J.L. Doty - Dead Among Us 01 - When Dead Ain’t Dead Enough by J.L. Doty

and mouth. It thrashed wildly, struggling, kicking, screaming out an ungodly, high-pitched cry, but McGowan refused to waver and held it pinned to the floor with the spike. And then suddenly the monster slumped back and lay motionless. Still, McGowan didn’t waver, held it pinned and continued the chant, relentlessly bringing the spell to its conclusion. Slowly the monster’s skin grew translucent, the beast shrank, and then it dissipated completely in a cloud of smoke and ash that dissolved in the air of the room
    McGowan stood and turned to find Colleen blocking the door to the hallway, Karpov facing her angrily, no sign of his two thugs. “Enough,” McGowan shouted.
    Karpov turned to face him.
    “What did you think you were doing?” McGowan demanded. “We’re going to have half the city down on us any minute.”
    Karpov opened his mouth to say something. A moment ago, with McGowan occupied by the emergent, he’d been willing to take on Colleen alone. But now that McGowan was free to back her, the Russian thought better of it. He raised his hands in a placating gesture, shrugged and said, “Valter, my two colleagues are young and inexperienced. Sometimes they act with a bit too much  . . . enthusiasm. You will forgive them, of course.”
    McGowan wanted to strangle the Russian bastard. “Call them back, now.”
    Karpov frowned and shook his head. “They’re doing what needs to be done.”
    McGowan took a step toward him. “Do you really want those two morons out there unsupervised? They’ll shoot up half the city.”
    Karpov grimaced. “You do have a point, Valter.” He pulled out a cell phone, flipped it open and dialed a number, waited for a few seconds then said something in Russian. He closed the cell phone and said, “They’ll be here shortly.”
    Paul stumbled as he hit the street, fell to the tarmac in a tumble, tearing his shirt and pants and badly scraping his hands and knees and elbows. He figured he had only seconds before the Joe Stalin and his friend followed him and blew his brains out. At least a light mist had blanketed the street, which might help him hide.
    “Come on, ye daft idiot,” someone snarled in his ear in a thick Irish accent. “You’ve no time to be a lying here enjoying the scenery.”
    With his ears still ringing from the thunder of the gunshots Paul was surprised he could hear anything. He rolled over, struggled to his hands and knees and found himself nose to nose with a midget. The little fellow wore green leggings, a brown doublet over a purple shirt, with bright orange-red hair spilling out from a floppy, red-felt hat perched jauntily on his head. He was shorter than any midget Paul had ever seen, not even knee high. He sported large, mutton-chop whiskers, with a nose shaped like a ski jump that separated green eyes filled with disapproval.
    He grabbed Paul’s arm, and with surprising strength, pushed and cajoled him to his feet. “Come on, ye fool,” he said as he turned and ran up the sidewalk. “This way, hurry.”
    Paul ran after the little fellow in an uneven, limping gait, gained a little distance but each step was an excruciating exercise in futility. As he hobbled down the sidewalk he ran a hand down his thigh, could feel large wooden splinters protruding from his jeans. “Stop,” Paul cried after the midget. “I’m hurt. I can’t run.”
    The midget dug in its heels, spun and raced back to Paul, took one look at his bloodied thigh and said, “Aye. Sure, I should’ve seen that.”
    The midget grabbed his hand, tugged him off the sidewalk into the shadows of some shrubs. “Lay down, ye daft fool, and be still.”
    Paul obeyed the little fellow. In his present condition hiding and hoping for the best was his only chance. He and the midget laid down side-by-side and watched the front of his building as Joe and his ugly, blond friend spilled onto the street, guns in hand. The Russians looked up and down the street, spoke hurriedly and gestured for