The Blade Man

What if you were driving a desolate North Dakota highway in a hundred year storm—

And the only other car on the road was...wrong?

"There are monsters among us. I mean this quite literally." 

So begins this vivid tale of what our narrator (an old man on his death bed, once an itinerant scalpel salesman) tells us wasn’t the most visceral moment of his life, but was the most horrible. "When I look back on it though, what stands out most is how very easily things could’ve come out different. But for that North Dakota howler, the grace of God, and maybe a little ingenuity on my part, I could have been the hunted instead of the hunter."

Fair warning: Until now, he's never told anyone what happened on that highway, with good reason. It changed him. And it just might change you too.

The Blade Man, a novella

A Tale of the Bloody Scalpel.

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About the Book

What if you were driving a desolate North Dakota highway in a hundred year storm, and the only other car on the road was…wrong?

“There are monsters among us. I mean this quite literally.” 

So begins this vivid tale of what our narrator (an old man on his death bed, once an itinerant scalpel salesman) tells us wasn’t the most visceral moment of his life, but was the most horrible. “When I look back on it though, what stands out most is how very easily things could’ve come out different. But for that North Dakota howler, the grace of God, and maybe a little ingenuity on my part, I could have been the hunted instead of the hunter.”

Fair warning: Until now, he’s never told anyone what happened on that highway, with good reason. It changed him. And it just might change you too.

The Blade Man, a novella

A Tale of the Bloody Scalpel.

There ain’t much dusk in a Dakota winter day and what dusk there had been had long passed by the time I arrived at Morty’s. Damn near a ghost town the place was, only two cars in the lot aside from my own. One of them, a Lincoln town car, I had followed for maybe a dozen miles earlier in the evening. A round-faced kid in the backseat had spent the time giving me the finger every few minutes. After awhile it got on my nerves and I was tempted to sell him a scalpel. I thought it would be a #23, a hook blade that would make slitting his own throat easy. I’d use a #10 if I was doing it for him.

The other car was an old woody station wagon pulling a flat bed trailer. The same one I had seen at the peep store. A layer of snow covered the car and trailer both, like they had been sitting outside for some time. A well-used four wheel ATV was chained in the bed of the trailer, alongside a large roll of carpet or canvas. I noted it only in passing and didn’t take a good look at it. That was a mistake, but how was I to know that then.

I ate my ham and hard over eggs pretty much in silence, except when I asked Doris whether she thought the weather was gonna break bad. She had lived about them parts for over half a century and I figured she was as good as any of the weather folks I had been listening to on the radio all evening.

“Yeah, gonna be a real rip snorter, a howler no doubt ‘bout that. How far you got to go?”

“Bismarck.”

“That’s a 100 miles. I wouldn’t do it tonight. Ain’t a chance you’ll get through. Storm’s coming all right. Be here within the hour I’m guessing. I’d think on turning around. Might be able to out run it back to Fargo. But heading west? Wouldn’t do it unless you got a death wish. Nobody else would be out on a night like this. I doubt even the state patrol will be out.”

The town car folks heard her talking I suppose, cause when they pulled out not long after, they did turn back towards Fargo. But not me. I didn’t have no death wish of course, but Fargo was a hundred miles in the wrong direction.

“I suppose I could stay the night in the motel.”

“State condemned that old wreck last week. Part of the roof caved in the first storm of the season.”

“No shit. Any other place in town?”

Doris pondered. “You could stay over with old Henry I suppose. He’s a bit particular, and ain’t much for strangers, but you don’t mind his farting all night and pay him enough he’ll be willing to take you in. Not happy, but willing. Only game in town just now.”

With that rousing endorsement, better to face death I thought but didn’t say. I wasn’t convinced I couldn’t make it the hundred miles to Bismarck and my business there was important. Doris was just a waitress after all. The last weatherman on the radio had said it might be another two, maybe three hours, before the real storm hit. I’d been in big storms before, had always been able to handle it. I finished my eggs and watched the round-faced boy and his folks walk out to the town car. Sure enough, the boy gave me the finger first chance he got. I dunno what’s wrong with some people.

Details
Author:
Series: Tales of the Bloody Scalpel, Book 4
Genres: Fiction, Thriller
Tags: Audiobook Available, from the mind of Edison McDaniels, Supernatural Medical Thrillers
Format: eBook
Length: novella
ASIN: B00BKFRNHC
eBook Price: 0.99
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The Blade Man
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About the Author
Edison McDaniels

A brain surgeon with 20+ years and over 8,000 cases under his belt, Edison McDaniels spends as much time as possible writing fiction these days. He is the author of the acclaimed TALES OF THE BLOODY SCALPEL series of medical thrillers, as well as the THE GETTYSBURG TRILOGY, a series of intense novels depicting the battlefield surgeons at Gettysburg.
He lives in the upper midwest, does not have a dog, but can often be found at Minnesota Twins baseball games. He is not squeamish.

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