Dieselpunk: An Anthology (7 page)

At first it resembled a huge, glowing pearl, radiating the grey-green luminescence that had showed through the shell. The illusion died quickly, though. The sphere swiveled on a slender stalk, revealing a fist-size pupil that dilated at the artificial lights and then withdrew. As it disappeared, the first gunshot rang out.

The blast came from Alan’s right and he dropped instinctively, sheltering against the ground. He could see a dark figure struggling with one of Mudd’s men, a figure dressed in stained overalls with what appeared to be a miner’s lamp protruding from his hat. The men scuffled, stumbling closer to where he cowered and, as they did, a terrible truth struck. The light at the man’s brow wasn’t a lamp. A grey-white stalk protruded from the center of the man’s forehead, atop which a single eye glowed. The creature resembled a man, his features withered as if his life essence had been drawn out. Something horrid occupied the desiccated husk that had been left behind. It clumsily clubbed at its opponent, moving like a poorly controlled marionette. Mudd’s man pushed his opponent away but as he brought his gun up, the thing vomited a glowing spray that sent the gunman to the ground wailing and convulsing.

The victor didn’t get to savor his accomplishment. Mudd’s driver discharged both barrels and the creature’s head exploded. The decapitated corpse staggered, falling beside its victim.

Cold silence fell over the cave. Alan crept forward, approaching the fallen abomination. Instead of blood and viscera, a fibrous, moldy mass spilled out of the open wound: the bits of bone ensnared in its wispy threads and the brass, numbered tag dangling from the pocket of its overalls were the only evidence that it had ever been human.

“Is it dead?” The brute asked, ejecting the spent cartridges from his weapon and digging for more.

“I think so.” Alan turned from the creature to the victim. The man convulsed in fits and spasms, his cries of pain reduced to a gurgling hiss. His face had withered, turning grey with the mycelium that knitted his eyes, ears, and nostrils shut. A fist-sized boil pulsated on his wrinkled forehead and as Alan looked on, the sore split and a slender stalk emerged bearing a glowing eye. He recoiled from the metamorphosis. “We need to go.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Mudd snapped.

“That . . .” Alan searched for the right word, eventually giving up. “That thing infected your man. If we stay, all of us might end up like him.”

Mudd pulled a pistol from his coat, took aim, and put a bullet in the creature’s head. The unholy fire within the newly sprouted eye faded and this time blood flowed, thick and plentiful. “It seems like the issue’s been dealt with.”

Alan scuttled backwards, putting a few feet between him and the carnage before looking up. Beyond Mudd, in the stalagmite forest, the glow that had died out of the slain creature’s eye found dozens of brothers.

A low, gurgling call came from the massive shell and the things that had been the lost miners fell on Mudd’s men with clumsy viciousness. Alan witnessed two men overwhelmed instantly, their fear holding them transfixed until the moment the abominations spat venom into their faces. Mudd stood his ground, firing and cursing until a blow knocked the pistol from his grip. A Tommy-gun-wielding brute came to his aid, cutting three of the eldritch horrors apart before the weapon jammed. As Alan reached the top of the creek bank, the things fell on Mudd and his would-be rescuer. Alan tumbled down the bank and into the cold water to the sound of wails and the gagging of the creatures regurgitating their venom.

Alan crashed through the grottoes, stumbling and falling headlong in a dash for the only route of escape. The lantern cast wild, threatening shadows as he ran. He rounded a merged pair of stone pillars to the sight of a shape lurching out of the darkness. He wheeled and fell, remembering the pistol in his pocket as he hit the ground. Rolling to face the approaching beast, he fumbled with the gun, freeing it of the pocket and thrusting it towards the shape with a shaking hand.

The gun kicked and the shadow staggered, falling feet away from where Alan lay. Slowly the blindness induced by the muzzle flash cleared, he could make out a lifeless shape lying among the fossilized shells. Mudd’s driver lay dying; his eyes open and a startled look on his face as his last breath escaped. Alan dropped the pistol, crawling back against the base of the massive stalagmites. He stared at the dead man until the hiss of the approaching creatures broke the hypnotism. Grabbing the lantern, he ran, racing up the ramp-like flows that climbed the plateau. At the top, glowing eyes awaited his arrival.

Seven creatures stood around the ladder and he could hear more filtering through the stalagmites, drawing the trap closed. He stepped on the remains of the shattered crates, scattering sawdust and dynamite. One option remained. He dropped the lamp into the shavings. The flames spread, the beasts drew nearer, and then the world burned away with rolling thunder and falling stone.

October turned cold, foretelling the drabness of winter with a chilly wind that swept down from the mountains, into the valley, and through the streets of tiny Billet. The wind carried the shriveled corpses of faded leaves down from the hills and into the town, chasing them into the gutters where they lay, rotting with cigarette butts and rusted tin cans before meeting the immovable obstacle of Gregory’s Drugstore window and peeling off in a moaning arc. Eddies of the departing wind washed into the drugstore’s open doorway and swirled fitfully, ruffling the pages of the late edition of
The Daily Register
before dying away.

A photograph of a group of men, looking on as smoke billowed from the mouth of a tunnel dominated the front page along with the headline “Fifty-Four Presumed Dead in Sycamore Ridge Cave-in.”

After a week of searching, local officials have suspended their efforts to locate survivors of the Sycamore Ridge mine collapse. While the cause of the collapse remains uncertain, officials of the Confederated Mining Company, which owns and operates the Sycamore Ridge Mine, speculate that work within the mine may have touched off an explosion, precipitating the cave-in. Steven Mudd, the CEO of Confederated Mining, is reported to be among the 54 casualties of the horrific cave-in. A spokesman for the company confirmed that Mr. Mudd and former
Daily Register
reporter Alan Roth were at the mine when the explosion occurred.

“It’s a genuine vision of Hell down there,” Noah Creedey, one of the many would-be saviours said, while recovering outside the mine. “Never liked this mine, with all them fossils in the walls. Add to that the sound of the fire burning in the lower galleries and the shaking of the ground. A man that didn’t know better would swear something’s moving around in the dark down there.”

Confederated Mining officials called off rescue efforts after workers reached a recently cut set of exploratory tunnels, declaring the mine too unstable to continue the search.

“
We hope to reopen the facility in the spring,” a company spokesman said. “Though the coal may have run out at Sycamore Ridge, we have strong hopes the mine may hold some remarkable discoveries.”

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Missy Gin and the Trouble She Was In

By Lara Ek

An that trouble started when Mr. Smith walked into the great, bright cabin of the
Don’t Look Back
Sky Club, shut the big oaken door careful behind him, an stood quiet, waiting on someone to notice him.

Well, problem was, he’d be waiting a long time. After all, this was a Twosday, an the dirigible’s main-hall cabin was full of sightseers an sightseaers, them crowded right up agin the windows, their luggage a-scatter all over the floor, the boychilds an girlchilds running frantic trying to clean up an keep apace with orders. They had to skip an shamble their way round all the baggage, trying to haul it out the way an onto carts an into holds, but there wasn’t no way that would be done soon, an you couldn’t walk for fear of tripping, nor trip for fear of falling into them piled-up backpacks, baggages, birdcages, backgammon-sets, badminton-nets, book-boxes, an baskets of barleycorn all packed up nice for the trip.

Asides this, the windows may’ve been packed but the tables was full, too, people ready an waiting to eat, skimming menus an itineraries an grumbling loud as to why they hadn’t been served yet. As said, the boychilds an girlchilds run a-frantic in their haste, an still no one come to order till Lady Whisky rang her great bronze bell.

“
Order!” called Lady Whisky, a hefty pale woman with a voice like an opera singer an a bosom to match. She rang the bell again,
tonnnnggg, tonnnnnnnggg, TONNNGGGGG,
till people heard it an turned from the windows an looked up from their menus an ceased their chatter.

“
Now!” Lady Whisky called into the quiet. “As you all can see, we’re underway already. Land’s twenny mile back an in a few more we’ll be away off the Shelf an out over the Deep Blue. So I want paid guests — all-ready-paid guests, mind! — each send one of your party to me, line up here in front of me, an I an Mr. Bourbon’ll sort you out, rooms an finances-wise. The rest of you sit tight an stay out the way of the boychilds an girlchilds. Don’ go askin’ for dinner neither, since that’s still an hour out now. If you’re starved, they’s biscuits an drinks in the back, but
only
once you paid. Hear me?” She raked the crowd with her eyes, then added, “Guests as cain’t pay, you go line up with Missy Gin, an she’ll deal with you. Everyone clear?”

There was a murmur of agreement throughout the cabin. One voice piped up, “I ain’t paid yet but I got money. Who’d I go to?”

“You talk to Missy Gin,” Lady Whisky said aloud. “Missy Gin, show ‘em who you are, so’s they know.”

An down at the end of the bar, Missy Gin raised her hand. Two hundred eyes turned to her an saw her. What they saw was this: a lithe, light woman in a charcoal pinstriped suit, almond-eyed, black hair cut short an slicked back under a charcoal trilby with a pale grey ribbon. She sat on a barstool but leant back onto the bar, both elbows behind her an her thumbs stuck into her vest pockets.

Now, you might think Missy Gin thought an awful lot of herself, an you might be right. But just you wait, an by the end you just might think an awful lot of her too.

Them crowd didn’t know what to think, but who’d blame them? These Sky Club folks live considerable different from the rest of us, an that’s a truth wherever-an-ago you, gentle reader, might be from, for where there’s no here-an-ago, there’s no rules but what might be made. Them in the
Don’t Look Back
Sky Club might seem as strange to you as Yesterday, but just you let them be — they won’t take no notice of your complaint anyhow.

Anyway, these crowd-folks jawed at each other a bit, maybe, or whispered a few things, but they’s from a here-an-ago that took Sky Club flights often, so they knew a thing or two (so they thought) about them. So none of them complained nor said nothing, just there was a general shuffle an rumble as feet moved an chairs scraped an people began to get into their two lines.

An while people did this, an the Pálinkás Néni directed the boychilds an girlchilds how an where to cart luggage an write up receipts, an while Lady Whisky an Mr. Bourbon took care of the paid-up-front folks, Mr. Smith quietly crossed the room, slipped through the crowds, an deposited himself at the end of Missy Gin’s line.

He waited through that line, an it sure was a wait. Missy Gin had seen the crossing from Shelf to Deep Blue before, an she didn’t bother none with looking down, but the guests danced in an out of line, running to an from windows to wonder at the sight. There it was, two thousand feet under the humming an hushing
Don’t Look Back
: that change of color from light-blue to dark-blue, from where it’s safe to sail to where it most certainly ain’t, from it’s just water an fish an sunken ships to where it’s water an
life
.

This was where they started sightseaing.

For there was much to see here: there was life in these waters. There was fish sure, but fish such as made whales look like minnows, sharks like tigers an birds, great birds, great as boats themselves, floating on the water-top an flying up sudden in great blue splashes. There was floating islands of all an any types: some just the ones you’ve surely read of, the backs of great tortoises or whale-fish or squids, dirt an trees piled on so they grew, but others were their own little bits of dirt, true islands that floated of their own power or on life-water; a last few were  Silver Mountains, them mountain-islands made of life-water itself — they floated like they lived for it (which they did), growing up little pieces of themselves an pulling in fish an birds to feed their hunger, making their lands of crushed an crunching bone.

An there was weather: waterspouts spun up an out like silk vines tied to billowing clouds; rain fell from single isolated nimbuses an moved in walls; cumulonimbuses puffed up fast an high, towering their incuses over the
Don’t Look Back
till it flew on past; whirlpools opened great round holes into the water an led down an down into small black eyes into the Deep Blue.

There was a lot grew in that sea.

On account of all this commotion — an the Deep Blue surely warrants a commotion, reader, with that I do agree — it took more than an hour to get the guests settled, roomed, an packed away. The paid guests was all cabined up, gotten out of the main hall an out of the way, but the unpaid guests needed longer dealing with, an so it was almost dinner by the time that line got near done. Finally Missy Gin sent the second-to-last now-paid guest to Lady Whisky, an she turned to the last guest, who stood quiet an patient, hands on his cane an looking at her with blue, blue eyes.

Missy Gin mistrusted that man immediately. She weren’t stupid, not by a long shot, an she could see trouble in every bone of that man’s body. It was how he stood so still, so like a crane looking at a frog, like a waterspout serene in the distance, till suddenly he weren’t so distant anymore.

Missy Gin wanted to keep her distance from those blue, blue eyes. But that weren’t her choice — this was work, he was a guest, an if there was trouble she could handle it. So she locked the moneybox, slid it under the counter, an pocketed the key — him watching her all the while. An so she went round the bar, back to her stool, an sat up on it — him watching her all the while. An so she pulled her hat down to shadow her eyes, leant back on the bar, an stuck her thumbs in her vest pockets. “You ain’t no guest,” she hazarded.

“
Indeed I am not,” said Mr. Smith.

Missy Gin looked him up an down. “Well, best you tell me who you are, then.”

Mr. Smith nodded. He leant his cane up agin his leg, raised his hands up before him, an took off his gloves, first one, then the other.

There were seven fingers on each hand.

“I am Mr. Smith,” he said.

An Missy Gin looked at them fingers an knew: this
was
Mr. Smith. This was the Smith of Smith an Royal, that infamous pair of criminals you’ve read of in the papers, gentle reader, or heard of in the talkies, haven’t you? That Arrington-Yates case, you remember, the
Feist
Heist, the theft of Briganloo’s gems. Them ones as made an sold five hundred Deeds Of Insingcamy in a night, converted them all to doubloons, an made off with the lot before the sun ever come up. Mr. Smith, the strangler, Ms. Royal, the poisoner. They’s rumored to be dealing in ultra-ivory, building men of steel an bone in great, hidden factories, an stealing from Yesterdays when they weren’t known or Yesterdays where they won’t be known. Any here-an-ago you can think of, they’ve been to, an now, here, standin in front of Missy Gin, was one of that pair.

“
Where’s Royal?” Missy Gin asked.

“
Business,” Mr. Smith said.

Missy Gin nodded. “Well,” she said, “I’s Missy Gin, an as long as you don’t do trouble on this club there won’t be trouble to you. Aught I can do to help a fellow?”

“Yes,” Mr. Smith said.

“
Well then,” Missy Gin said.

An she waited, an Mr. Smith said, “Come with me to my schooner. It’s in automation behind your dirigible. I’ll need your help getting to a Yesterday.”

“Is that so?” Missy Gin said.

“
It is,” Mr. Smith said.

“
For a theft?” Missy Gin said.

“
Personal satisfaction,” Mr. Smith said.

“
If’n I don’t?” Missy Gin said.

Mr. Smith hooked his cane on his arm. He stepped forward. He put one seven-fingered hand on the bar on each side of Missy Gin. He leaned in.

“You’d be too slow to stop me, girly,” he said.

From the corner of her eye, Missy Gin saw Mr. Bourbon dial his glass eye in her direction. She looked back up into Mr. Smith’s face. “Maybe you’s new to Sky Clubs,” she said. Nerves curled an twanged in her stomach an she could feel his breath, but she said it anyway: “Maybe you’s new, so I’ll forgive you don’t know it. But we don’t do nothing we don’t want to, here, an there ain’t nothing you can threaten me that don’t bring storm an death down on you so fast your guts will
fly
from your chest. You hear?”

She twitched her suit-coat aside so Mr. Smith could see her shoulder-holster. An at the same second, Mr. Bourbon was there.

Brown-black an bald an near as tall as Mr. Smith, but better dressed, in a suit the color of his name an a tie the color of teak. He stood two foot from Mr. Smith’s shoulder, glass eye trained on Mr. Smith’s face — its mechanica clicking soft — other eye flicking between the two of them. “Care to explain what’s going on here?”

Mr. Smith didn’t move. Neither did Missy Gin.

“I was just setting Mr. Smith straight on ship rules,” Missy Gin said, still looking at Mr. Smith’s blue, blue eyes. She hated them eyes. She hated them so close, still looking at her an nothing else. She clenched her jaw an looked right back.

“
Well, that sounds reasonable,” Mr. Bourbon said, an looked over both eyes at Mr. Smith. “An is he amenable to following them, is the question.”

Mr. Smith transferred his eyes to Mr. Bourbon, but there weren’t much his blue gaze could do agin a glass one. He looked for a bit, then leaned back up, pulling his hands back off the bar an dusting them off like they was dirty. Missy Gin hated that, too.

“I am amenable to anything that helps me meet my ends,” he said, taking his cane from his arm an putting it back on the floor, folding both hands over it. “Perhaps I should explain myself, an then you’ll feel more like helping me. I assure you, there is no theft involved.”

He paused, like he expected this would make everything hunky-dory. It did not, of course.

“So if there’s nothing illegal, why’s there need to threaten me?” Missy Gin asked.

“
Ah,” Mr. Smith said. “I said nothing about legality.” He glanced at Mr. Bourbon. “Perhaps we can discuss this privately?”

“
No,” Missy Gin said.

Mr. Smith looked pointedly around the room. Dinner was soon, so guests had started sprouting like mushrooms, in singles or pairs or tiny, grumbling groups, moseying towards their assigned tables an muttering when they found em. Girlchilds an boychilds were laying out fixings for the meal, an the whole room hummed.

But Missy Gin was feeling right wrathy. “You had no call to threaten no one,” she told Mr. Smith, sitting up from the bar an tipping her hat back to see them blue eyes. “So either you tell us straight what you want, no tricks, no chicanery, or you go right smack out that door an don’t show tail here again. In fact I’ve half-a-mind to send you outn here anyhow whatever you say.”

Mr. Smith looked at her for a few seconds, then shrugged. “In that case,” he said, an stepped back, pulling out a chair from a table an sitting on it, crossing his arms an looking up at Missy Gin an Mr. Bourbon. “I will be frank. I have two people from Yesterday aboard my schooner. They want to go home. I have agreed to make arrangements to get them there so long as they pay me. They have agreed to pay me so long as they get there. So, really, we are all in agreement, except for you.” He looked between them. “Does that sound innocuous enough? Believe me, I wouldn’t have come to you for criminal activities. You’re far too soft for my liking. This is for personal satisfaction only.”