R.I.P.
Brian Keene
1967-2009
The Death of Us All
by Bob Freeman
The air was thick with smoke and sweat. I didn’t get ten feet past the door before I caught sight of Cole Foley tearing himself away from some little chippy and heading toward me like a freight train of pent up aggression. Foley was Mick’s one-man welcoming committee and general enforcer of good will. When a man owed Mick as much money as I did, well you know what to expect when his goon came calling.
“You’ve got some nerve strolling into this joint, Keene.”
“Nice to see you too, Cole. Been awhile.”
“Boss said the next time you showed your mug in here I was supposed to smash it.”
“I love it when you talk all sexy like. Sorry twinkle toes but my dance card’s full up.”
“You son of a —–!”
Foley was a lovable lug, but not exactly the sharpest pencil in the box. The guy, for all his size and bluster always led with a haymaker and a little sidestep to the left. I ducked clean and stomped hard on the side of his knee, the one bearing the bulk of his weight, and grabbed his flailing arm and bent his wrist back until his puffy face turned red.
“You’re getting’ soft, Foley.” I leaned on him and made the big guy wince but stopped short of making him cry. He was a working stiff after all, just following orders. Nothing personal between us, I’m sure. But still, it pays to let the muscle know who the big dog is. When I heard the telltale click of a hammer being drawn back on a heater, I thought my barking days might be over.
“What’s your business here, Brian?”
Mick McDowell was my age, but looked older, though I’d be the first to admit that he dressed far better. His suit was freshly pressed and probably cost more than I made all last year. This was his joint, his hobby. His real business was in making small time operators like myself sweat. He ran all the gambling on the Eastside, had his fingers in a dozen other unsavory enterprises as well. In my line of work, and with my bad habits, crossing paths with Mick was a part of the business.
“Just stopped in for a drink, Mickey,” I said while lighting a cigarette. I’ve always had a knack for staying cool under pressure, and what else are you going to call staring down the barrel of a .45? I knew Mick’d pull the trigger at the bat of an eye, but I also knew that I was on the side of the angels and he’d be singing a different tune once I dug that wad of bills out of my pocket. “And to cover my debt to you, if you’ve a mind to accept cash.”
“Grab a barstool, Brian,” he said with a wink. “And you,” he added, snapping at his broken cooler, “get yourself cleaned up and looked after.” Mick pocketed the cash without counting and placed the gun on the bar. “You’ve got moxy, Keene, I’ll give ya that. What you drinking?”
“The usual.”
“Three fingers of Knob Creek. No ice. You’re a simple man, Brian Keene. Paying off your debt to me means one of two things. Either you just got yourself a sizable advance or you’re planning on checking out and you want to die with a clear conscience. My money’s on an advance.”
“House always wins, Mick. I just signed on to do another zombie novel.”
“Guess I was wrong, you are settling up before you check out.”
“You know something I don’t?”
“Brian, I’ve known you a long time. Another zombie novel will eat a Mamatas-sized hole in your soul, brother. No good can come of it. No amount of money worth it, believe me.” He tossed the greenbacks onto the bar. “You give that scratch back to your publisher and tell ‘em you’re backing out. We can settle up some other time, Brian. You’re good for it.”
“Mick, if I didn’t know any better I’d think you cared.” I downed my drink and slid away from the bar, leaving the money where it lay.
“Don’t be a hard head, Keene. Zombie tales are nothing but trouble.”
“So am I, Mickey.” I tipped my cowboy hat toward him and headed for the door. “So am I.”
“Damn it, Brian, don’t you get it. Zombies’ll be the death of you.”
“They’ll be the death of us all,” I said. Stepping into the black of night, I became what my fiction had made me, one of the shambling undead.
***
Today is Brian Keene Must Die day. Brian will be killed in dozens of horrifying ways in blogs across the blogosphere for a very good cause. If you enjoyed this humorous little vignette, please consider making a donation to the Shirley Jackson Awards.
Peter Straub is the New York Times bestselling author of more than a dozen novels, including the classic GHOST STORY. Two of his most recent, LOST BOY LOST GIRL and IN THE NIGHT ROOM, are winners of the Bram Stoker Award. He lives in New York City. Learn more at his official website: 
