The Silence Between the Screams ( + Spree and Others )

By Lucy Taylor

[160 Pages in Printed Book] The Silence Between The Screams is a collection of original short fiction and a reprint of a previously released novella. Her novella "Spree" has not been available for many years after its initial printing sold out almost immediately upon publication. Now "Spree" and this collection of original short fiction is being published for the first time. CONTENTS: The Silence Between The Screams, A Hairy Chest, A Big Dick and A Harley, Hymns To Old Gods, Into The Cage, Spree.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Overlook Connection Press
• Release date: Jun 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781623300029

Lucy Taylor

Lucy Taylor is the author of several novels, including the Stoker Award winning The Safety of Unknown Cities. Her most recent work includes the collection Fatal Journeys and the novelette chapbook A Respite for the Dead. She lives in the high desert outside Santa Fe, New Mexico, and is at work on a collection of New Mexico-themed horror.

Book preview

The Silence Between the Screams

by Lucy Taylor

Smashwords Edition

Overlook Connection Press

2011

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THE SILENCE BETWEEN THE SCREAMS

©2004 by Lucy Taylor

Cover art © 2004 by Rick Sardinha

This digital edition © 2011 Overlook Connection Press

Published by

Overlook Connection Press

PO Box 1934, Hiram, Georgia 30141

http://www.overlookconnection.com

[e-mail]

This book is a work of fiction. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the Publisher, The Overlook Connection Press.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Book Design & Typesetting:

David G. Barnett

Fat Cat Graphic Design

http://www.fatcatgraphicdesign.com

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For my dear friends Raven Moore Amerman and Rob Amerman and to the memory of Sean Moore.

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The Silence Between the Screams

A Hairy Chest, a Big Dick and a Harley

Hymns to Old Gods

Into the Cage

Spree

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The Silence Between the Screams

What with Denise having one of her migraines and needing to stop and get out of the car every half hour and Annie wanting to pull over at all the scenic overlooks to take pictures, Greg was worried they wouldn’t get to Wolf Creek Pass in time to set up camp before night. At least Paul wasn’t giving him any grief—the thirteen-year-old had stayed up playing Nintendo with his buddies the night before and had snoozed in the backseat most of the way.

He glanced at his pale wife.

How you feeling, hon? Immediately he regretted it because how she was feeling was obvious. Hunched over the map, her reading glasses on the console between them, Denise was pinching the bridge of her nose between her index finger and thumb, eyes squeezed so tightly shut it looked like she was trying to prevent any more pain from collecting behind her forehead—and losing the battle.

Want me to pull over, let you walk around a little? asked Greg. He’d never had a migraine in his life, but could only imagine—from the way Denise suffered—that it must be something like trying to pass a kidney stone through your tear ducts.

She shook her head and gave a smile that was more like a grimace. I’m okay. Believe it or not, the worst’s passed.

Well, we’re almost there. One more town before the National Forest. Thought we’d stop for some gas.

In the backseat, ten-year-old Annie gave the kind of grating shriek that Greg imagined must feel like an ice pick stabbing his wife’s skull. Hold it down, will you? he hissed.

Dad, I just saw this big deer.

That was probably an elk, honey.

Maybe you can get a picture of one later on, said Denise, trying to rally some enthusiasm for her daughter’s benefit.

Greg reached over, took the hand that wasn’t massaging her forehead, and gave it a squeeze. Denise squeezed back. Later on, he would remember it as possibly the last truly contented moment of his life.

««—»»

Within the hour, they neared Kirby Junction, a small mining and timber-logging town tucked into the foot of the San Juan Mountains. Years back, while he was still in college, Greg had been fly-fishing here with some friends, and he remembered the place as backwoodsy, serene, bucolic.

It shocked him then when, still a couple of miles out of town, they could hear Kirby Junction long before they actually saw it. The boom-boom of a bass drum underscoring a cacophony of higher, sharper notes. Horns, Greg thought, and snare drums, too—a weird, discordant symphony.

"What on earth is that?" said Denise.

A parade, said Annie. I’ll bet they’re having a parade.

Four o’clock in the afternoon seems kind of late, said Greg. Besides it’s not a holiday. Why would they be having a parade?

Maybe they just felt like it, said Paul.

Whatever it is, I wish they’d cut it out, said Denise, bringing a hand to her forehead.

Further on, they came to an intersection with a boarded-up diner and an Amoco station. Greg pulled in to get gas.

Make it quick, will you? said Denise.

I’m gonna take some pictures, said Annie, grabbing her Polaroid and hopping out of the car.

Greg got out of the car and slammed the door quickly to shut out the din. He couldn’t imagine what kind of parade the town could be having, but the racket sounded like it was blasting from loudspeakers and seemed to come from different directions. A thought came to him: some kind of high school sports event. That was it, he concluded, some athletic event, a championship won, and they were making a big deal of it, like World War III had just ended in a victory entirely due to the efforts of their town.

He finished pumping the gas, went into the station to pay, and walked headlong into a thunderous wall of noise. Three boomboxes belted sound out like cannonballs. He covered his ears and approached the attendant, a lanky girl with greasy black hair and eyes round and blank as a cartoon character.

What’s going on? he shouted as he handed her a twenty and a ten.

She blinked stupidly, jaw dropping as though he’d addressed her in Nepalese. Her lips moved, and he thought she said, Huh?

Can you turn those off?

She frowned and reached behind her, snapping off the boomboxes with three flicks of her wrist so angry and rapid that Greg was reminded of a sniper firing off rounds. In the silence that followed, his ears rang. Still, he decided to try to be pleasant.

That, uh— he hesitated to call the noise outside music, but what else could it be? —that sound out there. What is it? Big game today?

The girl looked at him oddly, then spilled change into his hand with a grin that looked more deranged than mirthful. Oh yeah, a big game. That’s a good one, honey. You just passing through or you plan to stay and help us make some noise?

Passing through, Greg said.

As he started out the door, she was turning up the volume on the boomboxes.

Some misguided paternal instinct—or the memory of his penchant for attending rock concerts as a youth—made him stop and turn back. You better be careful—that kind of noise, you could go deaf, you know.

The girl’s mouth opened and her eyes scrunched shut, but because of the noise, Greg couldn’t tell if she was laughing or starting to cry.

Outside, Annie aimed the Polaroid at him. Say cheese, Dad.

He mugged feebly for the camera before herding her back to the car, where Denise was holding her hands to her ears. My head’s about to split. Let’s get out of here.

You got it, he said, pulling out of the Amoco Station and accelerating to twenty miles past the posted speed limit.

Hey look at that, said Paul, as they passed a billboard advertising a real estate company. Over the picture of the smiling Realtor standing in front of a house, someone had painted in fire engine red, In Noise We Trust.

Weird town, thought Greg and kept driving.

««—»»

By dinner time that evening, they’d set up camp high in the San Juans. While the kids ran down to the river to scout out the fishing possibilities, Greg and Denise grilled hot dogs.

Headache gone?

Just about.

Good. I was hoping a little peace and tranquility might do the trick.

What do you suppose was going on in Kirby Junction? Greg?

He looked up from the grill. Sorry, did you say something?

She shook her head. Never mind. I think your ears are still ringing.

After dinner, while the kids volunteered to clean up, Greg and Denise strolled down to the river and watched a herd of elk crossing further upstream.

Hear that? said Denise, gazing skyward and drawing a deep lungful of air.

What?

The quiet. Isn’t it a beautiful sound.

It is, isn’t it?

She looked back upriver where the elk were crossing.

They’re majestic, aren’t they? And so— She gave a small start.

Greg had been staring down into the whitewater, still pondering the ungodly din that they’d heard back at Kirby Junction, but his head jerked up at the note of fright in her voice.

What is it?

The elk, they...For a minute, I thought...I don’t know. That was so...odd.

What do you mean?

Well, it looked like—like they just disappeared,

He almost laughed, but caught himself in time. Laughing at her remark would not be a good way to cap off the evening. Of course, they disappeared. They went into the woods.

No. He felt her stiffen and tug her hand free from his. No, they didn’t. I was looking right at them.

What then?

I don’t mean they disappeared as in, they were there one minute and gone the next. It wasn’t like something you’d see on a stage in Vegas. They started getting transparent, like they were made out of fog. Then they were gone. And it all happened— she snapped her fingers— "like that."

Right, he said, knowing he was about to start lecturing and how she’d react to it, but unable to stop himself. They became harder to see, because they were moving away from you. The perspective—

She whirled on him. Don’t talk to me like I’m a child.

Denise, calm down. It was a trick of the light, that’s all. They crossed the river and walked into the trees and maybe the way the light hit them blinded you for a second and made it look like they got transparent. He didn’t know if it was the explanation or not, but it sounded plausible to him.

Not disappeared exactly—dissolved. The trees around them, too. You can’t tell now, because the other trees closed in to fill in the gap, but—

"Denise, do you hear yourself? The other trees filled in the gap? That doesn’t make sense."

"I don’t care. It’s what I saw."

Greg clenched his jaw and kept silent. He couldn’t believe a romantic stroll in the forest had degenerated into bickering over an optical illusion.

Denise stared stubbornly upriver, where nothing moved now except a slight breeze rustling the pines.

C’mon, let’s go back to the camp, Greg said. We’ll open that bottle of wine I put in the cooler.

They started back up the trail, Denise glancing behind them every now and then as though willing the elk to reappear. By the time they reached the campsite and opened the wine, though, her mood had improved. I must be getting old and middle-aged like you, she said, nudging him in the ribs as they sat by the fire. I guess I need to get glasses.

««—»»

In the night, he jerked awake and sat upright in his sleeping bag, convinced he’d heard something growling outside the tent. A raccoon, he thought, maybe even a bear. That wasn’t any reason to panic, he told himself. They’d stored their food in the car—even packing the leftovers from dinner in Tupperware bowls—a bear wouldn’t break into a tent that didn’t have food in it. But maybe if it wasn’t a very intelligent bear...

Then he realized what he was hearing was no animal sound at all, but man-made—a low drone punctuated here and there by abrupt explosions. Like someone fighting a faraway war.

Denise stirred. He told her he needed to pee, picked up the flashlight, unzipped the tent and crawled out. There was a ridge about a hundred yards from the campsite, where earlier that evening, they’d stood watching the sunset. Now, shining the flashlight ahead of him, moving cautiously over the darkened terrain, he climbed to the crest. A curve of moon, slender and white as a sliver of bone, hung over the valley. From far away to the east, the muffled explosions that had awakened him came at intervals of ten or fifteen seconds.

Something pierced the night sky—a shooting star brighter than any he’d ever seen, worthy of a modern-day Bethlehem, he thought, as he stood there marveling. Then the star exploded into a huge pinwheel that rained streamers down upon the valley. It was followed by an even larger display, this one a brilliant cascade of silver and gold.

He looked at his watch. Down there in Kirby Junction they were shooting off fireworks at three-twenty in the goddamn morning. He tried to think of an explanation, but nothing he could come up with—the return of a hometown hero, an early 4th of July blow-out—made any sense. He remembered reading about a conflagration at a fireworks factory somewhere in the northwest last year where several employees were injured, but he couldn’t imagine that a town the size of Kirby Junction would have any such enterprise.

He stood watching the show as the night sky continued to blaze with the incongruous and eerie pyrotechnics.

When the display hadn’t ended after thirty minutes, he crawled back into his sleeping bag, relieved that the only sound inside the tent was Denise’s light, fitful snoring.

He lay there for a while, wondering if the residents of Kirby Junction were all on an acid trip, and when he opened his eyes again, it was morning.

««—»»

"Did you hear

Reviews for The Silence Between the Screams ( + Spree and Others )

[danielle23_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A great zombie horror, one that gives some of the zombies a working brain and some thought pattern: absolute genius.