Survivor's Guilt and Other Stories Read online

  A Katrina survivor waits for rescue on his roof in the brutal heat, reflecting on the life choices that brought him to this moment. A young woman discovers there’s more to her perfect man than she thought. A gay journalist travels to Italy to interview his teen idol, only to discover a darkness in the Tuscan hills. A gay man cleans his home, reflecting on his sociopathic criminal mother. Chanse MacLeod returns to his hometown to help his younger brother, accused of murder. A daughter keeps her father’s legacy alive while hiding his darkest secrets.

  Including five new stories written for this collection (along with the first-ever Chanse MacLeod short story), Greg Herren’s tales of murder, crime, and the darkness that lives inside all of us are evocative of the proud Southern Gothic tradition of writers and are now available, for the first time, in a single collection.

  Reviewers Love Lambda Literary Award Finalist Vieux Carré Voodoo

  “Herren’s packed plot, as always in this imaginative series…revels in odd twists and comic turns; for example, the third man of the ménage returns, revealed as a James Bond type. It all makes for a roller-coaster caper.”—Richard Labonte, Book Marks

  “This novel confirms that out of the many New Orleans mystery writers, Greg Herren is indeed one to watch.”—Reviewing the Evidence

  “[T]his was well worth waiting for. Herren has a knack for developing colorful primary and supporting characters the reader actually cares about, and involving them in realistic, though extreme, situations that make his books riveting to the mystery purist. Bravo, and five gumbo-stained stars out of five.”—Echo Magazine

  “Herren’s work is drenched in the essence of the Big Easy, the city’s geography even playing a large part in the solution of a riddle at whose end lies the aforementioned Eye of Kali. But unlike the city, it is not languid. Herren hits the ground running and only lets up for two extremely interesting dream sequences, the latter of which is truly chilling. Is this a breezy beach read? Maybe, but it has far more substance than many. You can spend a few sunny, sandy afternoons with this resting on your chest and still feel as if you’ve read a book. But even if you’re not at the beach, Herren’s work makes great backyard or rooftop reading, and this one is a terrific place to start.”—Out In Print

  Praise for Greg Herren

  Sleeping Angel “will probably be put on the young adult (YA) shelf, but the fact is that it’s a cracking good mystery that general readers will enjoy as well. It just happens to be about teens…A unique viewpoint, a solid mystery and good characterization all conspire to make Sleeping Angel a welcome addition to any shelf, no matter where the bookstores stock it.”—Jerry Wheeler, Out in Print

  “This fast-paced mystery is skillfully crafted. Red herrings abound and will keep readers on their toes until the very end. Before the accident, few readers would care about Eric, but his loss of memory gives him a chance to experience dramatic growth, and the end result is a sympathetic character embroiled in a dangerous quest for truth.”—VOYA

  “Herren, a loyal New Orleans resident, paints a brilliant portrait of the recovering city, including insights into its tight-knit gay community. This latest installment in a powerful series is sure to delight old fans and attract new ones.”—Publishers Weekly

  “Fast-moving and entertaining, evoking the Quarter and its gay scene in a sweet, funny, action-packed way.”—New Orleans Times-Picayune

  “Herren does a fine job of moving the story along, deftly juggling the murder investigation and the intricate relationships while maintaining several running subjects.”—Echo Magazine

  “An entertaining read.”—OutSmart Magazine

  “A pleasant addition to your beach bag.”—Bay Windows

  “Greg Herren gives readers a tantalizing glimpse of New Orleans.”—The Midwest Book Review

  “Herren’s characters, dialogue and setting make the book seem absolutely real.”—The Houston Voice

  “So much fun it should be thrown from Mardi Gras floats!”—New Orleans Times-Picayune

  “Greg Herren just keeps getting better.”—Lambda Book Report

  Survivor’s Guilt and Other Stories

  Brought to you by

  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  Survivor’s Guilt and Other Stories

  © 2019 By Greg Herren. All Rights Reserved.

  “Survivor’s Guilt” originally appeared in Blood on the Bayou: 2016 Bouchercon Anthology, Greg Herren, ed., Down and Out Books (September 2016); “The Email Always Pings Twice” originally appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (September/October 2014); “Keeper of the Flame” originally appeared in Mystery Week (September 2017); “A Streetcar Named Death” originally appeared in I Never Thought I’d See You Again, Lou Aronica, ed., The Story Plant (July 2013); “An Arrow for Sebastian” originally appeared in Cast of Characters, Lou Aronica, ed., Fiction Studio Books (April 2012); “Housecleaning” originally appeared in Sunshine Noir, Annamaria Alfieri and Michael Stanley, eds., White Sun Books (2016); “Acts of Contrition” originally appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (November 2006); “Spin Cycle” originally appeared in Men of the Mean Streets, Greg Herren and J. M. Redmann, eds., Bold Strokes Books (2012); “Cold Beer No Flies” originally appeard in Florida Happens, Greg Herren, ed., Three Rooms Press (2018);“Annunciation Shotgun” originally appeared in New Orleans Noir, Julie Smith, ed., Akashic Books (2007); “Quiet Desperation” originally appeared as a Kindle Single (February 2018)

  ISBN 13: 978-1-63555-414-4

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: April 2019

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Stacia Seaman

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design By Tammy Seidick

  This is for Paul, as always.

  Survivor’s Guilt

  I’m going to die on this stupid roof.

  It wasn’t the first time the thought had run through his mind in the—how long had it been, anyway? Days? Weeks?—however long it had been since he’d climbed up there. It didn’t matter how long it really had been, all that mattered was it felt like it had been an eternity. He’d run out of bottled water—when? Yesterday? Two days ago? It didn’t matter. All that mattered was he was thirsty and hot and he now knew how a lobster felt when dropped in boiling water, how it felt to be boiled or scalded or burned to death.

  He was out of water.

  Not that the last bottles of water had been much help anyway.

  In the hot oven that used to be the attic of the single shotgun house he’d called home for almost twenty years, the water inside the bottles had gotten so damned hot he could have made coffee with it and it tasted like melted plastic, was probably toxic, poisonous in some way. Wasn’t plastic bad for you? He seemed to remember reading that somewhere or hearing it on the television a million years ago when his house wasn’t underwater and there was still air-conditioning and cold beer in the fridge instead of this…this purgatory of hot sun and stagnant water and sweat-soa
ked clothes.

  But drinking hot water that tasted like plastic and was probably, maybe, poisonous—that was better than dying of thirst on the hot tiles of this stupid stinking roof. He’d tried to conserve it, space it out, save it, trying to make it last as long as possible because he had no idea when rescue was coming.

  If it ever came at all.

  He’d been on the roof so long already—how long had it been?

  Days? Weeks? Months?

  Should have left, should have listened to her, should have put everything we could in the truck and headed west.

  But they’d never gone before, never fled before an oncoming storm, laughed at those who panicked and packed up and ran away, paying hotels and motels way too much money for days on end.

  Hadn’t the storms had always turned to the east at the last minute, coming ashore somewhere to the east, and New Orleans breathed another sigh of relief at dodging another bullet while saying a prayer at the same time for those getting hammered by high winds and storm surges and power outages and downed trees?

  Hell, that last time the storm had gone up into Mississippi and the highways south had been damaged and blocked, keeping people who’d gone that way marooned for well over a week.

  So, no, there was no need to go this time, either, because Katrina would surely turn east like so many before her had.

  Stupid, so damned stupid.

  He could be in a hotel room in Houston at that very moment, basking in the air-conditioning, drinking lots of ice-cold water, waiting for the water to recede and come home, see what survived, see what could be saved and what couldn’t.

  Ice.

  He’d sell his soul for an ice cube.

  But when rescue came, he’d have to explain…

  No, no need to think about that now.

  If—no, when—rescue came, he’d deal with it then.

  The sun, oh God, the sun.

  He’d never been this hot in his life before, at least not that he could remember.

  The closest was the beach in summertime, but there was always something cold to drink, the warm gulf waters to plunge into for some relief.

  He felt like he was broiling inside his own skin.

  Sometimes when it became too much he’d slip back down inside the attic. The oven. The air down there so thick and humid and hot and dusty he could barely breathe, but at least he was out of the sun. The air was barely breathable, clinging to his skin, so thick and wet he felt sometimes like he was drowning.

  Every so often the wind would come, blowing through the vents at either end of the attic, and it felt so good he felt like crying.

  But he couldn’t stay down there for long. He had to stay out on the roof, in case rescuers came. He couldn’t take a chance on missing them.

  If someone came for him.

  Don’t think that. Someone has to come, rescuers will come. If I don’t believe that I’ll lose my damned mind.

  Maybe it’s divine punishment for—

  Yet another helicopter flew past overhead, the latest of many. He’d stopped waving and yelling and jumping up and down when they passed overhead, like he wasn’t even there. His throat was so sore from yelling he could barely make a sound anyway. They never stopped, but he knew—he knew they were rescuing people. They had to be. What else was the point of the big basket hanging from the underside of the helicopter, if not for lowering down to people stranded up on roofs like he was?

  He just had to be patient. It would be his turn eventually.

  He just had to stay alive until it was his turn.

  The whole city was probably underwater for all he knew.

  At least it was for as far as he could see, shimmering filthy water everywhere.

  Should have left, should have listened.

  One of them would—had to—stop for him, before he died.

  Meantime, roasting, baking, frying, dying in the late August sun, or was it September now?

  Every once in a while he heard a boat motor passing close by. He didn’t bother making noise anymore when he heard those, either. There wasn’t any point. They hadn’t heard him when he could still yell. Back when he could still yell, whenever that was. However long it had been.

  They never heard him. They never came.

  His throat hurt so badly from all the yelling he’d done when his throat could still make a sound other than a hoarse rasp, he might have damaged his vocal cords. He might never be able to talk again.

  Which wouldn’t matter, anyway.

  If I never get off this roof.

  He picked up the wine bottle again, poured the last swallow of hot red wine into his mouth. Alcohol dehydrated the body, he knew that, remembered that from somewhere. But some liquid was better than no liquid.

  The sour hot wine hit his empty stomach. He hadn’t eaten, hadn’t had anything to eat in—it felt like an eternity. He’d passed the point of being hungry.

  But he worried that since all that was left was hot wine, he might make himself sick.

  If he started throwing up he might just throw himself off the roof and drown himself.

  It was tempting to think about. The thought came now and then, when he was so hot he could barely stand it, when his skin hurt so bad, blistered from sunburn, that he climbed down into the stiflingly hot attic and wept but was too dehydrated for tears to form. That was when he thought about drowning himself, diving through the trap door into the water and drowning himself.

  Joining her down there.

  Then he would get back to his right mind and open another bottle of wine and sip it slowly.

  He looked at the empty bottle in his hands and tossed it off the end of the roof.

  It splashed when it hit the water.

  It was the last of the wine. All that was left now was hard liquor—a bottle of hot gin and a bottle of hot cheap tequila.

  He hadn’t wanted to touch the liquor, so he saved it for when there was nothing else left. Every time he took a swig of the wine he got light-headed, so there was no telling what the liquor would do, on his empty stomach and dehydrated body.

  He wasn’t even hydrated enough to sweat anymore. He hadn’t had to relieve himself since—weeks ago? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Time didn’t matter anymore, it was all one endless nightmare of heat and humidity and the sun, oh God, the sun.

  Water, water, everywhere—but not a drop to drink.

  No one was ever going to come.

  I can’t believe I’m going to die on this stupid roof. I should just kill myself and get it over with.

  No, someone would come.

  Someone had to come.

  Should have left, should have listened.

  The sun was setting in the west in an explosion of oranges and reds reflecting off the stagnant, dark, oily water. The roof of his truck was still slightly visible when he looked down over the side of the roof, its white roof almost glowing through the filthy water. Paid for, finally, years of paying off that damned loan finally come to an end just a month ago, the pink slip arriving in the mail last week. And now it was drowned, just like the city and God knows how many people. Ruined, gone, the money he put into it wasted. He’d babied it, too—oil change every three months without fail, servicing it before it was needed, the fucking thing so well taken care of it would have lasted easily another five to ten years if he kept babying it.

  It doesn’t matter anyway. Everything’s ruined. The city’s dead. We’ll never come back from this.

  Thank God the old house had an attic—yes, thank God for that—the kind with a trap door with a long dangling cord that hung down in a corner of the bedroom. You pulled the cord, the door came down, and a wooden ladder unfolded. He’d left the door open when he came up, when the water came, as the house filled up, left it open thinking it might help when rescue came.

  If rescue ever came.

  Even though she was down there.

  Someone will come, he told himself again, someone will come for me.

  Someone has
to.

  If he didn’t believe rescue would come, he would lose his mind.

  If he didn’t believe someone would come, there wasn’t any point in going on, to this suffering, to this agony of broiled skin and dehydration and starvation and air so thick he could barely breathe it, the stink of the wet wood rotting down below.

  And despite the delirium, despite the agony, somehow—somehow he wasn’t ready to give up.

  If he gave up now, the suffering of the days? Weeks? Months? Was for nothing.

  Nothing.

  But it would be so much easier to give up. Then I wouldn’t be thirsty anymore. Then I wouldn’t be hungry anymore.

  If he stopped believing one of the helicopters would lower a basket for him, or a boat might come by to take him to safety, through the end of the world to whatever might still be out there, away from the water, he might as well kill himself now.

  There was a rope coiled in a corner of the attic. He could tie a noose and find something, somewhere, on the roof or in the attic, to loop it around and just let his weight fall, his neck snapping, death coming quickly and easily.

  That would be so much better than this slow, horrible death from heat exhaustion and dehydration on the roof.

  But the sun was going down at last, and night was coming.

  He’d survived another day.

  It would still be hot, and humid, and the smell of the water wouldn’t go away, but the night was better.

  Now he had to just survive another night.

  He could still see the skyline of the business district in the distance in the darkening sky. There were no lights anywhere. Thick black plumes of smoke billowed in several places he could see, but there hadn’t been an explosion in a while.