THE RED WAKE

INTERLUDE-CHAPTER 7

 INTERLUDE 

Martha’s Vineyard: 6:00 PM, Eastern Standard Time: 

       Joan Waverly’s bastard father-in-law left a red trail as he slid down the wall of their quaint New England B&B. The surviving members of her immediate family were hiding in the attic. She knew they were in there. She could hear the moron she’d been married to for fourteen futile years trying to quiet their three simpering children. 

     “Mommy’s comin,’ kids,” she said quietly. Bend over and kiss your asses goodbyeeee.

      She and The Moron had owned and operated The Green Witch for the last five years. The place was currently empty, what with all the troubles, both back on the mainland and even locally, on the Vineyard. People just weren’t in much of a mood to vacation when members of the local Rotary were barbecuing their pets in plain view of the community. 

     She’d actually heard that story on the 7:00 news last night. She remembered the story because it was right afterward, during Wheel Of Fortune that she’d decided to murder her family. 

     A loud, infuriating thump overhead now informed her of something else: Her eldest son Tommy was having another Gran Mal seizure, his second in as many days. Tommy’s epileptic seizures could sometimes be triggered by too much excitement.  

     Guess seeing both grandparents blown away in front of him is probably excitement enough to last the little shit for the remainder of his life, Joan thought. 

     Moron had just managed to stammer out “Joan...Joan what have you done?” just as she’d turned and fired the twelve- gauge at him. Miraculously, she’d missed. She’d taken out a good section of the wall to his left, but the moron had only been nicked by flying chunks of plaster. The idiot had then grabbed the kids and split for the attic. 

     She was presently hunting about in their bedroom for more shells. As she stomped around, chewing her lips to bloody rags, the idiot for whom she’d given up a successful career in local politics called down from the attic. 

     “Joan...we need to talk about all this.” 

     God, she thought, her teeth grinding together in disgust. How had she ever been ass-headed enough to marry him? 

     “Jimmy’s having a...a bad attack. I think he’s bitten through his tongue. We need to get him to a doctor! My God, Joan please...!” 

     “SHUT UP, FRANK!” she hollered. “Just stop whining for once in your life!” 

     She laughed as she shook the shotgun at the ceiling. To her own ears, her laughter sounded disturbingly like the wail of a bereaved woman. 

     A rattling sound from the small metal box beneath the chest of drawers reminded her of where she’d left the extra shells she’d purchased just this afternoon. She shook her head. She’d been having trouble thinking clearly lately. 

     Better pay a visit to my asshole shrink later tonight, she thought. 

     “Waste of goddamn good money!” 

     With a triumphant shout and a laugh that carved the air like nails scratching a blackboard, she grasped the box of shells. From upstairs she heard the sound of a window opening, then another thump as someone clambered out onto the roof. 

   Joan Waverly stood and rushed out of the bathroom, loading the shells as she headed upstairs to kill the rest of her family. She paused to glance at her watch and swore again. If she was going to catch the 9:15 showing down at the tiny movie theater filled with tourists and morons who probably never bothered to vote, she’d better hurry.