Entry Wounds: A Supernatural Thriller
PRAISE FOR BRANDON MCNULTY
“An action-packed, surprise-filled, outrageously thrilling novel!”
—Jeff Strand, author of Wolf Hunt
“Entry Wounds is a harrowing supernatural thriller filled with shootouts, bloodshed, betrayal—and best of all, a cursed revolver. As the body count rises, so too does the action in a roller coaster ride of a story that concludes with a fantastic twist I never saw coming. Great stuff, and I'll be keeping an eye out for whatever Brandon McNulty puts out next.”
—Jeremy Bates, author of Suicide Forest and The Sleep Experiment
“Clever and gripping, Entry Wounds is a tour de force that moves as fast as the bullets from the cursed gun within its pages. You’re going to want to read this ASAP.”
—Robert Swartwood, USA Today bestselling author of The Serial Killer's Wife
“A thought-provoking book of bullets and blood about a thirst for vengeance so palpable that it has its own agency. Entry Wounds makes the reader question whether, in the face of unstoppable lust for death, a predator is as tormented as his victim.”
—L.C. Barlow, award-winning author of The Jack Harper Trilogy
“Bad Parts asks the intriguing question, ‘What would you give up to make your body whole again? Can you put a price on your dreams?’ A page-turning tale of Faustian bargains, bad choices, and hard lessons.”
—Alma Katsu, author of The Deep and The Hunger
“Bad Parts is a non-stop thrill ride! It starts out breakneck fast and keeps accelerating—the twists keep coming tighter and darker as the novel races toward its grisly, unexpected, and thoroughly satisfying finish. ”
—John Everson, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of Covenant and The Devil’s Equinox
“McNulty has crafted one of the most original horror novels in recent years. [Bad Parts] reads like Needful Things if it had been written by Richard Laymon.”
—Tom Deady, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of Haven
“Bad Parts gives body horror the heart replacement it needs, and this heavy metal love song about a deal with a unique kind of devil hits all the right notes as it flies by.”
—Michael Arnzen, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of Grave Markings
“From the opening paragraph, I was hooked—Brandon McNulty is a master of his craft. Open Bad Parts at your peril: you won’t be putting it down until the final page is turned.”
—Frederic S. Durbin, author of A Green and Ancient Light and Dragonfly
ENTRY WOUNDS
A SUPERNATURAL THRILLER
Brandon McNulty
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Also by Brandon McNulty
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
ENTRY WOUNDS
Copyright © 2021 by Brandon McNulty
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Published in the United States by Midnight Point Press.
Cover Design by Damonza.
Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-952703-04-1
Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-952703-05-8
eBook ISBN-13: 978-1-952703-06-5
For My Cioci Sheryl & Uncle Joe
Chapter 1
Three down, three to go.
Michelle Saito lifted the barrel of her half-empty snubnose and knocked on the delivery door. The metal-on-metal clang echoed down the alley, all the way to the sidewalk, where a few bums took notice. Great. Last thing she needed was witnesses—or, worse yet, company—so she stuffed the revolver in her jacket pocket. The drifters wandered closer, and Michelle glared them down, hoping they’d take the hint. She didn’t want to pull the gun on anyone. Not yet.
Deep breaths, deep breaths. Her heart jittered while she sucked in the nighttime fumes of downtown Los Angeles. After spending all her twenty-four years in the city, she yearned to ditch the place, if only for a while. Depending on how tonight’s unannounced visit went, she might hit the road within the hour.
The bums finally got the message and wandered off. With the alley to herself again, Michelle knocked and waited.
Peeling yellow decals were pasted to the door. The top one read Ramen Emperor: Conquering Downtown LA since 1967! The one beneath read, Employee/Delivery Entrance ONLY – Customers please use entrance via Central Ave.
Michelle had considered doing so, but tonight she wasn’t a customer. Tonight she was a woman holding a gun—or perhaps it was more accurate to say the gun was holding her. Either way, there was no letting go, not until her sixth kill. Soon she’d get Number Four, but not before garnering info on her final targets.
Growing impatient, she slammed the revolver’s butt against the door. It was a humid late-September night, and sweat greased her armpits and lower back. She wanted to remove her jacket, but its deep pocket was the only reasonable hiding place for her gunhand.
Yes, gunhand. All one word. That was how she’d come to think of it. Not as a gun in her hand but a complete fusion of flesh and steel. Since she first grabbed it yesterday, she’d been unable to let go.
After more knocking, a metallic pop sounded. The door creaked open. A teenager in an apron and fishnet cap poked his head out.
Michelle tucked her hair behind her ear and cleared her throat.
“I’m here to see your manager,” she said. “The Emperor.”
“He’s not in.”
“Then call him. I’m with the health department.”
The kid’s eyes widened. “Oh. Come on in.”
“That’s m
ore like it,” she said, satisfied that he’d bought the health department routine. It had also worked at her previous stop. She hadn’t acted onstage in months, but her skills remained sharp. She wondered if the buyer who wanted the gun could get her a job in Hollywood. She’d prefer that over the money.
In the kitchen, she glanced around and pretended to give a shit. Stacks of pots and pans littered countertops. The sink overflowed with soap suds. The nauseating stench of spoiled shrimp and fish oil suffocated the place. She paced beneath a rickety ventilation system, but the air wasn’t any more breathable.
The kid got on the phone and yapped to his boss in Japanese. Michelle couldn’t make out a word. She wished she’d learned her parents’ native language, but losing Mom and Dad at an early age left her monolingual.
“He’ll be here,” the dishwasher said. “He said have a seat in the dining area.”
“How about joining us?” Michelle said, flicking her head toward the dining area. “Bet you could use a break.”
The dishwasher grinned. “Nah, I’m good.”
“Join us.” She glared at him. “I want company while I wait.”
With a nervous chuckle, the dishwasher toweled his hands and followed her.
The main dining area was half-lit at this hour. More than a dozen tables glowed beneath dim lighting. The room reeked of sanitizer, which a college-age waitress was spraying liberally across the tables. She looked up, spotted Michelle, and said, “Oh, excuse me. We’re closed.”
“I’m with the health department,” Michelle said. Glancing across the bar area, she spotted a door marked Celebration Room. Not only did tonight warrant a celebration, but she imagined that such a room would suppress the noise she planned on making. “Your boss is on his way. How about fetching some nice warm sake for the four of us? Let’s indulge tonight.”
The girl hesitated. “Um, we’re not supposed to serve alcohol after closing. Besides, I’m not twenty-one. Neither is he,” she said, gesturing at the dishwasher.
“So what?” Michelle said, entering the Celebration Room. “Let’s break some rules tonight.”
She flicked the lights on. The Celebration Room burst to life. A mural covered the walls, vivid colors leaping from hand-painted artwork depicting scenes from samurai armies to metropolitan Tokyo to Mount Fuji. The sight of Mount Fuji sent a strange tremor through her gunhand. Michelle sat at the oval table in the middle of the room, making sure she faced the doorway. She stared at the impressionistic mural until the tremor faded.
Then she texted her sister two words: Almost time.
The waitress and dishwasher entered the room, both holding steaming ceramic cups. Michelle invited them to sit beside her. They set three cups down near her and one across the table for the Emperor. The waitress sat, pushed her sake cup away, and gave a sheepish grin.
“Relax,” Michelle said, raising her drink. “I won’t bust you.”
The dishwasher sat and took a cautious sip.
The waitress frowned. “Don’t you have to bust us? You’re with the government.”
“Underage drinking isn’t my concern.”
“But still…”
“I’m here for a health-related issue,” Michelle said. “Your boss hasn’t always made people’s health his top priority.”
The waitress’s eyes went big and wide. “Is it the shrimp?”
Michelle reassured her with a smile. “No, not the shrimp.”
A squeal sounded from the main dining area, followed by the metallic slap of a door against its frame. Then footsteps. Michelle straightened in her seat and took a sweet, warm gulp of sake. An old man appeared in the doorway.
The Emperor.
With his droopy face and pale green polo, the Emperor looked more like a retired accountant than the supreme ruler of a ramen shop. The old man wore a fedora, which he reverently removed as he tiptoed into the room. His scalp shined beneath thinning, receding hair. For a moment he glanced at the sake cups with confusion. Then he locked eyes with Michelle.
He cleared his throat. “You’re with the health department?”
“Have a seat,” Michelle said, her palm burning around the gun in her pocket. As the man lowered himself into the chair, his scalp lined up with the volcanic opening atop Mount Fuji. She slid her finger inside the trigger guard. “Care to guess why I’m here?”
He frowned. “The shrimp?”
She laughed. “What is it with you people and the shrimp? No, I’m here regarding two men who fled the area twenty years ago. They probably changed their names, but you know who I’m talking about.”
The old man shook his head.
“Sure you do,” she said, her leg jimmying. “One of your ex-yakuza buddies said you mail those two a check each month. Monetary gratitude for what went down twenty years ago.”
“Not sure what you’re talking about.”
“Then get sure.” She leaned forward, her eyes hot and moist. “I was there when it happened. I’ve heard those gunshots every day since. Heard my mother scream. Heard my father hit the pavement. Heard—”
“I should probably leave,” the waitress blurted.
“Stay,” Michelle said.
Instead of listening, the waitress slid her chair back.
Michelle pulled her hand free and brandished her weapon. The others gasped. Before they could react, she thrust the gun toward the waitress’ throat, jamming it hard against her trachea.
The girl shrieked.
“Stop!” the old man said. “Let her go.”
“Everybody shut up.” Michelle eyed the dishwasher, who sat with both fists clutching his apron. “Go shut the door. Slowly. If you try to run or play hero, she gets a hole in her throat.”
The door met its frame and the dishwasher returned to his seat. Tonight’s celebration was off to a fine start. Across the table, the old man adopted a stoic demeanor. Amazing how a health inspection ripped his balls off but a live revolver hardened him back into his yakuza self.
“Give me names,” Michelle said, stirring the barrel into the girl’s neck, forcing a whimper. “Names and addresses. Be smart now. Don’t let her blood ruin these gorgeous murals.”
The old man stared back. “Do it.”
“Wh-what?” the waitress said.
“Go on,” he said. “Shoot her.”
“I will if you don’t tell me,” Michelle said.
“Go on. Shoot her. I have no loyalty to her. At least not compared to the level of the two men you seek.”
Michelle felt her stomach condense into a hot, solid ball. She squeezed the girl’s wrist until she sobbed. “Don’t do this to her.”
“You’re the one doing it.” He took out his phone. With a tired sigh he tapped the screen. “Perhaps the LAPD can resolve this.”
“Call them and your daughter dies.”
The old man snorted. “The waitress you’re threatening is of no relation to me.”
“I know,” Michelle said. She set her own phone on the table and initiated a video call. A college girl appeared on the screen with a blindfold drawn tight across her face. The tip of a knife itched her cheek. Her nervous panting hissed through the phone speakers as Michelle turned the screen toward the old man. “This is your daughter, right?”
He cracked like ice in hot water. Both hands shot across the table. He bumped his cup, spilling sake, as he made a fruitless grab for her phone.
“Guess we found the right girl,” Michelle said, raising her voice so her sister Hannah could hear on the other line. “Hey, Slicer, you listening? You’re on with the Ramen Emperor. Remember to act dignified.”
“No chance of that,” Hannah said.
“Unhand her!” the old man said, lunging for the phone. “She’s done nothing to you. She’s a college student, nothing more.”
“Give me names. Now. Or she’ll be a college corpse, nothing more.”
The old man pursed his lips. Behind his sweaty forehead, his thoughts seemed to spin like flaming wheels. His cheeks twitched
as if his face were preparing to rip apart in two directions. Loyalties will do that to people.
“You won’t.”
“Slicer,” Michelle said, “make the Emperor a believer.”
On screen, the knife wavered beside the girl’s cheek. Michelle held her breath, hoping her sister would deliver. Hannah had planned this whole vendetta, but she tended to hesitate when it came to getting her hands dirty. Across the table, the Emperor looked shaken, helpless. One slice would be enough.
“Cut her. Now.”
Nobody moved. Not Hannah, not the Emperor, not the restaurant staffers. Everyone suppressed an urge to act. Finally, the old man broke the tension.
“Your partner is wise,” he said, his voice shaky. “Your fight isn’t with my daughter but with me.”
“Now!” Michelle yelled. “Cut her!”
“Stop this,” he said.
“Do it!”
“Think about what you’re—”
A staticky scream cut him off. The knife punctured the girl’s cheek, forming a bloody dimple around its tip.