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    Deadly City
    Deadly City
    Deadly City
    Ebook62 pages59 minutes

    Deadly City

    By Ivar Jorgenson

    ()

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    About this ebook

    You’re all alone in a deserted city. You walk down an empty street, yearning for the sight of one living face—one moving figure. Then you see a man on a corner and you know your terror has only begun.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherStart Publishing LLC
    Release dateNov 23, 2016
    ISBN9781682995723
    Deadly City

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      Book preview

      Deadly City - Ivar Jorgenson

      Deadly City

      by Ivar Jorgenson

      Start Publishing LLC

      Copyright © 2015 by Start Publishing LLC

      All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

      First Start Publishing eBook edition July 2015

      Start Publishing is a registered trademark of Start Publishing LLC

      Manufactured in the United States of America

      10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

      ISBN 13: 978-1-68299-572-3

      Deadly City

      by Ivar Jorgenson

      You’re all alone in a deserted city. You walk down an empty street, yearning for the sight of one living face—one moving figure. Then you see a man on a corner and you know your terror has only begun.

      He awoke slowly, like a man plodding knee-deep through the thick stuff of nightmares. There was no definite line between the dream-state and wakefulness. Only a dawning knowledge that he was finally conscious and would have to do something about it.

      He opened his eyes, but this made no difference. The blackness remained. The pain in his head brightened and he reached up and found the big lump they’d evidently put on his head for good measure—a margin of safety.

      They must have been prudent people, because the bang on the head had hardly been necessary. The spiked drink which they had given him would have felled an ox. He remembered going down into the darkness after drinking it, and of knowing what it was. He remembered the helpless feeling.

      It did not worry him now. He was a philosophical person, and the fact he was still alive cancelled out the drink and its result. He thought, with savor, of the chestnut-haired girl who had watched him take the drink. She had worn a very low bodice, and that was where his eyes had been at the last moment—on the beautiful, tanned breasts—until they’d wavered and puddled into a blur and then into nothing.

      The chestnut-haired girl had been nice, but now she was gone and there were more pressing problems.

      He sat up, his hands behind him at the ends of stiff arms clawing into long-undisturbed dust and filth. His movement stirred the dust and it rose into his nostrils.

      He straightened and banged his head against a low ceiling. The pain made him sick for a minute and he sat down to regain his senses. He cursed the ceiling, as a matter of course, in an agonized whisper.

      Ready to move again, he got onto his hands and knees and crawled cautiously forward, exploring as he went. His hand pushed through cobwebs and found a rough, cement wall. He went around and around. It was all cement—all solid.

      Hell! They hadn’t sealed him up in this place! There had been a way in so there had to be a way out. He went around again.

      Then he tried the ceiling and found the opening—a wooden trap covering a four-by-four hole—covering it snugly. He pushed the trap away and daylight streamed in. He raised himself up until he was eye-level with a discarded shaving cream jar lying on the bricks of an alley. He could read the trade mark on the jar, and the slogan: For the Meticulous Man.

      He pulled himself up into the alley. As a result of an orderly childhood, he replaced the wooden trap and kicked the shaving cream jar against a garbage can. He rubbed his chin and looked up and down the alley.

      It was high noon. An uncovered sun blazed down to tell him this.

      And there was no one in sight.

      *

      He started walking toward the nearer mouth of the alley. He had been in that hole a long time, he decided. This conviction came from his hunger and the heavy growth of beard he’d sprouted. Twenty-four hours—maybe longer. That mickey must have been a lulu.

      He walked out into the cross street. It was empty. No people—no cars parked at the curbs—only a cat washing its dirty face on a tenement stoop across the street. He looked up at the tenement windows. They stared back. There was an empty, deserted look about them.

      The cat flowed down the front steps of the tenement and away toward the rear and he was truly alone. He rubbed his harsh chin. Must be Sunday, he thought. Then he knew it could not be Sunday. He’d gone into the tavern on a Tuesday night. That would make it five days. Too long.

      He had been walking and now he was at an intersection where he could look up and down a new street. There were no cars—no people. Not even a cat.

      A sign overhanging the sidewalk said: Restaurant. He

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