dead, bereft of leaves for decades.  The fingers stretched and threatened as if they were spikes, or blades.  They snaked through the foliage, playing hide and seek in the jungles of Central America.  But this chase would not end with the joyful laughter of friends.

            A large root jutting out of the jungle floor tripped Bill, sending him flying into a tree.  His pith helmet absorbed most of the collision against his head.  But it still hurt.  His safari khakis were so soaked in sweat that there was an audible splat.  He groaned, dazed.

            It took him a moment to realize he had dropped the source of his impending doom.  At his feet lay a scroll.  Tied to the scroll was a piece of heavy paper, a map to the temple he had discovered, a shrine with a curse.

            Turning to look at the ancient spirits in hot pursuit, he picked the scroll off the ground before he returned to his feet.  His eyes bulged as fear pierced his heart.  The ghosts manifested themselves, and though they whispered in the language long dead, the sound of their mocking laughter was completely understood.

            Knowing his fate was sealed, he started running again, delaying the inevitable.  No one ever ventured this deep into this particular portion of the Guatemalan jungle.  No one, neither native nor animal, was going to help him.

            Or so he thought.

            In a clearing just ahead, Bill could make out a tent and a campfire.  Someone was clearly present at the site.  It was a chance to at least get the scroll away from him.  Perhaps the spirits would spare him if he released the scroll.

            He ran to the camp.

            In the clearing, a teenage girl was preparing a simple meal of beans, vegetables, and bread.  She wore her long brown hair in pigtails.  Her pale face held a gentle sea of freckles.

            Bill ran faster, feeling the spirits close behind.  The clearing was just moments away.  He knew the ghosts were getting closer as the air around him was beginning to hold a subtle chill in the balmy heat of the jungle.

            Bill broke through the treeline into the clearing.  The girl shrieked as Bill fell by the campfire, panting like an exhausted dog.

            “Little girl,” he gasped, hyperventilating.  “Take this.  Hide it.  Never open it up.  Do you understand me?  Never.”

            The little girl trembled in fear.  Her eyes became glassy.  Her heart beat against her chest with fearful cruelty.

            When the ancient ghosts broke the treeline and appeared in the clearing, they grabbed the unsuspecting explorer.  Bill Frasier was prepared. 

            Lifting him up into the air, the mysterious fog wrapped him up tight, covering his mouth.  It was an effective gag, as all the little girl could hear were his stifled cries of terror.  Though she could barely hear him, she felt his terror in his eyes.

            The little girl watched as he floated up into the air before being pulled straight into the darkness of the jungle, never to be seen again.

            Trembling, the little girl looked at the object she had been handed.  It was a carved tube of wood.  Along the tube were elaborately carved stone faces.  Tied by a thin piece of hemp cord was a piece of cloth.  The little girl dare not touch or adjust any of it.  As far as she was concerned, the tube was probably responsible for the ghosts.  The man said never to open it, after all.

            It was very fortunate that her mother and father returned to camp.  They had traveled just yards away to catch fish in the river.

            “Sara,” asked her father.  “We brought lunch.  Is the fire ready?”

            Sara’s mother knew immediately something was amiss.  “Sara, what’s wrong?” she asked.

            Sara tossed the scroll into the nearby brush.  It easily became hidden.  “I’m fine, mommy.  Just a little scared.”

            Her mother kneeled down beside her daughter.  She wiped a tear that had fallen across her cheek, saying, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

            Sara didn’t want to look foolish in front of her mother.  So she meekly responded, “I just got a little scared, that’s all.”

            Sara’s mother gave her a big hug.  “Oh, you don’t have anything to be afraid of, sweetheart.  We’re here.”

            Sara’s father had already started cooking the fish, stating, “I think the village of El Rincón is just a few more miles from here.  We should probably take off in the morning.”

            “No,” shouted Sara. “We should just go tonight!”

            “Sara,” said her mother.  “Listen to your father.  He’s right.  It’s getting late, and we’d get lost in this jungle at night.

            “But we could be in danger here,” said Sara desperately.

            “Sara, calm down,” stated her father.  “What’s got into you?  Jesus has brought us this far to find those that need to be saved.  He will protect us tonight.”

            Sara’s perception of the saving grace of Jesus was suddenly skewed.  She had just witnessed the fog of demonic forces take a man into the jungle.  The man disappeared.  No Jesus to save him.  It was just the ungodly force that consumed him.  What made her think it couldn’t happen to her, or her parents?

            “Sara, everything is going to be alright.  Say a prayer with me.”

            Sara shared a prayer with her loving mother.  And though later that night she ate in peace as the Father of Jesus spread stars across the night sky, she still couldn’t rest until her Lord brought the sun up in the morning sky the next morning.

            Jesus favored her.

ONE

 

SAN ANTONIO, 2010

 

            “The San Antonio arts community has lost a true hero.”

            “I agree.”

            “It’s a sad day for the arts here in San Antonio.”

            “It is.”

            “Seventy years.  Can you believe that?”

            “She was a real dynamo.”

            It was the theme of the afternoon at Ms. Sara McNulty’s funeral.  All Lorraine Blacksmith and Jackalyn White could do was agree as they stood together watching the funeral party pay their respects.

            “You know, when Ms. McNulty founded this museum years ago, I never thought it would get as big as it became,” said a mourner.  “But I’ve always been a supporter.  I wanted to see it work, to see it grow, and it did.”

            “It got bigger than any of us could ever imagine,” said Lorraine.

            “She spent decades building the museum up,” chimed in Jackalyn.  “Its reputation grew and grew every year.”

            “Every day,” countered Lorraine.

           

“And the arts community was elevated with it,” continued Jackalyn with a subtle look at Lorraine.  Though the two representatives of the museum had worked together for a time, it was Jackalyn that did not appreciate the upstart Lorraine, who had worked at the museum several years earlier.

            “Have a good rest of the day,” said the mourner, excusing herself from the awkward tension.

            Lorraine and Jackalyn glanced at each other.  Both took a deep breath simultaneously and looked away.

            “I’m so proud of the work Ms. McNulty provided for our fine city,” said a tall and well-groomed man, who approached the ladies.

            “Well, we owe a lot of that to you, Mr. Sosa,” said Jackalyn.  “Your donations to the museum have led to the new wings that have housed some of our most treasured artistic and historical artifacts.”

            “It is labor of love, Ms. White,” he said, smiling magnanimously.  “I’ve always allowed for my resources to provide for the artistic and intellectual growth of San Antonio.  And as a city Councilman, it’s important to nurture growth like this museum in our city.”

            “And it most certainly has,” said Lorraine.  “The exhibits we have been able to bring in due to your donations have provided us a venue for local, national, and even international artists.”

            “The museum has always had a broad spectrum of modern and ancient art,” chimed in Jackalyn.

            “That is true, and a wonderful attribute to the museum.”  He then turned to Lorraine.  “And, may I say, it is good to see you again, Lorraine,” he said, reaching in for a side hug that Lorraine accepted cordially.  “How is your schooling?”

            “Done with school.  Just working now.”

            “Ah,” he said, changing the subject by the subtext of her response, which didn’t seem to intimate she enjoyed the work.  “Well, I hope to see you two again under more jovial circumstances,” he said, excusing himself.

            The two ladies watched the funeral party take their leave of the cemetery.  Mourners had spent the past twenty minutes paying their final respects at Ms. McNulty’s grave.

            “She will be missed,” said Jackalyn.

            Lorraine chuckled.  She knew Jackalyn was as sincere as the fox of fables past.  She really did not appreciate the false attitude.  Lorraine remembered how rude Jackalyn had been to her mother, Helen Blacksmith, who used to work for Ms. McNulty for many years.

            Lorraine responded.  “Well, Jackalyn, the peace and happiness she brought to the museum and the community will be missed as well.”

            Jackalyn felt the subtle jab.  As per her personality, she chose to make sure she remained in control.  “Well, considering I’ll be running the museum now, I will try and keep the peace like she did.”

            “God help the McNulty,” murmured Lorraine.

            Jackalyn heard the remark.  “Care to say that again?” she asked, turning to Lorraine.

            “God blessed the McNulty with such capable people to run it.”  Lorraine didn’t want to fight.  Participating in open conflict was not something she was good at.

            With the pride of a lion, Jackalyn beamed.  “Yes, he did.”

            “Ladies,” said an approaching mourner.  “My condolences.  Two deaths so close together is so hard to deal with.” 

            “Thank you, Ms. Baumgarten,” said Lorraine.  The reminder of her mother’s death only a few years earlier gave her a twinge of sadness.

            “Your mother will be remembered along with Ms. McNulty fondly by all.”

            “Yes,” Jackalyn replied solemnly.  “Yes, she will.”

            Sally Baumgarten was a Gold Member of the museum, and a bit of a gossip.  Today was no exception.

            “So, I guess you ladies are excited to hear who Ms. McNulty has chosen to run the museum?”

            “Well,” said Jackalyn, lacing her tone with arrogance.  “I will be taking the reins very soon.”

            “That’s not what I heard,” said Ms. Baumgarten, smiling.  She didn’t like Jackalyn, either, and enjoyed yanking her chain.  As a Gold Member of the museum, Jacklyn could not afford to insult her.

            In truth, Baumgarten had a real piece of news that she knew would bug Jackalyn.  As a confidante of the late Ms. McNulty, she had been privy to the thought process in picking her heir, though she didn’t know the final decision.

            “Tomorrow at twelve, as per request by Ms. McNulty, her legal advisor, Mr. Gonzalez, is going to read her will.  In it, she will name her successor.”

            “That’s impossible,” said Jackalyn, smiling, thinking she was being teased.  “It’s clear it will be me.”

            “Well, looks like we’ll all find out tomorrow at twelve,” she said, shaking their hands once again.  “I’ll see you ladies then.”  Ms. Baumgarten walked off, smirking.

            “I swear, I would choke that lady to death if I could,” grumbled Jackalyn.

            “Classy, Jackalyn,” chuckled Lorraine.

            “Just as classy as the place you work,” said Jackalyn.  “What do you do again?  Hustle old people for books?”

            Lorraine groaned.  “They’re alumni directories, and they are a valuable networking tool and…”

            “… heirloom quality book,” they both said together.

            “I know all that,” said Jackalyn.  “Well, if you ever want out of that dream job, I could get you work here on our cleaning team,” said Jackalyn with a cruel smile.  “I know you worked here previously, so you would know where all the trash cans are and high-traffic areas to mop.”

            Lorraine sighed.  Her job wasn’t the best.  But it made some money to maintain the house bills for the place she lived in alone.  Her family house.

            “Thanks, Jackalyn,” said Lorraine as one of the final mourners approached.

            “Condolences, ladies,” said the man, clad in a black suit.  “We’ll miss her.”

            “You were always one of her closest friends, Mr. Strickland,” said Jackalyn.
            Reece Strickland chuckled.  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

            “Your donations have been appreciated, Mr. Strickland,” said Lorraine.  “In fact, Mr. Sosa was here moments ago.  You two are our most generous providers.”

            “Mr. Sosa, eh,” he said, smiling.  “Well, I’m glad I missed my rival’s tribute to our beloved Ms. McNulty.”

            The comment went over Lorraine’s head as she remembered something.

            “Oh,” gasped Lorraine.  “I need to get to work.  It was good to see you, Mr. Strickland,” she said, shaking his hand.

            “Have fun,” said a smug Jackalyn.

            “I will,” said Lorraine, smiling back sarcastically.  “Meanie,” she muttered as she walked away.

            Jackalyn thought she heard what Lorraine said, and eyeballed her as her former colleague at the museum walked away.

========================

What will happen at the meeting and how will it affect the future of San Antonio?  Pick up the action-packed superhero book, 'Room 26 and the Army of Xulhutdul' today at Amazon.com in paperback or Kindle.

BOWIE VALERIANO IBARRA is the author of the 'Down the Road' zombie horror series from Permuted Press and Simon and Schuester.  His latest zombie story, The Fall of Austin, tells the story of military, police, convicts, and citizens of the Texas capitol as they deal with the zpoc.

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 You can network with Bowie and read about his Tex-Mexploitation stories at his personal website, ZombieBloodFights.com.