Items related to Deadbeat (Graveyard S.)
Deadbeat by Guy N. Smith [Redrum Horror #3] SEX, SATANISM, AND ROCK N' ROLL! What is the compulsive beat that seems to invade the very soul of listeners with violent, terrifying visions? Having sent a demo tape to Donna Caryl, the lead singer of the Necromancers, Stephanie Insel is invited to meet the star. Very quickly Stephanie and her friend, Eddie Bannon, are enmeshed in the secretive world of this terrifying new band. When they find themselves becoming major participants in the demonic cult of Deadbeat, they uncover the evil intentions of Caryl and her neophytes. DEADBEAT...once you hear it, you can never forget it! "Guy N. Smith is the grandmaster of B-movie style pulp horror and for good reason. He knows how to make it work and he keeps you glued to the page! I wouldn't miss anything he writes." -J. F. Gonzalez, co-author of the Clickers series "Like Stephen King and Dean Koontz, the prolific Smith is a master at building suspense." -Booklist
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Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
Deadbeat
by Guy N. Smith
Something stirred Eddie Bannon in the depths of his sleep, a sound that was insistent, vibrating, demanded wakefulness. He stirred restlessly, tried to stretch but there was no room in the cramped seat. He groaned, he was tired, his bemused brain made a futile attempt to ignore the interruption.
He tried to tell himself that it was the drone of the Boeing. Or the video which had instigated his drowsiness. Something was growing in volume, pounded at him, threatened to bring on a headache. Rhythmic, like the beat of tom-toms, getting closer; frighteningly hostile. Now there were words, incomprehensible to begin with yet strangely familiar so that he was able to ignore them.
by Guy N. Smith
Something stirred Eddie Bannon in the depths of his sleep, a sound that was insistent, vibrating, demanded wakefulness. He stirred restlessly, tried to stretch but there was no room in the cramped seat. He groaned, he was tired, his bemused brain made a futile attempt to ignore the interruption.
He tried to tell himself that it was the drone of the Boeing. Or the video which had instigated his drowsiness. Something was growing in volume, pounded at him, threatened to bring on a headache. Rhythmic, like the beat of tom-toms, getting closer; frighteningly hostile. Now there were words, incomprehensible to begin with yet strangely familiar so that he was able to ignore them.
Running, crying
Laughing, dying
Blood on the ground
There's only one sound
Deadbeat
He jerked awake. His first instinctive reaction was to tear his headphones off, shut it out. His fingers checked, fell away. There was no way he could stop the number until it had finished.
The film was still running, he could not hear the dialogue because of his Walkman. The jet was full, every row of seats crammed with dozing, eating passengers; nobody seemed to be taking much notice of the video. A hostess was serving drinks from a trolley, people jamming the aisle on their way to and from the toilets. Eddie glanced towards the windows, saw that it was dark outside; logically, it had to be because it was after nine before they had finally taken off from Heathrow and they were not scheduled to land at Kennedy until the early hours.
Eddie Bannon would be sixteen in August. His bright copper coloured hair was styled in the latest fashion to match that of the male members of the Necromancers as shown on the sleeve of their new album, a Mohican-type cut except that it was clipped rather than shaven. Freckled features identified him as the son of the woman who sat in the next seat.
He glanced sideways at his father. Arthur Bannon was huge of build, somehow he had managed to squeeze himself into the small seat. Muscular, the only surplus flesh was a hereditary band just above his waistline that pressurised his shirt buttons. He looked ungainly in his tweed suit, unaccustomed to wearing anything other than overalls, his figure protested visibly at this civilised attire. His complexion was florrid, a process brought about by continual exposure elements on the farm back home, his balding head pallid where a battered pork pie hat had shielded it from sun and rain. Meaty fingers twitched with this enforced period of idleness, his eyes were focussed on the screen but his bored expression showed that he had long since lost the theme of the film. He watched it as one might watch ducks swimming on a pool from the comfort of a deckchair.
The beat had Eddie stiffening in his seat, his sneakered feet picking up the rhythm his fingers tapping on his knees. Fast. Getting faster.
Hear it in the night
Hold on tight
Carried along
By the beat and the song
It's Deadbeat
A tap on his knee that wasn't made by his own fingers. An elbow nudged him. He wanted to shrug it off, slap it away. Just another few seconds.
It's Deadbeat
"Eddie!"
At last Eddie was able to push the headphones back. His body was lathered in sweat. His Necromancer T-shirt clung wetly to him. He felt weak almost to the point of exhaustion. His breath was coming in gulps. God, they had put him through it that time.
"Eddie are you alright?" Mary Bannon was turned sideways, scrutinizing her son, anxiety stamped on her pretty features.
"Yeah, I'm okay, Mum. Really I am."
"Well you don't look it!" Her tone was reproachful.
"I don't want you going down with something whilst we are in America, and its cost us an arm and a leg even though we are staying with the Insels."
"He's alright", Arthur Bannon had given up looking at the film. "It's that damned music that's doing it. Can't understand these kids today, they have to carry it around with 'em. If the bloody stuff was any good then there might be some logic in it. But it isn't, its just noise, no tune to it, they should have been around in the sixties and listened to The Beatles, Billy Fury, Eden Kane..."
"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.
- PublisherBlack Hill Books
- Publication date2003
- ISBN 10 0953270181
- ISBN 13 9780953270187
- BindingPaperback
- Number of pages256
- Rating
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