Fools Rush In
Wolfmont Publishing

To order, contact Wolfmont Publishing

"For fools rush in where Angels fear to tread."
        --Alexander Pope
        An Essay on Criticism


CHAPTER ONE


John Ballew lifted his eyes and looked around the room. Faded green curtains danced in slow-motion away from the window. A spider on the sill hung precariously on the strands of a web. Time slowed to a dusty crawl. The young man licked his lips with great effort and relished the sensation of his tongue against the dryness.

"How you doing, Johnny Blue?"

Ballew tracked his eyes to a figure in one corner of the room. A face grinned down at him showing large, yellowed teeth. Another face, this one hidden in a mass of black hair, appeared next to it.

"How much did you give him?"

"Enough to make him think he's on his way to heaven."

Ballew could make out the voices, but the words themselves made no sense. It really didn't matter. Sound drifted through the thick air and bobbed up and down in the currents, like the green curtain. He let his eyes go back to the window.

"Do ya wanna go to heaven, Johnny Blue?"

The Faces wanted something from him, but Ballew couldn't understand what that something was. He wanted the Faces to either join him in this soft-focus world or leave. Again, he licked his lips, but his tongue had gone dry. His eyes were dry too, and he was aware of the weight of his eyelids. If he closed his eyes completely, the Faces would go away.

"Seein' any angels yet?"

His eyelids were so heavy, they pulled his head down. He felt his neck lose muscle and bone as his head swelled and increased in weight. His chin descended toward his breastbone, but the neck stretched and held.

One arm hung loosely across his body. He didn't know where his other arm was and he was too tired to look for it. He followed the muted colors of a snake tattoo that slithered up his inner forearm. Between the fork of the snake's tongue, was the needle. The plunger was down and it was empty.

It was the last thing John Ballew saw.

* * * * *

The primer gray Ford LTD turned down a dusty road and pulled up sharply in front of a mobile home half-hidden in a nectarine orchard. Without waiting for the dust to settle, two men got out. The driver reached back into the car and furiously pressed on the horn.

"Damn informants," fumed the bearded man as he gave up the horn and stood waiting in the driveway. "I told him eleven o'clock at the Texaco station on McCall and 186."

"Probably out partying last night."

He started to knock on the door, but it swung open at his touch. He was immediately aware of a stench emanating from the doorway and the sound of buzzing flies.

"Whew, what died?" asked his partner, coming up behind him.

"Let's hope it's not Blue."

They drew their .45's and slowly entered the trailer.

With the air conditioner off and the summer sun beating down on the metal roof, the mobile home was easily ninety degrees inside. The air was dense with smell of decay. Flies concentrated on an object hanging on the opposite wall.

"What the hell. . . ?

Impaled on the wall, above a cluttered dining room table, was the carcass of a large rat. Written above the vermin, presumably in its own blood, was the word "Blue."

"Wolfman," the partner said, as he put a hand on the other narc's shoulder, "You are in some deep shit this time."

To order, contact Wolfmont Publishing