By Edward Lee
Crick urban is a small hick city. Violent, suggest and dirt-poor, it is a position not anyone desires to name domestic. yet for murder cop Phil Straker, it really is domestic. And now someone—or something—is turning his boyhood city right into a bloody sideshow of mutilation and ugly carnage. they are referred to as Creekers. Centuries outdated, pushed through rage and lust for revenge, they go through the deep, darkish woods— deformed, shadowy outcasts with twisted faces and blood-red eyes. Now, because the moon hangs low over their historical apartment, they are collecting for a harvest of terror and demise Crick urban won't ever forget...
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Extra resources for Creekers
Go ahead,” Phil invited. ” “Asshole,” she said, glaring through blond bangs. “Hey, that’s my middle name. Look, you go ahead and do what you want. Call the chief, call the mayor and the town council. ” Phil held up the Motorola portable. “What’s this look like? A toilet tank cover? Log me in 10-6,” he snapped and left the station. God, she gets on my nerves! Phil got into his Malibu, updated his DOR, and pulled out. How come she hates me? the question nagged. Sure, he was new, and cop folks routinely took a while accepting new hires, but—Christ, she acts like I pissed on her dog.
His red eyes, though dull, looked full of— something. What? Hope. “Break her in first,” he said. ” ««—»» As per instructions, or rather instructions based on his own suggestions to a boss he was beginning to suspect of either senility or just plain absent-mindedness, Phil occupied the first five hours of his first shift cruising Crick City in the department’s patrol-vehicle. It was a decent ride—a new white Chevy Cavalier—with a standard Visibar, cage, Lecco gun-rack, and commo gear. For some hotdog reason, Mullins also had a Smith & Wesson tear gas gun locked in the trunk, plus an AR-15 with what looked like a quality scope— but, of course, no ammo.
But Scott-Boy, so busy he was just then, didn’t even hear what Gut had said. The augural thickened; Gut was sweating now, itching and rubbing his face in some unnamed dread, and the pickup truck was rockin’, and the Creeker chick still jabberin’ away whiles Scott-Boy set to bangin’ her warped head bam bam bam! against the door a country mile a minute, and suddenly—inexplicably—Gut felt a fear like he couldn’t ‘magine, and he ducked behind a tree for no reason he could really put a name to, and that was when Scott-Boy started screamin’… In an eye’s wink, big, quick-moving shadows were crunching around the pickup, and Scott-Boy, he was screaming right away—it didn’t even really sound human, like the sound Cage George’s ’Cuda made that time he was red-lining it and the oil pump went— and next off, another pickup truck was pulling up in the grove, not from the road but from a dirt lane in the woods, only this pickup was real old and beat to shit, with real dim headlights, and then these shadows was dragging Scott-Boy out of the truck, and he was still screaming bloody murder.
Creekers by Edward Lee