The only truly positive thing you can say about zombies is they’re terrible at hiding, particularly in the woods, constantly thrashing through the underbrush, stomping through leaves. Then, of course, there’s the continual moaning, especially when they smell living flesh. Continue reading THE FINAL COUNTDOWN 3… HUNTERS By Jeff Dosser
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BROTHERS by Jeff Dosser
Stacy held her black, stiletto heels in one hand, her new Coach clutch in the other as she weaved across the empty garage towards her beat up Subaru. The parking garage of the Ritz-Carlton was packed this evening before her cousin Jessie’s wedding reception. Now, her car stood alone among the echoing aisles. Continue reading BROTHERS by Jeff Dosser
In The Lou By Jeff Dosser
The night hung heavy over old St.Louis, like the pregnant clouds that promised rain. Across the street, the rhythmic flashes of the Ambassador Theater’s marquis shouted their challenges to the darkness as yellow cabs swallowed up the lines of cheap, double breasted suits and faux fox stoles leaving the show. Soon only the crumbs were left. Those too cheap or too poor for the taxi ride home.
Judge and Jury by Jeff Dosser
“Baker one oh three, Baker one oh three and a backer, respond to a disturbance at 1301 N Trenton Circle,” crackled over Jake Dillon’s radio as he sat slumped in the driver’s seat of his police cruiser.
Pausing the movie on his laptop, Jake closed the lid and slid it into the backpack in the passenger seat. Jake pulled the mic from its cradle and keyed the send button.
“Baker one oh three, go ahead.”
The dispatcher continued, “Baker one oh three and backer, anonymous caller reports a fight and a woman screaming at this address. Break”
“Go ahead,” Jake responded.
“Baker one oh three, caller states that disturbance has been ongoing since midnight and it’s getting out of hand. Time now oh one thirteen”.
Parked beside Jake is his academy buddy Lane White.
“You comin’?” Jake asks.
Lane looks up groggily from a book leaning against the steering wheel.
“Sure,” Lane yawns.
Mic still in hand, Jake keys up. “Dispatch, put Charlie one fifteen with me,” and slides the mic back in its carriage.
“Baker one oh three copy. Charlie one fifteen will be backing,” the dispatcher acknowledges.
“You know this address don’t you?” Jake asks, putting the car in gear.
Lane rubs a hand across the stubble of his military haircut, an eyebrow raised in thought.