Have you read the first installment of the eighteen-part Dr. Nekros series yet? If not, then I’d like to offer the first few pages to Dr. Nekros: The Tragedian as a sample to entice your interest. But before I do, here’s a bit of a refresher as to what Dr. Nekros is all about …
Dr. Nekros is a ghost hunter with a terribly scarred face. He travels the countryside in a haunted 1936 Packard, a car for which he rarely gets along. To make matters worse, his ex-wife Zetta reappears after thirteen years of separation, and she has a rather unusual demand. But how will her re-emergence alter Dr. Nekros’ investigations, and, more importantly, his true objective?
The plight of Dr. Nekros will span three volumes with each volume comprised of six episodes. Each episode will be released two months apart. This is the beginning of a three year odyssey!
This series is exclusive to the Amazon Kindle as well as Kindle applications, and each episode will cost $00.99.
Join me as we explore the next phase of Dr. Nekros and Zetta’s relationship, the cause of Dr. Nekros’ disfigurement, how the Packard came to be haunted, why Zetta would leave her beloved husband and adored children, and Dr. Nekros’ real mission. There will be love, betrayal, monsters, reunions, ghosts, trickery, revenge, death, black magic, and battles … But will there be salvation?
So, with that being said, here’s the first few pages to Dr. Nekros: The Tragedian! Enjoy!
Dr. Nekros got out of his rusted 1936 Packard 1408 Dietrich, told it not to go anywhere, and approached Wendeln’s Hardware with his unbuttoned black peacoat catching the stiff October wind.
He could feel the townspeople staring at him. An obvious outsider, they didn’t know Dr. Nekros, and in those parts, not knowing someone proved grounds enough not to trust them. Combine the fact that Dr. Nekros was a stranger with his scarred face, half-missing right ear, scraggly black beard, and macabre clothes—well, let’s just say no one rushed to shake his hand or offered to buy him a cup of burnt coffee at Lujan’s Café.
Taking the handle that would open the door to the hardware store, Dr. Nekros glanced back at the Packard, and said, “Seriously. If you leave me here, I’ll trade you in for a scooter. I kid you not.”
Though its engine had cooled, the Packard suddenly backfired.
“Very funny,” Dr. Nekros muttered and then pulled the handle.
A small bell’s tinkle alerted Mr. Wendeln, as he sat behind the ancient counter manning an even older cash register, that luck had spit in his face for the millionth time and the man in black he’d been watching through the window had entered his reputable business.
“Good morning,” Mr. Wendeln managed in a voice that was anything but inviting.
Dr. Nekros briefly set his brown eyes on Mr. Wendeln.
“Help you with anything?” the old man asked.
Dr. Nekros did not bother to answer. He made his way to the section deep within the antiquated store where his materials awaited.
“Fool hooligan,” Mr. Wendeln griped beneath his breath. “Hords are going to hear about this one, you bet, as soon as the pasty critter pays for his goods and leaves my store. They’re going to get a phone call like never before, and I don’t care if they never come to me for a bolt or a smoke detector again!”
The bell jingled once more, and Mr. Wendeln felt both joy and dread when he saw Cliff Flynn and Hank Mottsinger enter. They’d been drinking, he could tell as much, but that was nothing new. After all, they didn’t have to report to the mill for another seven hours. What else were they supposed to do all day?
“He in here?” Cliff hissed through the gnarled whiskers that riddled his face.
Mr. Wendeln jerked his head to the left, motioning to the back of the store. That was all Cliff and Hank needed. They unbuttoned their Carhartts and took off their stocking caps. Cliff’s matted blonde hair stood out in every direction, and Hank’s bald head gleamed in the florescent lighting like a shark splitting the surface of a moonlit ocean. They each took a hammer out from deep within their coats while their boots squeaked upon the waxed tile. Mr. Wendeln experienced an assortment of emotions at the sound of their death march, for while he knew the interloper would get what was coming to him and that made his heart flutter, he also knew Cliff and Hank would do considerable damage to his store in the process and then neglect to pay for the restoration.
The drunken men found Dr. Nekros waiting for them, leaning against a wooden shelf full of outlets with his arms folded and his chin sunk upon his thick chest. Somehow, the harsh lights made his damaged visage all the more severe.
“Looking for something, gentlemen?” he asked the two men.
“Yeah,” Cliff said, for he was the talker between the two. “We’re looking for you.”
“I’m not surprised,” Dr. Nekros sighed without taking his eyes off them. He’d been through this sort of thing before.
“We don’t like you,” Cliff said before he started to lightly rap the head of the hammer against the palm of his other hand.
“Yet, you don’t even know me,” Dr. Nekros chuckled while staring at them.
“We don’t care mister—”
“—Doctor,” Dr. Nekros interrupted.
“What?” Cliff questioned.
“Not ‘mister.’ Doctor. Dr. Nekros: Occult Aficionado.”
Hank laughed while slurring, “If that’s your real name, then I’m the king of England.”
For a fleeting moment, Dr. Nekros thought perhaps Hank was much smarter than he appeared. He briefly considered that Hank understood there was no king of England, and so thus had made the point that Dr. Nekros could not possibly be a real name. In conclusion, however, after Hank produced a riotous belch, Dr. Nekros decided that the bald man had simply gotten confused about his British royalty.
Frowning at them just a bit and cocking his head slightly to the side, Dr. Nekros quickly realized that these two men were likely going to beat him with those hammers and he could count on Mr. Wendeln looking the other way. The Packard would be of no help, that much was certain. It never was.
Dr. Nekros didn’t hear the slight tinkle of Wendeln’s bell before Cliff spoke anew.
“We don’t care who you are,” Cliff informed with an aimless swing of his hammer, confirming Dr. Nekros’ presumptions. “You’re pulling some kind of scam on the Hords, and we don’t like nobody taking advantage of our townsfolk.”
Arms still folded and chin still sunken, Dr. Nekros grumbled, “Gentlemen, I assure you that my intentions are completely honorable. I’m only here to help. The Hords have a problem, and I am their solution. Surely you won’t stand in their way of finally achieving peace?”
As he said this, Dr. Nekros unfolded his arms and placed his hands into the pockets of his peacoat. His left hand met with a small satchel of sand he always kept on his person. It served a variety of purposes.
“The only piece they’re getting is the one we’re going to break off of you,” Cliff growled. He and Cliff suddenly rushed Dr. Nekros, their hammers held high into the air, and when Cliff abruptly dropped like a stone, Dr. Nekros swung his satchel of sand and introduced it to Hank’s temple with the speed and precision of a dive-bombing eagle.
Dr. Nekros fought to slow his heart after the altercation had ended, but the sight of Zetta Southerland made that quite impossible, especially because she still held the pipe which felled Cliff Flynn in her hand.
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