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Authors: Mark Tufo

Tags: #Horror

Indian Hill

Indian Hill

 

INDIAN HILL

 

Mark Tufo

 

Electronic
Edition

Copyright 20
09
Mark Tufo

Discover other titles by Mark Tufo

Visit us at
marktufo.com

and
http://zombiefallout.blogspot.com/
home of future webisodes

and find me on FACEBOOK

 

 

Cover Art:
Shaed Studios,
shaedstudios.com

 

 

Electronic
Edition, License Notes

 

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

 

 

Dedicated to my wife, who is my muse, my inspiration and my partner in life. (Just like a woman to be able to multi-task, I’m lucky if I can make toast and tie my shoe
s
at the same time
, although why I’d need to do those two things at once
,
who knows
?
)

 

Table Of Contents

Chap
t
er One
– Journal Entry 1

Chapter Two
– Journal Entry 2

Chapter
T
hree
– Journal Entry 3

Chapter Four
– Journal Entry 4

Chapter Five
– Journal Entry 5

Chapter Six
– Journal Entry 6

Chapter Seven
– Journal Entry 7

Chapter Eight
– Journal Entry 8

Chapter Nine
– Journal Entry 9

Chapter Ten
– Journal Entry 10

Chapter Eleven
– Journal Entry 11

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen
- Journal Entry 12

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen
– Journal Entry 13

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen
– Journal Entry 14

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Ni
n
eteen
– Journal Entry 15

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One
– Journal Entry 16

Chapter Twenty Two
– Journal Entry 17

Chapter Twenty Three
– Journal Entry 18

Chapter Twenty Four
– Journal Entry 19

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six
– Journal Entry 20

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine
– Journal Entry 21

Chapter Thirty
– Journal Entry 22

Chapter Thirty One
– Journal Entry 23

Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Three

Chapter Thirty Four
– Journal Entry 24

Chapter Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty Six

Chapter Thirty Seven
– Journal Entry 25

Chapter Thirty Eight

Chapter Thirty Nine

Chapter Forty
– Journal Entry 26

Chapter Forty One

Chapter Forty Two
– Journal Entry 27

Chapter Forty Three

Chapter Forty Four

Chapter Forty Five
– Journal Entry 28

Chapter Forty Six

Chapter Forty Seven
– Journal Entry 29

Chapter Forty Eight

Chapter Forty
N
ine
– Journal Entry 30

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty One

Chapter Fifty Two

 

F
oreword
: Hello Dear Reader so some of you may stumble upon this series after reading the Zombie Fallout stories, and you’ll get to the beginning and be like ‘WTF is Michael Talbot doing in this book? Oh he’s just trying to capitalize on that name.’ I can assure you that is not the case, this story was started some 25 years before Zombie Fallout ever saw the light of day. I can see your next question, ‘So then why stick with that name in the Zombie Fallout books?’ valid question it is. I guess part of it is that I never thought so many folks would love the ZF series
and I was more writing it for myself so that I didn’t drive my wife nuts while I was once again laid off from corporate
America
. There was a point where I could have changed it either in this series or the other but by that point I came across the idea that these are the misadventures of Michael Talbot’s alternate realities. I feel sorry for the bastard he sure has a penchant for getting in to trouble. I don’t think I’ll write another series with Michael as the lead protagonist maybe it’s time he got to go out to pasture. So with that in mind I do hope you enjoy this book.

 

Introduction

Hello, my name is Michael Talbot, Mike for short. I’m 2
1
years old and a C
aptain
in the U.E.M.C., (United Earth Marine Corps) and war has been raging on our planet for
what seems like years
now
and one would think that from the devastation wrought to our home world
. I’m writing these memoirs now because I don’t know if or when I will ever be able to again. The woman I love with all my heart is sleeping, she sleeps a lot these days, and I want to leave something to the child she carries within her. Tomorrow begins our final assault for good or bad,
I am to go back up to a ship I vowed twice to never step foot on again, well third time must be the charm
and if I should fall I want my unborn
son or daughter
to know all the grief, suffering and hope that I have carried
since this all began
. So this is my story - I’m not William Shakespeare, I’m not George Orwell, hell I’m not even Stephen King. (Don’t get me wrong, I love Stephen King, I’ve read all of his stories.) But back to the point, I’m just a person with a story, but please don’t be let down, it’s one hell of story. By now you know the ending thus far… I’m alive. But how I got here might be a tale worth sitting down to and reading. The parts I didn’t physically witness I was able to fill in along the way. And if I’m lucky and I last long enough, I may be able to tell you how this whole mess ends up. Well, if you’re ready
dear reader, my child
, I’m going to get this show on the road.

 

CHAPTER 1
– Journal Entry 1

The year was 1984, September 1984 to be more specific, I had just started college and my new life; I was finally out from under the rule of my tyrannical mother, your grandmother. I had begun to date who I thought was the perfect woman, all was well with the world. Eighteen and in love, there can be no better feeling. But maybe I should stop there, I’m going to go back a little further in this story. Four years and some change to be exact.

June 1980. I did the majority of my growing up in the suburbs of
Boston
in a tiny little town named
Walpole
, with a non-existent father and an over-bearing mother. Oh, the stories I could tell you about her, but I have no desire to write a Psychology 101 book. We had lived in
Boston
proper for the first
14
years of my life, and then my mother decided that the house I had grown up in was too big. The dice had been rolled, my parents had made the most fateful decision regarding this story. We moved out of
Boston
and its ‘bad’ schools and into the past. At least that’s what it felt like to me. Here we were in downtown
Boston
where everything and everybody was going a mile a minute, to
Walpole
,
Massachusetts
, a town right out of a Norman Rockwell painting.
T
hey even had soda fountain shoppes. I was going friggen nuts. The boys around here liked to do things like go fishing or hiking at some place called ‘Indian Hill.’ Gee, did they go to ‘picture shows’ on Saturday nights too? Golly gee willickers, Mom, the ice cream man’s coming, can I have a nickel? Did you wash behind your ears? I thought I was in ‘Leave it to Beaver’ only this was more Twilight Zone-ish because I wasn’t watching it, I was now part of it. That first summer was the toughest in my young life. None of the kids I semi-hung around with wanted to do anything that I thought was pretty cool. Like throwing rocks at the passing trains or stealing liquor out of mommy and daddy’s liquor cabinet, or pilfering Playboys from the local variety store. They wanted to fish and paint fences and suck cow teets. It was hell. The upcoming school year did little to improve my mood. Great, I thought to myself, now I get to be exposed to the whole damn crazy village as opposed to just a few of the village idiots. My mother couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t out with the other boys enjoying the fresh air. And do what, Ma, plant flowers? So the summer pretty much came and went without too much fanfare. I had a couple of people you might call friends, but I wasn’t sure if I’d even get wet if they were drowning, if you catch my meaning. September came and I trudged myself to school, my mom had offered a ride but I was having a hard enough time adjusting without my mother dropping me off  in her beat up station wagon. I had slumbered through the first five periods of my first day of junior high, only perking up enough to check out a couple of the finer things, I mean girls.
             

Eating lunch alone was a blast (that would be sarcasm). My semi-buds had the next lunch bell. Oh man, this school year was going to be as painful as the summer. And then came Algebra. I didn’t think much of it, what teen does. I sat as far from the front as I could, which luckily with all these Johnny’s and Becky’s wasn’t a tough seat to get. Last row, far left. The teacher had turned to write her name on the wall. I was just getting ready to write her name down, when ‘splat’ a huge spitball landed right next to her face. She had spit juice all over her face and the front of her blouse. Whoever had been working on that beauty must have started two periods ago, that sucker looked to be two whole sheets of paper. Of course she immediately looked at me as did the rest of the class.

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