That Thing in Tulsa

An older piece, but a fun write. Re-reading, I see a lot of the flaws that needed working out that I didn’t then. But then we don’t learn from perfect things.

 

That Thing in Tulsa

            They took the dead man wrapped in sheets to the desert.

 

They huddled in the front seat of the car, the radio blaring something by Creedence, while they did their best not to talk about the man in the trunk.  The windows were down, and dust plumed up behind the Monte Carlo, fogging the daylight.  It didn’t bother them that they were going to bury a body in the middle of the day.  It was the Mojave – no one just wandered by, and if they did, what was one more body for the thirsty sand?

 

Dean watched the landscape roll by, tan dunes under blue sky, telephone poles dotting the roadside and receding as they passed.  It had been the same thing for two hours, and he wondered how long before they got to where they were going.  He turned to Carl, and thought about asking, but the man was focused on the road, his eyes unreadable under the dark glasses he wore.  Instead, he scratched the day-old growth on his face, and reached for the radio, with the pretense of fiddling with the knobs.

 

“You got a problem with Creedence?”  The question came out of Carl in a half-growl, and Dean’s hand paused halfway to the radio.  He let it drop, and shook his head.

 

“Nah.  I was just hoping to adjust the balance a bit.  I swear, every time we hit a bump, the shit in the trunk bangs around.”

 

Karl reached down, and turned a knob, and the sound shifted to the back of the car.  “Better?”  He asked.

 

“Yeah, thanks.”  Dean breathed a sigh of relief.

 

He didn’t feel like upsetting a two-hundred-something pound sociopath today.  He turned back to the window, and returned to watching the desert roll by.  He tried not to think of Tulsa, tried to squelch the thought that if management knew, he’d join the man in the back before his time.

 

*

 

After another half-hour, the car slowed, and Carl eased it off the road, and onto the hardpan that preceded the dunes.  They drove another couple of miles, until the ground began to slope downward at the edge of the desert proper, and the sand underneath began to soften.  When it seemed like Carl was never going to stop, maybe just drive into the desert until they ended up as mummies entombed in a steel coffin, the car ground to halt, and he shut off the engine.

 

The radio snapped off, squelching Aerosmith, and they were left with only the sounds of the wind, and the ticking engine as it tried to cool in the morning heat.  They got out, the sound of car doors slamming echoing across the sand, and walked to the trunk.  They stood over it for a moment, while Carl absently fingered the key ring.

 

“Hold your breath, man.”  He said.  “Boy’s gonna be ripe in there.”

 

Dean hadn’t thought of that.  His stomach wanted to turn at the idea.  Carl found the right key, and slipped it into the lock, then turned it.  It opened with a click, and the trunk popped up, a sliver of dark appearing between the fender and the lid.  He slipped his fingers in the gap, and lifted.

 

A smell, like week-old hot garbage, hit them in the face, and they both staggered back.  Dean turned his head to the side, his stomach heaving.  He didn’t relish the idea of puking on his shoes and having that little reminder around all day.  To his left, he could hear Carl cursing between bouts of gagging.  He bent over, and tried to duck his head as close to his knees as possible.

 

Gradually, the smell dissipated, and he gulped down deep lungfulls of air.  When he felt he could breathe again, he stood, and walked to the trunk.  Carl joined him.  The first thing he noticed was that the smell was still there, though it didn’t seem to have its earlier vice-like grip on his stomach.  The second was that he was glad they had made the decision to put the shovels in last.  They lay on top of a bundle of white sheets, already beginning to turn brown and red in spreading stains.  They each grabbed a shovel and stepped away from the trunk.

 

Dean made to close the trunk, and Carl just shook his head.  “Bad idea.  You’ll just get him baking again.  Leave it open so it airs out.”

 

He turned away, and Dean followed.  They walked a few yards from the car, where the sand grew even softer, and began to rise in the soft swell of the first dunes.  Carl stopped, and stabbed his shovel into the sand.

 

“This’ll work.”  He looked up at the sun, which was still a couple hours away from its zenith.  “Let’s get this done before we end up beef jerky.”

 

They began to dig, a slow process made worse by the constantly shifting sand and the ever-increasing heat in the air.  Dean could feel sweat rolling down every inch of his body, and his hands felt burned from the hot wood of the shovel.  He shot a glance over at Carl.  The man was digging, with no indication that anything was bothering him.  His shoulder-length hair was pulled back in a knot, and a cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth.  From where he stood, Dean wasn’t even sure the man was sweating.

 

They dug for an hour, and after the third time of the sides cascading down in a miniature landslide, Carl spat into the hole, and threw his shovel down.

 

“Break time.”  He said.  “Grab some water.”

 

Dean nodded, and dropped his shovel.  He wandered back to the car, opening the back door, and digging into the cooler in the back seat.  They had packed half a case of water, and he grabbed two bottles, and then closed the lid.  When he was done, he shut the car, and started back, then paused.

 

The smell had nearly disappeared from the air, and he frowned.  That didn’t seem right, fresh air or not.  He wandered back to the open trunk, and peeked inside.  The long bundle with its dark stains was still there, but it seemed smaller, somehow.  He thought about getting the shovel, and poking it for good measure.  Just to be sure.  Carl’s voice, impatient and annoyed, cut those thoughts off.

 

“Hey, numbnuts!  You bringing that water today?”

 

“Yeah, sorry.  Sorry.”  Dean hurried over to the hole they had been digging.  It was roughly six feet long by three wide, and three deep at this point.  Carl was sitting on the edge.  He looked like he was contemplating hiding from the sun by crawling inside, a thought that made Dean’s skin crawl.  He didn’t really want to spend any time in any grave but his own, and not before his time.

 

He eased down onto the ledge, and tossed Carl one of the water bottles.  Carl caught it neatly, and spun the top off, tipping it up to take three big swallows before taking a breath.  Dean sipped at his, not wanting his stomach to cramp up in the heat, and looked around.  He saw sand on sand on sand, rolling in gentle waves away from him, as far as he could see, until the dunes became a taupe line that met with the blue above.  He looked away, and turned back to Carl.

 

“What’d this guy do anyway?”  He asked, gesturing with his water bottle toward the car.

 

Carl shrugged.  “Dunno.  I think he was a magician, or somethin’.  One of those guys that works Vegas when they can’t get Copperfield.”

 

Dean shook his head.  “No, I mean, what’d he do?”

 

Carl spit into the grave again.  “Oh, that.  Got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.”

 

“Cookie jar?”

 

“The boss’ wife.”  He laughed then, a mean, low sound.  He drained his water bottle, and tossed it into the grave, then stood.  “C’mon.  Let’s get this shit done, and get gone.  I got a beer with my name on it back home.”

 

Dean capped his water and tossed it to the side.  He stood, knuckled the small of his back, and picked up his shovel.  He glanced once more at the horizon, where heat had begun to rise from the desert in wavy mirage lines, and then began to dig.

 

*

 

They finished the grave after another hour.  Carl deemed it good enough after the fifth backslide, and besides, he had said, who was going to find him four and a half feet down after the wind started to blow?  They walked back to the car, shovels in hand, and tossed them off to the side, then stood over the trunk, looking in.  Neither man seemed in a rush to grab the bundle.

 

Carl lit a cigarette, and blew the smoke out in a long plume.  Dean watched it float away, torn to shreds on the wind.  After a minute, Carl seemed to shrug.

 

“Fuck it.  Let’s grab this bastard, and get on.”

 

They approached the trunk, and ducked in.  In the dark under the lid, it was cool, and smelled faintly of must.  The smell of the dead man was just a memory in the air.  They lifted the bundle, and it came easily.  Dean thought it felt lighter than he had imagined a dead man should.  The cloth felt damp, and the thing inside moved like a bag of Jell-O.  Dean tightened his grip, and choked down his rising gorge.  They came back up in the desert heat, and carrying the dead man between them, walked to the grave.

 

When they reached the hole in the ground, they dumped the body in unceremoniously, letting the bundle hit the ground with a muffled thump and squelch.  Carl spat his cigarette to the side.

 

“Go get the shovels.”  He gestured back towards the car.

 

Dean hurried off to run the errand, returning with them a moment later, one in each hand.  When he reached the grave, Carl was standing over it, looking down, his back to Dean.  A thought flashed through his head, an image of a shovel splitting the side of the other man’s skull.  He pushed it away.  Offing your partner was no way to make friends with management.

 

Carl turned, and Dean’s stomach sank.  He was holding a pistol in one hand, its black barrel pointed at Dean’s stomach.  The image of the shovel smashing the other man’s head went through his mind again, but he knew it was too late.  He dropped the shovels and backed up a step.

 

“What’s the deal, man?”  He asked.

 

“Cookies and jars, brother.  I think you know.”

 

Somehow, the things he had done in Tulsa had come full circle.  Management was writing his pink slip.  Carl waved the gun towards the grave as he circled away from Dean.

 

“Get in.”

 

Dean moved toward the grave, his stomach doing somersaults while knotting.  It was an unpleasant sensation.  He stepped over the lip, and down, trying not to step on the bundle at the bottom.  When he was in, he stood only head and shoulders over the edge.  He could see Carl, standing a foot or two away, looking down, the pistol trained on him.  He fought to keep control of his bladder.

 

“Lay down.”  Carl said.  He pulled the hammer on the pistol back, and it clicked like an audible period to the threat.

 

“Fuck.”  Dean whispered.  He crouched, and pushed the bundle to the side.  It was lighter than he remembered, drier.  He lay next to it.  His face was wet, and when he reached a hand up to brush it away, he realized he was weeping.

 

Carl appeared over the edge, a shovel in hand.  The pistol was tucked under his waistband.

 

“You’re doing a good thing here, man.  No begging, no whining, just gonna accept it.  Shame you gotta go.”

 

He hefted the shovel, and pushed a pile of sand into the pit.  Dean could feel its weight when it landed on his legs, warm and soft, but unforgiving.  Another pile came down, and his shoes were already almost buried.  He waited, but another shovelful didn’t come.  He lay trembling, when Carl peeked back over the edge.

 

“Look, not a lot of men would handle this like you are.  That’s why I’m gonna give you a choice.  Truth is, boss says ‘Bury him, Carl.  Bury him and let him bake out there.’, but that seems like a rough way for a guy to go.  You ask me, and I’ll put a bullet in you, make it easy.”

 

Dean didn’t reply.  He wasn’t brave, he was frozen.  He didn’t want to die out here with the buzzards and the heat and the sand, not under it, and not with a bullet in his head.  Carl waited for his answer, and when it didn’t come, the man shrugged, and began to push sand down again.  When the first pile came for his face, he held his breath, and let it filter around him.

 

Shovelful by shovelful, he was buried.  Before long, he could feel the oppressive weight and heat from the sand, pressing him down.  Inch by inch of it seemed to loosen him up somehow, as though his brain had decided today was not the day to die.  He began to blow out small breaths as his face was covered, carefully digging a hollow of air where he could still breathe.  After every shovelful, he would shift his arms and legs slightly, just enough to move the sand around him so he wasn’t packed in.

 

Occasionally, he would pause, his muscles aching from the slow process, his lungs fighting for more air than the scant mouthfuls he was able to draw in.  When he did, he imagined he could hear the sand below him moving, as though the man in the sheet was fighting his fate as well, and it sped his heart and sent a shiver up his spine.

 

He figured he had to be under a foot, maybe a foot-and-a-half of sand, when it stopped coming for a second time.  He lay still in his hollow, and waited.  Maybe Carl had stopped for water.  Hopefully, he’d had a heart attack.  He waited another five minutes, or as close as he could figure, and when it still didn’t come, he began to push himself upward, through the sand, trying to get as close to the surface as possible.

 

He closed his eyes, and turned his head, the sounds of millions of grains of sand shifting against his skin, his ear canals, grating and grinding like the dry rasp of dry skin.  He pushed his head to the surface, until his ear broke the sand.  He could still feel the grains in it, but the world was alive with a sudden clarity, and he listened.

 

Overhead, the wind blew past the lip of the grave with a low, hollow sound.  He strained to hear more – and engine idling, heavy breathing from exertion, footsteps on the hardpan that lay nearby.  He waited like that another five minutes, and when no sound came, he began to pull himself fully from the sand, inch by inch.

 

He sat up, the sand pooling at his midsection, and then pulled his legs free.  He brushed himself off as best as he was able, some of the sand clinging to his face and neck where sweat and tears had made a mud of it.  When he was done, he eased himself onto his haunches, and began to rise towards the lip of the grave.  As he did so, his muscles tensed and threatened to cramp, both from the effort of the slow rise, and the struggle to listen for the sounds of a voice or gunfire.

 

He was all too aware as he rose that the top of his head would be exposed before the rest of him as he peeked, but he realized, when you’re in a grave, being buried alive, you tend not to worry about which part of you might be shot off first.  His eyes crested the lip, and he peered around.

 

Aside from the open car, still sitting on the hardpan, he appeared to be alone.  He scanned the area for a shadow, for movement, or color, but nothing appeared.  Satisfied Carl was either preoccupied, or just up and vanished, he grabbed the edge of the grave, and pulled himself out.  When he was done, he lay on the hot sand, and breathed heavily for a minute, and tried not to weep with relief.

 

He rolled on his side, and felt pressure in his ribs.  When he rolled back and sat up, he found he had rolled onto a shovel, left lying alone.  He stood, and wandered over to the car.  The back door was open, the cooler cracked.  He opened it, and grabbed a water bottle out, spinning the cap onto the ground.  He splashed the water over his head and his face, and tried to scrub the mud and sand out.  When he was done, he dropped the bottle and grabbed another, taking deep swallows of the still-cool liquid.

 

When he was done, he closed the door, and got in the driver’s seat.  The keys were still in the ignition.  He tried them once, and the engine turned over, purring to life with a low rumble.  He sat in the seat with the door open, and flipped on the air.  After the day he’d had, he was past caring about wasting it.

 

He wondered where Carl had got off to, and realized he didn’t much care, and didn’t feel like waiting around to find out.  He closed the door, and put the car in gear.  For a moment, he considered gathering up the shovels and the trash, and finishing the grave.  When presented with the possibility of Carl returning, and the fact that the wind would move the sand and bury the evidence in only a few hours, he dropped the idea.

 

The car pulled smoothly off the hardpan and onto the blacktop.  The afternoon sun was in full bloom, and baked heat in waves from every inch of the desert and road.  Inside, the air conditioning had already begun to slip a chill into the car, and content for the moment, Dean flipped on the radio.

 

Blue Oyster Cult began belting out Don’t Fear the Reaper, and he turned it.  A little too on the nose.  He changed the station, and found Otis Redding.  He left it there, and settled back in the seat.  Ahead, the road curved, and he took it a bit faster than he had intended to.  Something in the trunk slid, and thumped against the interior.

 

His heart skipped a beat, and he glanced in the rearview.  Nothing hovered into view.  He returned to the road when a thought hit him.  Nothing in the rearview.  He braked hard, and heard the thing in the trunk slam against the seat backs.  He pulled the car to the side of the road, still miles of desert on each side.  He knew the excuses for missing the closed trunk, but he still berated himself.

 

He fished under the seat for a minute, hoping to find a spare weapon – a gun, a knife – he’d settle for a wiffle bat.  He came up empty, and sat up.  He considered running the car to town and leaving it in an alley, but he knew the thought of the thing in the trunk would dig itself under his skin until he found out what it was.

 

He took a breath, and steeled himself, then stepped out.  Gravel on the shoulder crunched under his shoes as he walked to the trunk.  When he reached it, he stood over the lid, and fingered the keys, listening to them chime, hearing the wind blow sand in grating drifts across the road.  This wasn’t something he wanted to do, but something compulsion required he do.

“Fuck it.”  He muttered, and unlocked the trunk.

 

The lid sprung with a click, and he stepped back, the smell of hot meat rolling from the dark insides.  It wasn’t as bad as the putrid smell he had encountered earlier, but it was enough to make him wait a discrete distance until the odor dissipated.

 

The air cleared, he stepped forward, and lifted the lid the rest of the way.  The interior, previously shaded by the lid, was thrown into full relief by the afternoon sun.  Inside, a shape huddled, big, with scraggly hair.  Dean reached out, and rolled it onto its back.

 

The body turned, and he found himself staring into the remains of Carl’s face.  Dean found himself wondering where the man’s sunglasses were.  He looked at the red, fleshless ruin, and decided he didn’t care.  He shut the trunk, his stomach turning. He got back in the car, and started it up.  He knew he should ditch the body, probably ditch the car.  He also knew getting picked up by state patrol while wandering around would require a lot of explaining.

 

He closed the door.  From the back seat, a voice spoke up.

 

“Hey.”

 

Dean flicked a glance at the rearview.  After the day he’d had, he was officially out of the capacity to be shocked.  A man sat in the relative shadows in the back.  He was wearing a cheap dusty tux, and his skin looked pale, stretched.  Carl’s sunglasses were perched on his nose.

 

“Hey.”  Dean said.

 

“Feel like a road trip, kid?”  The man’s voice was dry, scratchy.

 

Dean shrugged.  After what he’d seen in the trunk, after what had happened in the sand, he knew he should be afraid, but he was past being frightened of the things that came from the desert that day.

 

“Sure.  Where we goin’?”

 

From the back seat, the man lit a cigarette, and blew a plume of smoke out.  He pointed past Dean’s shoulder.

 

“Vegas, baby.”

 

Dean drove.

 

Mercenary

This is the pilot for my Fiction Vortex series, Kharn. Thought I’d share it here, and get some eyes on it. We’re currently building a stable of authors, and a story bible is in the works. More to come.

Mercenary

“The gods are dead, Trapper.  Ain’t naught left but devils with the faces of men.”

Bharga stirred the embers of the fire with a long stick, the end charred and chipped to a point.  Sparks swirled up into the night, and Trapper followed their ascent, burning fireflies swirling in the dark.  He watched them mix with the stars, and wondered if it were true.  If the heavens were littered with the corpses of immortals.

Bharga poked him with the stick, the heat of the tip pulling Trapper from his thoughts.

“Check the wards.” Bharga said.

For the fourth or fifth time that night, he checked the wards around the fire.  The last thing they needed was imps in the campsite.  They looked intact.  He’d etched them on stone with the tip of his dagger.  It would take some time for them to erode.  The gods may have been dead, but the gods-damned devils weren’t.

Their mounts, great beasts with the bodies of wolves and bone-covered heads, snorted in the chill air.  Bharga tossed bones to them, pieces of the rabbits they’d snared earlier.  The beasts snatched them up, growling low in their chests while they snapped the bones, the blue fire in their eyes flashing.  Trapper listened to them eat and thought the cost of the barghests was well worth the protection they offered.

“Get some rest.”  Bharga said.

Trapper crawled into his bedroll and set his blade close to hand.  He listened for a moment while Bharga rolled into his own bedding and made himself comfortable.  After a few minutes, the big man was snoring.  Before long, the excited panting of the barghests quieted to a steady drone of breath, and Trapper knew he was the only one still aware in the dark.  He rolled onto his back and slipped his hands behind his head, staring up at the stars.  His gaze fell on the black tear in the sky, a void where no stars shone.  He wondered again about the gods.

***

The job had come to them through a friend of a friend.  Not that Trapper would call Kips a friend.  He was more like blood lichen – sure, he’d latch on to you and keep the annoyances away, but there were times when he couldn’t figure the difference between a bug and the hand that fed him.  Which explained the roadmap of scars on the man’s face.  Trapper knew from experience that Bharga had even put a couple of them there for him.  At the thought, his own itched, and he resisted the urge to scratch until the feeling had passed.

Kips had come to them with a letter, sealed in wax – that alone meant money – and a simpering expression.

“Hey, boys. Got a job.”

Bharga waved a hand.  “Bullshite. You’ve got naught but an itch to take more of my coin.”

“You’re not still sore over the Harenbull job, are you, Bharga?”  Kips wheedled.

Bharga just grunted.  Kips looked at him, then back to Trapper, and thrust the parchment into his hand.

“Big payday.” he said, a little lower.  “Plenty of coin to go around.”

Trapper cracked the seal and opened the letter.  Bits of wax fell to the floor like dead petals.  Trapper shook the remains off the paper and read.  After a moment, he walked it over to Bharga, and held it up.

“Good pay.” he said.

Bharga raised another hand, this time in a buzz off pest gesture.  Trapper knew he couldn’t read, but if the other man thought Trapper was treating him like he was stupid, he’d have bigger problems than just an annoyed Capo.  He took another tack.

“Someone wants us to get Greelo.”

Bharga slammed a hand down on the table.  “Fuck Greelo. Been looking for that little gobshite for months.  Do they know where he is?”

“In the wood.”

Bharga looked up, a suspicious expression on his face.  “Who knows this?  Who’s paying?”

Trapper looked at the letter.  “Viscount Grawl.”

Bharga appeared to chew the information over.  “How much?”

“40 crowns.”

Bharga snorted.  “I’d do it for 5.  We’ll leave tomorrow.”

“Finder’s fee?”  Kips asked in a small voice.

Trapper hushed him and ushered him over the threshold.  “I’ll see what I can do.  Just don’t push him any harder, or he’ll feed you to the hounds.”

Kips nodded and thanked Trapper, who shut the door in his face before it could get embarrassing.  He walked over to Bharga, the parchment still in his hands.  After a moment, he fed it into the hearth.  The paper crackled and blackened, the edges turning in.  Trapper could see the imps playing in the flames, and ran a hand over the stones of the fireplace.  He turned to Bharga.

“We’ll start tonight.”  The big man said.  “I don’t trust the little weasel to try to beat us to the punch.”

***

They found mounts just outside the city circle.  The merchant had set up shop just outside the walls, using an abandoned stables that had been left over from fair tournaments and better days.  Bharga haggled with the man over the cost of the barghests, but in the end had paid three-fourths of the price just to have something reliable to ride.  They would have preferred horses, but the last had been lost a generation ago.

They swept out of the inner walls and through the main causeway, past throngs of dirty refugees and what appeared to be a former cleric.  The cleric was holding a painted sign on a pole that read ALL ARE DEAD ALL IS LOST.  Trapper caught the man’s eyes as they passed, hollow and haunted, and then they were out of the gates and onto the plain.

The plain was sere and stony, the few crops the people had managed to plant into the inhospitable earth straggling up on brown stalks.  Fog gathered in hollows, and here and there a small creature scuttled by, its movements furtive.  To their left, what had once been a mighty river was little more than a muddy stream that fed into the sea.  Ahead, the plain opened up, and was bracketed by strands of woods.

They turned their mounts towards the woods, the barghests loping easily over the stony soil.  As the sun sank, they could hear the occasional howl of some hungry beast, but let it worry their minds little.  Barghests were swift, and fierce fighters when cornered.  The wind picked up, sweeping the howls away, and they hunkered down in their saddles and rode on.

***

They halted at the edge of the wood.  Trapper dismounted and ran a hand over the trunk of the nearest tree.  Overhead, the bare branches clattered together.  Someone had carved wards in the wood of the trunk.  He looked to the next tree, and the next.  It was the same on both sides of the path, deep into the wood.  There was something in the forest, and someone wanted to keep the road safe.

They remounted and entered, the path wide enough for them to ride side by side.  The barghests moved slower here, cautiously, as though they could smell whatever was waiting ahead.  They rode in silence for some time.

Bharga broke the silence.  “Should bring back an ear or somethin’.  The high and mighty aint gonna believe a couple of cutters if we just show and say we did it.”

Trapper just nodded.  Something was moving just at the edge of his sight, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to see it.  He made a motion at Bharga.

“You see that?”

Bharga swiveled his head to the side, just enough to see what Trapper thought he did.  His eyes widened a bit.

“Forest daemon.” he whispered.

Trapper turned his head as well.  He saw it then, something mossy and hulking, with glowing green eyes and great antlers on its head.  It shambled along beside them in complete silence, the smell of rotting vegetation following it.  Their mounts didn’t react at all, a fact that unnerved Trapper.  They either knew what it was, or hadn’t noticed it.  Worse, they knew it, and were related somehow.  Barghests were forest and plain natives, after all.

They halted in the middle of the trail for a moment.  Trapper turned to Bharga.  “Do we turn back?”

Bharga looked up the trail, then down.  Up ahead, they could see a sqaut building between the trees.  It was weathered and worn, with moss and lichen growing in patches on the roof, and crooked windows.  He glanced over at Trapper.

“You think Greelo’s got himself wards up there?”

“Aye, probably.”

“What if he didn’t?”

Trapper thought about that.  A gap in the wards would mean the shambler could get in.  It might just do the work for them, and when it was done and gone, they could clean up after.  He drew his dagger, the small blade reassuring in his hand.

“Let’s get to work.”

They rode to the cabin cautiously.  When no shout of warning came, and no arrow tried to decorate their chests, they dismounted as quietly as possible and set to work cutting the sections of tree out where the wards had been carved.  It was hard work, since the runes had been etched deep, and the whole time they hacked away at the wood, the shambler watched from the perimeter, lurking, its eyes glowing that baleful green.

After an hour, they had a swath of the wards cut out.  They moved back to the barghests and waited.  The shambler approached the trees slowly, as though unsure.  As it drew closer, it seemed to sense the magic protecting that place was diminished, and suddenly charged through the gap.

It slammed into the cabin, shaking the building on its foundation.  From inside came a frightened shriek.  It slammed again, and the cabin trembled again, like a scared child.  There was the sound of breaking glass, and an arrow sailed from one of the windows, lodging in the shambler’s shoulder.  It roared and reared back, then hit the cabin one more time.  The wall collapsed in a cloud of dust.

For a moment, there was silence, then the thin form of Greelo emerged, clutching a longbow.  He sighted the beast, and then Bharga and Trapper.  Fury contorted his features, and he charged at them.

“Shite.” Bharga muttered.  Then, “Mount up,” as he saw that the shambler had given chase to Greelo.

They mounted as fast as they could, and before long, were charging along the forest floor, yards ahead of Greelo and the monster.  They spurred the barghests, and heard Greelo scream curses that changed into an ungodly shriek.  Trapper risked a glance over his shoulder, and saw the shambler had caught up to Greelo.  The little man was now impaled and writhing on one antler, and still the beast came.

Ahead, the trail ended, widening out into the plain again, and they put on a final burst of speed to escape the trees.  Behind them, the shambler roared in frustration as it came to the end of its domain, the sound drowning out Greelo’s whimpers of agony.  They rode a few hundred meters past the entrance to be safe, then stopped and turned.  The shambler watched them for another minute with its balefire eyes, as though memorizing them.  Then it turned, and in a few seconds, had disappeared back into the forest.

“Shite!”  Bharga cursed.  “Fuckin’ Viscount aint gonna believe this.”

Trapper nodded.  He looked up at the sky, which was a deep purple.  Stars were starting to dot the firmament.

“C’mon.”  He said.  “Let’s camp here.  Maybe we can go back in the morning.”

“Fine.”

They made camp.

***

     Memory lifted from him, and Trapper looked over at the fire.  Bharga was still dead asleep, and the embers had burnt down to almost a flicker.  He took  a breath and carefully slipped from his bedroll, slipping his dagger from its sheath.  He inched to the fire, and with a good deal of care, pulled one of the wardstones from its edge.  The flames rekindled for a moment, as if acknowledging what he was doing.

He pricked his finger and let it drop into the fire, and there was another flare.  Bharga snorted and muttered in his sleep, then rolled over, his back to Trapper.  Trapper crept over, and thought of the words on the parchment Kips had handed him.  He acted quick, his blade slipping deep into Bharga’s back.  He wrenched on it and spun it in a circle, cutting a hole in the now dead man.  He reached inside and pulled out Bharga’s heart, holding it for a moment, still fresh.  He was surprised.  He thought it would be blacker.

He dropped the heart in the fire, and the barghests growled, the scent of cooking meat exciting their senses.  It did blacken, then, and when it was fully charred, Trapper pulled it from the fire, the hot flesh searing his hand.  He shoved it back into the hole he had made in Bharga’s back, then sat and waited.

After a time, the big man rolled over and sat up, his eyes blazing orange and red and yellow.  He smiled, and it was fiery.

“Yes.” he said.

Bharga was right.  The gods may have been dead, but there were sure as hell devils left, and they paid well.

Red, A Tale

A short piece I experimented with. I wanted to do Red Riding Hood with a crime twist, and since I rarely write crime, it was a bit of a challenge. It’s not perfect or something I’ll send out, but it was kind of fun to write.

Red, A Tale

“The Red. The flowers. The grandma. Me.” The Wolf took a drag from his smoke, the Marlboro small between his massive fingers. Claws the side of almonds tipped fur-covered digits, his palm easily the size of the Huntsman’s head. They sat in a cinderblock room, a wide metal table between them, a single bulb in a metal cage overhead. It threw stark shadows on the walls. Smoke drifted up to the light and swathed the bulb in an opaque haze. He spoke between teeth the size of most people’s small finger, muscles in his jaw rippling, his voice like ripping cloth.

He pulled the cigarette to his lips again, the chain looped around his wrists and the ring on the table clanging as steel moved against steel. He blew a plume out.

“What do you want to know?”

“Where’s the girl?” The Huntsman wasn’t small by any standard. He stood over six and a half feet and looked like someone had pulled him from the Steeler’s lineup. Calloused hands gripped the table, and though he had to look up at the Wolf, he had the demeanor of a man looking down.

“I told you. I don’t know. Probably fucked off to Aruba. Maybe Cairo. Maybe one of those places with a hard to say name and no extradition treaty.”

“Tell me about the blood.”

“It’s mine. They hit me with something, and when I woke up, you were there.”

“We’ll see. Since we’ve got time, tell me again.”

The Wolf stubbed out his smoke and sighed. He’d told the story three times already. It hadn’t changed, but he knew this was SOP for the Huntsman. He leaned back as far as the chain would allow and began.

*

She wore red. I shouldn’t have cared. Shouldn’t have even noticed, but there’s something about a woman in red. It’s intoxicating. Heartbreaking. Wild. You think it’s only bulls who love that color? They like the movement. It’s all black and white to them. Me, I like the color. The shade, the depth. It’s the color of roses and heart’s blood.

We met in a little bar by the docks – close enough to smell the brine on the air, not so close you couldn’t smell the pines outside town. I think it was called The Path. One of those little dives you see on the news after someone goes and gets lippy, and the next thing you know, the place is busted up, and three guys are sitting on the curb holding towels to their heads while the cops take statements. She was nursing a whiskey – neat, her hair as red as her dress, her head hung over the drink like she could see the future in it. Hell, maybe she could. Come to think of it in retrospect, I wish I’d had one. Maybe I’d seen what was coming.

She looked up when I took the stool next to her. The pig behind the bar nodded, and I ordered an old-fashioned. Thought about a bloody Mary, but stereotypes are a real thing. I watched the pig work. I think his name was Mortimer, or Marty, or something. All I knew for sure was that at one time he was into real estate, and when he cashed out, bought the bar. The other thing I knew was that he made a mean drink. Now and then he’d burn them, and I’d find myself huffin’ and puffin’.

Not that night, though. The old fashioned was sweet and mellow, and I could feel the buzz in my head, like white noise. I finished it and was about to go – one or two is my maximum these days – when she put a hand on my arm. Two things about that. One – nobody really touches me. I mean, who knows what the Wolf’s gonna do, right? Two – her hands were clean, but her nails were ragged, like she’d been chewing them. I looked over at her.

“Have a drink with me,” she said.

That raised an eyebrow, but I nodded. “Okay.”

I ordered another, and we sat in silence, sipping our drinks. She broke it.

“I hear you do things.” It wasn’t a question.

“Used to,” I corrected her.

“Used to is code for I want to, but someone might catch me,” she snarked.

I shrugged. She wasn’t completely wrong. Some days, the need gets to you. You do your best to ignore it, occupy your time with other things. These days, I built models. I was in the middle of a scale USS Nimitz. I hated it a little bit. The damn glue matted my hair.

“I don’t do that anymore,” I repeated.

“What if you did? Would you do it for money?”

I shook my head.

“What about for a good cause, then?”

I started to shake again and stopped. Maybe. She noticed the pause and rushed in to fill the space.

“She hits me.”

I looked over at her and blinked. “Who?”

“My grandmother. She’s a mean drunk. She hits me and throws my food out, and when she’s not trying to beat me with a broom, it’s words.”

“Words are just words,” I growled. I was trying to pull myself from the conversation. She wasn’t having it.

“Are they? Are they just words when every day you’re useless and stupid and a piece of shit?”

“She’s your grandmother. How rough can it be? You can fight off a little old lady, right?”

She shook her head. “She’s only in her fifties, and strong as an ox. Old Russian farmer. Look at me.”

I did. She must have been about a hundred pounds soaking wet. She was shaking, and I could see that I’d been careless again. This really bothered her.

“Look, if it’s money you want, she’s got an insurance policy. Make her disappear, and I’ll split it with you.”

I wrestled with the decision. I looked closer, to see if she was giving anything away, pulling me into a lie. I saw bruises the dim bar had hidden. Black and blue marks on her arms, beside her eye. I growled involuntarily. In my past life, I’d been a dick. A bastard. A cad. I’d wrecked homes and terrorized villages. But I’d never hurt a woman. I sighed and glanced at Marty. He was busy polishing a glass. I leaned in and whispered.

“Fine. Give me the address.”

She pulled a pen from her purse and scribbled something on a napkin, then slid it over to me. I finished my drink, threw a couple dollars on the bar, and grabbed the note. She grabbed my arm on the way out.

“Call the number there when it’s done. Use a pay phone.”

I nodded and left.

*

The Huntsman looked at the Wolf, a hard expression on his face. “You agreed to kill someone for money.”

“Not exactly. I said ‘fine’, not ‘I’ll kill her’. At the time, I was just trying to get out of the bar.”

“But you went to the old lady’s house.”

The Wolf sighed. “Yeah. I had to see.”

“Tell me about it.”

*

The old lady lived on the edge of town, in a nice suburb called Pleasance. I took my time getting there the back way. People tend to notice a wolf in their midst. Granted, the place was crawling with centaur and dryads, but a wolf – that’s a predator. You watch predators.

I pulled onto a side street and walked the rest of the way, through the little clusters of pine that dotted the neighborhood. Lucky enough, they butted right up against Red’s property, and I was able to hunker down and watch the house. It was one of those nice little ranch homes, painted yellow, black shingles. Sliding glass doors looked out on a decent back yard. Someone kept it up. Strung across the yard was a clothesline, clothing hung from wooden pins and flapping in the breeze.

The sliding door opened, and a woman stepped out carrying a basket. She was large, ponderous breasts over an equally ponderous stomach, sturdy legs and arms, and a knot of steel gray hair perched on the top of her head. She wore long skirts and a patterned blouse, and her face was wrinkled, like earth broken with the weight of years. I could smell vodka and sweat on her even from the pines. It burned my nose, and I sneezed once to clear my nostrils. She looked up at the sound, but gave no indication she saw me as she clipped more laundry to the line.

I waited for her to turn her back, and crept from the pines, moving through the grass until I was just on the other side of the clothing. The door slid closed, and I passed the clothesline, pressing myself against the wall. I could hear the sound of the TV inside, and someone yelling. I held my breath and listened.

“”Worthless girl! This is all you bring home?” I heard the sound of a fist striking flesh, and a cry.

I peeked around the corner and could see the big woman hovering over Red, who had fallen to the ground. She had one arm up in defense. My stomach stirred – most out of anger, I think. Grandmother raised her fist again, and Red scooted back.

“Get out! Get out and don’t come back until you have another hundred!”

Red scrambled to her feet and disappeared around a corner. I heard the slam of a door and running feet. I wasn’t sure I should follow. I wasn’t sure I shouldn’t. But a hurt girl, alone – it didn’t seem right. I got to my feet and ran around the side of the building. The old woman was waiting for me. She stood, looking like a wall with arms, balled fists planted on her hips. I skidded to a stop and looked at her.

“What are you doing in my yard?” She asked.

I ignored the question and tried to go around her. She stuck and arm out and hit me in the chest – like you’d push a child. Turns out, she was strong. I flew back about five feet, hitting the grass with a thump, the breath knocked out of me. I wasn’t sure what the deal was, but she was not manhandling the Wolf without repercussions.

I stood and leapt at her, claws out – teeth bared. It’s as much about psychology as it is force. She cringed, and I hit her like a truck. Despite that, she didn’t go down. A part of me realized that she hadn’t moved. Another part of me had ripped a gouge down one side of her, and blood was gouting out. She didn’t make a sound and instead hit me again.

I twisted, taking the blow on my shoulder. Something popped in my arm, and I let out a howl. I hooked my good arm around her throat and dug in, my claws tearing at her carotid. Blood sprayed, and she started to waver. Her fist found my ribs, and I felt three of them shatter. I could see spots, a sign that it was time to finish it or retreat.

I extended my jaws and fit her head in my mouth. I started to eat, the old woman struggling the whole way. She went down like a live fish, her blood spraying my throat. She punched a couple of times on the way down, and I felt something give way.

Finally, she was down, and I sat on the grass, my breath coming hard.

*

“So, you did kill the old lady.”

“I told you this before. It was self-defense.”

“Huh. You know, we went to the address you gave us. The girl wasn’t there.”

“I’m telling you, I had nothing to do with that. I’ll cop to the grandmother, sure.”

“What happened after you ate her?”

“Someone hit me with a pipe. Or a shovel. I don’t know. Just heard a clang, and it was lights out. When I woke up, it was next to a bouquet of flowers and you kicking me in the ribs.”

The Huntsman was quiet for a minute. The Wolf eyed his axe in the corner. It was polished, the head sharp enough to scare him. Finally, the Huntsman sighed.

“Okay. Maybe I buy the self-defense story. Maybe I don’t. But the girl – where is she?”

The Wolf shrugged. “I. Don’t. Know.”

The Huntsman nodded. He stood and went to the door, knocking on it. It opened, and a uniformed cop stepped through.

“Take him back to the cell. Maybe some time will loosen him up.”

The cop eyed the Wolf, and then the Huntsman.

“It’ll be fine. Won’t it, Wolf?”

The Wolf nodded. The cop took him away.

*

Time spent in a cell is time that doesn’t seem to move. They came for him again what felt like hours later, though it could have just as easily been a few minutes. The cop who’d dropped him there led him through a different set of hallways until they came to another room. He led the Wolf in and shut the door behind him. A woman sat there, behind another wide metal table. She was dressed in a black pencil skirt and a no-nonsense blazer, her hair in a tight black bun. Horn-rimmed glasses, the frames the color of blood, perched on her nose. She smiled when he came in.

The Wolf paused and sat down. He took a deep breath.

“Red,” he rumbled.

“Wolf.”

“What now?”

She opened up the briefcase beside her and began to pull out paper. “Now we make things right.”

He smiled, teeth showing like white daggers. The smile turned into a chuckle and soon became a booming roar. The Huntsman heard it in his office and frowned. But that was the way of things. Sometimes justice was served in the strangest ways.