Black Treacle Magazine (February 2013, Issue 1) (3 page)

That is where
I will be.

Tired and
hungry, I will offer her a choice. I will ask for one year of her
life, enough to sustain me until next All Hallows’. And then next
year, I will make the same request again, either to her, or
Chelsea, or Thomas, or most likely, to the newest employee. With
every year she gives, the closer she will be bound: to me, and to
Rosewood.

She will rage.
She will weep. And I will wait.

For there is
another option. She can give me all her life, now, to sate me for
decades.

Like every
employee, she will choose.

The clock
strikes ten. I smile, and uncurl myself, slipping through the
parlour and towards the basement stairs. There is a knock at the
door.

“Chelsea!”

END

K.T. Bryski
is a Toronto-born author
and podcaster. She made her publishing debut with
"
Hapax
," an
apocalyptic fantasy available in print, e-book, and podcast forms
(Dragon Moon Press, 2012). Select playwriting credits include
"
Dracula
"
(Northern Secondary School, 2009), various bits of children’s
theatre for Black Creek Pioneer Village (2011), and
"
East o’ the Sun and West o’ the
Moon
" (Canadian Children’s Opera Company,
2014). When not writing, she enjoys frolicking in petticoats at
Black Creek Pioneer Village, which is completely safe and not at
all haunted. She can be found online at
www.ktbryski.com
, and on
Twitter as
@ktbryski
.

Rik Hoskin

A lynch mob
had surrounded one of the locals out near the east fence, Jake
could see, and were now endeavouring to hold him still for long
enough to wrap a noose around his neck. The noose was made from an
old rope, worn and frayed--like the mob, it had been hastily
adapted from something found lying idly on one of the farms that
dotted this region. The mob, made up of less than a dozen of the
local farmhands, taunted and teased the naked intruder who stood in
their midst, cowering before them. Behind them loomed the twelve
foot high, electrified fence which protected the settlement. A
mound of soil beside the fence showed where something had burrowed
beneath it, invading the territory here.

Even from this
far away, two hundred paces across the plains from the mob, Jake
could smell the stench that exuded from the intruder’s skin. A
thick, heavy musk that grated on the nostrils, like burning toast
on a campfire. They had hooked the frayed rope over the local’s
neck now, Jake could see, and he watched as one of the burly
farmhands tossed the rope’s free end over the dead limb of a nearby
tree. The local was screaming more shrilly now, howling in fear as
it felt the trap close in. With a kick of his spurs, Jake urged his
horse into action, racing across the dusty plain towards the scene
by the fence. He pulled the brim of his Stetson down, tight to his
forehead, shading his eyes as the dust kicked up behind him.

Closer now to
the lynch mob, Jake pulled his 12 bore shotgun from its saddle
holster, took aim at the noose where it rested over the bough of a
tree. With a single booming blast, he unleashed a wad of shot,
shattering the tree limb to dust. The local fell back to the ground
as the pressure on the noose was loosened, and the mob turned as
one towards the lone, approaching horseman.

“You’re all
under arrest,” Jake called firmly as he drew his horse to a halt in
their midst. “If any of you decides he wants to run, let me assure
you that I have no more compunction about shooting you in the back
for what you are doing here than I did for shooting that tree.”

The
proxy-leader of the mob, a man called O’Malley whom Jake recognised
from local council meetings, stepped forward and tipped his fingers
to the brim of his hat. “Good morning, Marshal,” he began with an
obsequious smile, “seems you’ve stumbled on us doing your job for
you.”

Jake’s
gunmetal grey eyes scanned the group, watching carefully for any
furtive movements to indicate one of them reaching for a gun.
Satisfied, he turned his attention to O’Malley. “That so, Mister
O’Malley?” he asked, challenge in his tone. “Because, it looked
very much to me as if you were about to commit a little bit of what
the law calls
murder
on one of the locals here.” The
creature looked up at Jake through its slit, yellow eyes, its
vibrant crimson skin covered in globules of greasy sweat. The eyes
seemed to glow, even in the bright light of the morning, exuding a
pungent yellow mist that drifted around its head as it shifted
warily, the noose still tied around the corded thickness of its
throat.

“What we were
doing, Marshal,” O’Malley explained, “was teaching this local
miscreant the error of trespassing onto our territory here. We
spotted him--” O’Malley corrected himself automatically, “
it
creeping around near the Holderbrook farm across yonder. It had
already broken through the fence to try to get at us,
y’understand?”

Jake shook his
head, glaring down from the saddle. “You have to remember, Mister
O’Malley--all of you--that
we
are the visitors here.
We
are the interlopers. This is
their
territory, not
ours.”

A disgruntled
rumble built from the group at this, and one of the other farmhands
spoke up. “So, what you’re saying is we have no right to defend our
property? Is that it, lawman?” the farmhand asked, making no effort
to conceal the anger in his voice.

Jake shook his
head, returning his shotgun to the saddle holster in an effort to
diffuse the confrontation that was building. “This isn’t defending,
son. What I see here is a witch hunt. And I can’t be tolerating a
witch hunt on my watch, y’understand? ‘Cause, if I do, we could
bring down a whole lot of stink that none of us can handle,
yourselves, good men though I know all of you are, included.” The
farmhand looked at Jake, a challenge in his eyes. “I trust I am
making myself clear,” Jake stated, endeavouring to curtail the
discussion.

In response,
O’Malley took a shot at the creature before them, having pulled a
small, pearl handled revolver from an inner pocket while Jake was
dealing with the outspoken farmhand. The first blast took off one
of the creature’s curling, bone horns, shattering it to powder. As
the creature panicked, O’Malley took his second shot, the bullet
taking the thing in the kneecap, just above the extension from the
cloven hoof.

Jake steadied
his horse with firm legs, whispering to calm her as he pulled his
silver-plated six shooter from the holster at his hip and, in one
fluid movement, targeted O’Malley’s forehead. “Do you want to try
for a third shot, Mister O’Malley?”

O’Malley
looked up at him, the bloodlust in his eyes, challenging him to
loose the bullet for a moment, before he finally crouched slowly
down to the ground and placed his gun on the dusty area beside his
feet.

Across from
him, the creature lurched away, howling and grumbling in its alien
tongue. With its kneecap shot to ribbons, acidic blood spewed in a
billowing fog from its leg. The creature struggled to stay upright,
taking several paces past the crowd before it finally slumped to
the ground. It lay there, red skin smouldering, a pained howl
exuding from its lips.

Deliberately,
Jake turned his gun towards the local creature as it whined out its
death song, taking careful aim between the creature’s eyes. The
single shot echoed across the open prairie as the bullet slammed
into the creature’s face, penetrating the brain and killing it
instantly. Three nights before, Jake had spent most of the evening
tooling the protective sigils into the bullet, ensuring it would
kill a demon in one, single hit. It didn’t pay to wound a demon, or
so he’d been told. In his ten months of patrolling the settlement
of Paradise, he had never once doubted that advice.

Atop his
horse, Jake looked back at O’Malley where he kneeled on the ground,
hands behind his head. Like the rest of the group, O’Malley was
shocked at the swiftness of Jake’s action. “If memory serves, you
helped to construct the gaol eight months ago, Mister O’Malley,”
Jake told him as he reholstered his pistol, “now you’ll get a
chance to see your handiwork all over again from the inside, it
appears.” He instructed the others to bury the corpse where it lay,
then turn themselves in at his office in the afternoon, before
marching O’Malley to the Paradise Main Street gaol.

* * *

“The locals
are getting restless,” Jake told Heather over their evening
meal.

His wife
looked at him across the wooden dinner table, one of the few decent
pieces of furniture they had in their three-room lodge. “Ours or
theirs,” she asked after a moment, reaching for her glass.

“Little o’
both, I guess,” Jake told her, not looking up from his plate. He
pushed the meagre scraps of food across its surface
disinterestedly.

Heather
reached a hand across to his wrist, halting the aimless progress of
his fork. “What’s happened, Jake?”

He looked up
at her, his heart softening as he saw the radiant beauty she
exuded. Even now, eight months pregnant and looking almost fit to
burst, she looked as beautiful as the day they had met, to Jake’s
eyes. Maybe more so, Jake decided. “Caught some of the ranch hands
trying to hang up one of the locals by his neck,” he told her, “way
out by the east fence.”

Heather
gasped, putting her chubby hand to her mouth, eyes widening.

“Ringleader
was Tom O’Malley, you know?” Jake continued. “Took two shots at the
thing so’s I had to throw him in a cell. The others I let go with a
warning after a couple of hours, but I’ve left O’Malley to Paul to
make a decision on. Unpleasant business, through an’ through,” he
added, shaking his head, the food on his plate forgotten.

“Poor Tom,”
Heather began. “It’s understandable, I guess, what with losing his
daughter the way he did.”

Jake
remembered the day when they had found O’Malley’s missing
daughter--at least, what was left of her after the locals had
finished their feasting. “Like you say,” he agreed,
“understandable. Not forgivable though, not how things are right
now.”

Heather pushed
her chair back and stood up, stepping across to Jake’s side. She
reached a hand down to his forehead, brushing the dark hair from
his eyes, feeling the scarred over wounds on his forehead. “You’re
doing your best, hon,” she told him. “Can’t expect you to do no
more than that.”

He reached a
hand up, entwining his fingers with hers. “I think these people
expect me to fight a war for them, and I can’t do that. We can’t
afford to start a war, Heather, because all we would do is lose,”
he said.

After a
moment’s contemplation, Jake got out of his seat, letting go of her
hand, and headed for the back door of the wooden lodge. “I’m gonna
go decorate some shot,” he told her as he stood in the doorway,
grabbing the bandoleer he kept on a hook there. “Had to fire one of
my bullets today, figure it needs replacing.”

She followed
him out to the raised porch, leaving the plates where they were on
the table.

Jake sat on
the wooden bench by the back door, pulling bullets from the
bandoleer strap, examining them in the light that came through the
open door behind him. The first few bullets already featured the
intricate web of sigils which he had painstakingly carved into them
over previous evenings. When he found one without the distinctive
patterning, he took his tiny scalpel blade from its leather pouch,
consulted the book he stored with it. These were Biblical symbols,
their pattern settled on by careful consultation with church
leaders before they had all left Earth. There was no room for
interpretation or stylistic flourish--it paid to get them
right.

While Jake
tooled at the bullet, Heather spoke up, quietly so as not to
distract his steady hand. “Perhaps we could go back home, Jake.
What do you say?”

Without
looking up, Jake grunted the answer through clenched teeth: “Same
thing I’ve said a hundred times before, hon. Earth’s population
problem ain’t going away; we’re better off here.”

She held her
belly protectively. “I’d like for our son to see home,” she
whined.

“This’ll be
his home,” Jake said firmly, piercing her with his stare before
going back to work on the bullet.

They were
quiet then, and, after a couple of minutes, Heather went back
inside and cleared away the dishes from dinner.

It was true
what Jake had told her. Earth was overpopulated and new settlements
like this one had to be formed. They were among the first pioneers,
creating new towns in the wilderness, so much of it unexplored.
Their little settlement of Paradise was one of a hundred new towns
forming, springing up all over the place now that the barriers on
travel had been breached.

If
only
, Jake sighed to himself.
If only we’d conquered space,
instead of Hell
.

Jake was still
pondering this two hours later, when he finally put down the steel
file and wrapped a greying bandage across the oozing wounds on his
forehead. He would have to speak with the apothecary again, if the
wounds didn’t clear up soon.

* * *

The next day,
a young boy--one of the Robinsons’ kids, no more than ten years
old--approached Jake in the drinking house that had been set up on
Main Street, a little after noon. The boy crashed through the swing
doors in his hurry, leaving small footprints in the sawdust that
powdered the floor. A carpenter called Kilcher was still working on
one end of the long bar, planing down the rough edges. The boy
stood doubled over beside Jake’s table, sucking at his breath in
huge, strained gulps. Jake continued to eat his steak while the boy
caught his breath.