by John Gregory
The door to the smith’s shop hit a cluster of bells over-head. They rang out as Thorne entered and rang another time as the door shut behind him. Soon a deformed old man scuttled out from a linen curtain that hanged from the ceiling, dividing the sales floor from the living space. The man’s gait was made awkward by the hump rising out of his back like a great mountain range. It made walking an obvious effort, but the cripple had the reputation of a skilled craftsman.
“Well now, you’re a big fella,” he said, sitting on a bench behind his workspace. He had pallid blue eyes and deep crow’s feet extending to edges of his white thinning hair. His nose was crooked, shifting left to right, before pointing down to an incriminating thin-lipped grin.
“Can you make something to carry this,” Thorne asked, holding out the covered relic.
“Oh sure, sure,” Old-Man Dylan said, looking him up and down with a hairy eye. In the same breath he started hacking violently. He muffled the horrible sound with a rag, which he pulled from his back pocket. His face was turning several shades of purple, before he finally settled down and returned the mouth rag to his pants.
“My coat’s got some tears in it too.”
“Put it on the counter then,” the old man said.
There was something off about the man that Thorne now noticed, something beyond the obvious deformity and emerging stutter. As Thorne took his coat off, the smith started clapping nervously; then he let out a wheezy little chuckle that only illuminated his peculiarity.
“Oh, how nice!” the smith exclaimed as he tapped a boney knuckle against Thorne’s bionic metal arm. “This is good work, this is very, very good work. I’ve never seen work like this before, so...sleek, just beautiful. It’s quite rare, it is...quite-quite-quit-quite-quite rare indeed! Who was the surgeon? I-I-I just need to know.”
“Carver was his name.”
This was an obvious lie.
“Haha! Hahaha! Yes, yes, Doctor Carver, very fitting. I don’t know him, but he sounds like a doctor for sure,” he said, picking up the leather trench coat, then setting it back down on the counter.
“He’s dead now—”
“But I do have a friend in the cybernetic business. Doesn’t do work like that, of course. But if you ever need anything done. You have one-hundred percent function? Does it use any of that nano-science stuff?”
“What’s it to you, old man?”
“Hm. Well, if you ever need any work done—”
“I’ll just be needing the case and the patches to my coat.”
The smith studied the cross. “Mighty interesting, ain’t it?”
“Don’t get any bad ideas, smith, you’re too old to live it down.”
“It’s hot, huh? No problem, no-no problem. You wanna leave it here?”
“What do you think?”
“Right-right-right, of course. Well I think I got a potato sack around here, if you’re looking to be discreet.”
“Appreciate it.”
“Lets just...”
The smith pulled out a piece of hide string from his apron pocket and turned his focus to the dimensions of the cross, taking detailed measurements, which he then scribbled in his notepad. Thorne had a couple of hours before the geezer would be done crafting the case, so he wrapped the relic up in a burlap sack and went off to kill some time in one of the busiest and most deadly port towns on the East Coast.
The center of Genoa was a swarming, stinking mess. Thorne couldn’t reach out without hitting someone, couldn’t walk a foot without stepping in something foul. Buildings in general stood no more than seven or so stories tall, but they were constructed so closely they were almost stacked on top of each other; the original town plan now busting out of its belt to accommodate a flourishing outpost of human society. A town mostly of killers, thieving whores and bottom scum. Gypsies in ragged cloth and raw-hide faces begged for change, dropping to their dusty knees for the slightest act of charity. A gang of local punks pushed people over as they moved through the crowd, looking for trouble. A dizzying spectacle of street venders rattled off prices in heated competition, announcing “one-time offers” to the multitudes of potential clients. Crime was common and committed openly on the streets, absent of shame or fear. That was what generally happened when port towns became too populated. Law and order got squeezed out.
A poverty-stricken old man wrapped in a tarp, followed Thorne, pulling closer whenever the streets became congested. Thorne finally grabbed him by the arm and the geezer quickly shrank to the ground in pain and awful fright.
“What did you take from me?” Thorne demanded.
“Please don’t kill me,” the elderly crook pleaded, dropping Thorne’s silver watch-piece.
The thief had a bulbous sun-baked nose and two sunken beady eyes shrouded under a tan veil. He was more or less a skeleton already, splattered in dark splotches and bleeding scabs, signs that he was likely dying of the sun cancer.
“Don’t let me see you again.”
Thorne released him and the geezer crawled off like vermin down the sidewalk. The noon sun made for hot tempers on the streets, but Thorne saw no point in breaking a desperate old pickpocket already near the end of his days.
I need a drink, he thought.
He walked past a butcher shop selling mostly mangy carcasses of MSCs. As the predatory abominations were quick to overwhelm indigenous species and thrive in their place, they were a common butcher staple. A fresh coyogre was splayed open and draped over a pole to let bleed out, flies swarming around its powder-covered insides. The beast was easily the length of a man, some much larger, its fur like the coat of the rare porcupine, with great gnarled teeth crowding its unhinged mouth. Thorne had killed this breed of MSC once before in his travels and it wasn’t easy, so he was impressed by the butcher’s feat. He couldn’t, however, imagine coyogre meat tasting any good; even it was treated and heavily flavored. Thorne crossed over a pitted street and headed toward a sprawling saloon. The sign outside proclaimed it to be The Shrieking Clam.
The place was packed full of blood money and drunken hotheads. But the bike outside was enough motivation for Thorne to walk straight into a room full of trouble. Inside it was the typical dive scene: whores bent over the second-floor railings, calling out the names of regular patrons, tempting them to venture upstairs and into their lumpy cold beds. One of the prostitutes at the banister already had herself a customer and skipped the formalities, her skirt dancing overhead and a grubby pirate grinning and clutching her waist from behind. The floor was a more sober scene in contrast, where gamblers took to the tables and threw away good money or trade for a chance to win it big. Differences were settled with crashes of glass and fists and teeth. Every winner was a cheat and every loser was left sore in such a place. From above, a high-pitched scream came from a man who was on his way down from a fourth-story push. He crash-landed, shattering a table and interrupting a game of knives-out poker. The place hadn’t changed. Thorne went up to the counter and called over the bartender.
“Whiskey.”
“Comin’ up.”
The bartender wiped a tin cup clean with his grungy cloth and poured out hootch until it hit the very rim of the container. Thorne grabbed it with his two shiny metal fingers and opened the hatch, spilling out harsh booze that spiraled down into his gut. Not yet quenched, he knocked the tin shot against the counter again to get the bartender’s attention.
“Who owns the dust-kicker outside?”
“Why do you wanna know?”
“Just serve me another splash of that snake juice and answer the question.”
“That’d be Dax. Center table. The big guy. Don’t be starting any trouble,” the bar-keep said, refilling Thorne’s cup before walking off.
Dax was indeed a big guy. Like Thorne, he stood nearly seven feet tall, but Dax had a heftier frame. His skin was pitch black, which gave the white of his eyes a striking contrast, and his head was bald and polished with great care. He broke out with a loud attention-getting laugh.
&n
bsp; Thorne downed his double-shot of whiskey and walked over to the card table. With no empty chairs, he grabbed one of the players by the shoulder and threw him aside without warning. He eyed the other players as he joined the roundtable. They looked up at Thorne, but apparently they had to no attachment to the recently ejected member and made no action to defend him. Picking up the hand of cards dealt already, he glanced them over and tossed two away. Dax offered some money to the pot and the others followed suit. An hour and a half later, the game was right where Thorne wanted it: between Dax and himself.
“You ready to make a real wager?”
“What do you got in mind?” asked the biker.
“How good’s your bike run?”
Dax bellowed out a laugh. “You crazy? And what do you got?”
Thorne held the relic out and set it on the table.
“What is it,” Dax asked in between laughs. “What could it be in your potato sack?”
“Worth more than your dust-kicker, for sure.”
Dax stopped laughing. “What is it is what I asked.”
“It’s an artifact is all I can say. But I’ll tell you what; you find it ain’t worth that dust-kicker outside, bet’s off. That’s plenty fair, ain’t it?” Thorne said.
Dax tried to cut down Thorne with his eyes, his fingers rapping at the table in a tense rhythm, a growing suspense that was felt in the space between the two men.
“Alright, deal then,” Dax said, shaking his head and slamming his keys on the table.
The gang at the table watched on as unblinking witnesses to the event. For them, whoever won, chances were, the game was ending in bloodshed. Dax ran a hand over his sweaty head, tarnishing its surface. He lifted his tin mug and slowly brought it up to his mouth, taking a couple of quick swigs while he eyed the back of Thorne’s hand, then he went back to rapping his meaty fingers against the table.
“You gonna show us what’s under your skirt,” asked Thorne.
“Straight flush,” Dax grinned, laying out his cards on the table.
“Royal flush,” Thorne said immediately, cutting short Dax and his moment of glory.
“What? That ain’t right. You’re a goddamn cheat is what that is!”
“It’s just how the game goes. We had a deal now, don’t go getting sour on me.”
“I don’t deal with cheats, you cyborg freak.”
Thorne laughed at him. “Of course you do, if you’re living in this world. You gonna give me those keys or what now?”
“I ain’t giving you shit.”
The response was more or less a cue and Thorne took it, standing up and slamming his fists on the edge of the round table, snapping it loose from its center post and hoisting the opposite end into the air. The see-saw connected just under Dax’s chin, knocking him backwards off his seat. The keys to the dust-kicker went flying as well. Thorne followed them with his eyes and plucked the opportunity right out of the air. He stopped and eyed the other card-players again, but none of them was looking to get involved in the dispute.
Thorne turned and started for the door when suddenly Dax lunged all of his mass forward and the two giants went crashing into a far wall. Thorne responded by burying his metal fist into his opponet’s side, breaking two ribs and taking out the brute’s supply of air. It sent the bald-headed biker stammering back, but he regained himself and rushed forward again, this time with a knife, keeping Thorne cornered by a frenzied onslaught.
The two had gained the attention of the entire dive. A killing, after-all, was free crowd-pleasing entertainment, and seeing these two Goliaths battle was a main event at this lousy dive turned stadium. Bets were already being collected.
Thorne knocked the blade out of Dax’s hand, meanwhile exposing himself to a series of jarring body-shots, until finding an opening in the fury of bloody fists to connect for a solid head-shot. Dax staggered back, pulling yet another knife and making a blind swipe that clinked against Thorne’s artificial arm. The biker’s cheek was visibly broken; his left eye swelled up and became immediately useless. Dax waved the blade around furiously, nearly cutting a few of his surrounding friends. Thorne finally took Dax’s bladed hand up, pulling him forward towards himself. He seized the back of the biker’s head, ramming it directly into the wall, transforming Dax’s face into a bloody wheezing bubbly mess. The brute lurched in circles some, and then fell over a stranded table. He was down for the count. Thorne picked up the relic, still leaning against his chair, and he walked out of the Shrieking Clam, cracking his neck side-to-side and spitting on the ground.
As he went down the stairs of The Shrieking Clam’s porch, he dug two playing cards out of his pocket and tossed them on the ground, a grin creeping up on his face. The bike was a knockout: cherry-red and chrome work all over. He admired her from a myriad of angles, then he climbed on, turning the engine over until it whirled, boosting the bike off the ground. Aside from the ignition, the controls were arranged on the handlebars of the bike. He studied them a moment, then he leaned forth and turned the accelerator forward sharply and the hover-bike kicked forward, spitting dust and its passenger down the road.
By the time he showed up at the smith’s shop, the old cripple was just completing his order. Thorne collected his leather coat, pieced delicately back together, and slung it over his wide shoulders. The smith gave his work one final satisfied look and handed the case for the relic cross over to Thorne. It was a reinforced leather triangular sleeve, with a sturdy harness for carrying. Thorne fit the relic cross inside and tightened the clasp, positioning it on his back. He nodded to the smith, who smiled gleefully and offered an excited applause to himself. Thorne paid for the work and left the craftsman to his odd perversions.
Dark shades piled in the skies. East winds were picking up, signaling an approaching hurricane or tornado, as they were both common in those parts.
“Hell, here we go.”
He sat down and took a breath, before he started up the dust-kicker again and sped along a lonely dirt road that brought him out of the sea’s reach and into the embrace of the Dead Land.
