“And now, Sir Bard, we come to the finish. After all, every tale needs a proper ending, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I would, Milady.” The Bard regarded the grim faces of the guards with trepidation. Each man tightened his grip on his weapon as the Countess walked past. Some even spat on the ground before the Bard.
“The one thing that I did not anticipate was your survival. You have an innate ability to cling to life that is both impressive and frustrating. The question that looms over me this day is, just what should I do with you?”
“If you are asking for my opinion, might I suggest a place on the next ship to the pleasure dens of Cartok? Perhaps several barrels of the finest mead to warm my belly on the long voyage?”
Morana snorted a single short laugh. “You are entertaining. Even in a situation as dire as the one you are now in, you cannot help but let honeyed words flow. It would be a pity for you to meet the same gruesome ending as the poor fellow hanging over the ledge.”
Another man was held in place with a rod of metal driven through his ankles. His arms were bound behind him, leaving him exposed for the scavenging birds. The gulls enveloped him, flocking away as he screamed and smashed himself against the cliff, only to circle back for more of his flesh.
It was as the flock broke up that the Bard recognized the man. “Gods above! The King!”
“Former King, actually. Though I do suppose that is an interesting philosophical question. Does he still retain the title even though he no longer sits upon the throne?”
Randall turned his gaze upward. “You! You did this to me, Heretic! You will soon join me in death! I shall be waiting for you in the deepest level of Hell to torment you until the end of ti—”
The biggest seagull the Bard had ever seen put an end to Randall’s tirade. It reached into his open mouth and clamped its beak down upon his pink tongue, tearing it up by the root with a swift jerk of its head. Crimson spurted up like a geyser before plummeting into the ocean below. The screams were replaced with a low gurgle, as the king choked on his own blood.
The Bard turned from the edge of the world and promptly vomited. He was still retching when Morana knelt down beside him. “I see you still think this to be barbarism.”
“I wonder,” the Bard said, wiping vomit from his rust-colored beard.
“Hmm? Oh, do speak up, Sir Bard. I cannot abide a mumbler.”
“I said, I wonder, will you grant him leniency?”
Morana glanced down at the King. A smaller bird attempted to fly off with a piece of the man’s cheek, but a few stubborn sinews clung to the bone, refusing the winged beast its prize.
“No,” she said, regarding Randall with a smirk. “No, I much rather prefer him this way. It’s the most fun he’s been in years.
“Now that you have seen the fruits of our labor — for I cannot claim sole credit for this great victory — my mind wanders back to the question of the day. Simply what am I going to do with you?”
The Bard stood only to find himself in the clutches of Morana’s guards. His feet hovered inches off the ground as they dragged him to the ledge.
“Unhand me at once!” he screamed over and over until a fist stunned him into a momentary silence.
“Oh, have some dignity!” Morana watched the struggle from one of the comfortable sofas, eating grapes from a shaking tray held by a terrified servant. “It is not in keeping with the honor of the immortals to die like a whimpering simpleton. After all, so very few of us get to live forever as you shall. The noble Bard who toppled a tyrant using not a sword, but his words. Why, in time, you may even become a god yourself!”
The Bard was about to spit a mouthful of blood at Morana when one of the guards approached him holding a rusty metal spike. A long chain unfurled behind the guard.
“No! Milady, please! You have no cause for this! I did what you asked of me!”
“And splendidly, I might add. However, if there is one thing that the citizens of Mesa abhor more than a tyrant, it is conspiracy. It simply wouldn’t do if they were to discover that their liege and rightful ruler was disposed through anything but their own desire to rebel. Can you imagine what they would do if they realized the mastermind was their new queen? I tremble at the thought!”
“Queen? You?”
“Why, of course! You didn’t think that my actions stemmed from an overwhelming sense of patriotism did you?”
Why should she be any different than the rest of these maniacs? the Bard thought as the guards shredded the pants from his legs, prepping them for the placement of the spike.
“Do you now understand my dilemma? You are an outsider, privy to sensitive information that if revealed, would unravel the web I have spun and plunge the country into chaos and civil war. I cannot allow you to leave here with your life. ‘Tis a shame. I really did enjoy your talents.”
The new queen nodded to the guard holding the spike. The man lifted the Bard’s legs onto his thigh and stuck the point into the soft flesh above the poet’s ankle, slowly twisting it until the metal penetrated the skin.
“Let me serve you!”
The procedure halted as the guard looked to his new ruler. He swallowed hard, for he knew that with even the slightest misstep it would be him that dangled from the cliffs.
Queen Morana folded her hands across her chest. “Serve me? In what possible manner would you serve me?”
“Milady, you forget that you are speaking to the man who single-handedly roused an entire kingdom from a crippling terror. Having a hero of the people by your side, singing your praises and supporting your succession to the Briny Throne would lend tremendous credibility to your reign.”
Intrigue flashed in Morana’s blue eyes as another gull flew by, dropping pieces of the former king onto the ground. “Continue,” she said, hypnotized by the words.
“Proclaim me the official Bard of Mesa. Tell the crowds that my heart and soul have been claimed by the people, and that I am their voice and will continue to stoically serve and protect them, just as would my inspiration, you, the new Queen!”
Morana waved the guards off the Bard. He prostrated himself before her. “My Queen!” he said.
He glanced up to find her outstretched hand hanging limp overhead. The Bard kissed it, noting how fragile it felt against his own.
“Rise, Sir Bard! Rise and claim your place in my court!”
He rose until the queen’s eyes looked up at him at his full height. Gone was the emotionless void from her face, replaced with an overflowing sense of joy.
“Come along, Sir Bard! There is much to be done. The loyalists that did not flee have gone to ground. The little bastards are burrowing deep, and I mean that in both the literal and figurative sense my dear, sweet poet. We must find them and open their throats. Along with any of those who have provided them with refuge from the coming justice, of course.”
“Of course, my Queen.” The Bard’s stomach churned as he forced the words out. How much can I feign pleasure in hunting down people? How long before she realizes my enthusiasm is a facade and I end up back here dangling upside-down next to Randall’s corpse?
He contemplated simply hurling himself over the parapet when something caught his eye. It was inconspicuous at first glance, but a second look revealed it to him as plain as day.
Behind them marched two of the Queen’s personal guard; menacing men who clutched crossbows with ill intent. Yet, despite their blank faces, their eyes betrayed their true feelings. Both men looked at the Bard — not the Queen — with pleading eyes.
Can you get rid of this one too?
“Sir Bard? I do believe that you are ignoring me!”
“Hm? A thousand pardons, my Queen. You see, I was mulling over some composition for your coronation, and I am afraid that the words claimed my attention and brought me into the warm embrace of Lady Inspiration. Again, my sincerest apologies, your Grace, it shan’t happen again whilst I am in your divine presence.”
The Queen nodded and continued with
her plans for Mesa. The Bard stood closer to his new employer as they walked deeper into the estate, until the death knell of King Randall grew faint in their ears.
“Sir Bard,” the Queen said as they walked into the courtyard. “I would very much like to hear more about your creative process. Do you believe that actual spirits come down and take you whenever they deem fit?”
The Bard looked back at the two apprehensive guards. “Well, my Queen,” he said with a smirk, “one never knows when inspiration is going to strike.”
Kyle Rader is a writer who doesn’t like to color inside the lines. He has written across multiple genres with the expressed goal of doing the unexpected and, most importantly, not boring his readers. His most recent publications have appeared in Dark Moon Eclipse magazine, Insomnia Press, and The Rusty Nail Magazine. He can be followed on Twitter @youroldpalkile or on his website https://kylerader.wordpress.com/ He lives in New Hampshire and enjoys playing guitar poorly, yelling at his television, and annoying his long-suffering girlfriend who is way too awesome to be hanging around with him.
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Open the Doors, and See All the People
by Sarah Ennals; published November 15, 2013
Third Place Award, November 2013 Fiction Contest
“First, God came for the Fundies, and I did nothing, because they’d been praying for Him to do that for decades.”
~~~~~
It was just over two months since the Rapture, or what everyone was still calling the Rapture, even though those of us left behind weren’t being pelted with scorpions, there were no obvious candidates around for the Antichrist — though one or two attention-seekers had tried to claim they were — and life was generally getting back to normal.
There hadn’t been that many people taken, for one thing. Almost none outside the U.S. I wasn’t sure if that was because the rest of the world really was as sinful as Americans had always suspected, or because the foreign Christians just hadn’t included the Rapture in their beliefs. Even here in the Midwest, there still seemed to be plenty of churches around that seemed okay with still being here. One or two of them expressed shock in public statements. Most of the rest had offered condolences and grief-counseling to people who’d had family Raptured, and then just got on with whatever it was they’d been doing before.
You’d think there would have been more abandoned houses, but the banks had claimed most of them while the wrangling went on over whether their owners were legally dead. If they weren’t, they were currently defaulting on their mortgage payments. The manager of Twin Rivers’ local bank, though, had belonged to the megachurch on the edge of town, and had disappeared with the rest of the congregation. The remaining bank employees, understandably a little nervous about moving in on the properties of their former boss’s friends, had hired my freelance cleaning service to investigate and maintain the empty homes.
I’d been going through the church records alphabetically, and by “L” I was starting to encounter squatters if I was lucky, rancid meals on the table if I wasn’t. Thank God the world hadn’t ended, and the power was still running to the refrigerators, or the job would have been a hundred times worse. Well, everything would have been a hundred times worse, I suppose.
Today I was in front of an empty home with a surprisingly neat yard, explained when an old man called to me from across the street:
“You from the bank?” A hat shielded his eyes from the sun, and more or less kept his long grey hair from falling in his face.
“Not exactly. The bank just hired me to come round and clean up.” I walked over and handed him one of my cards. He surveyed me suspiciously but said nothing. Actually I preferred his cautious assessment to over-friendliness or instant rejection.
“I’ve been trimming their lawn,” he said. “It’s no trouble when I’m already cutting my own, and I guess it’s like keeping a grave tidy, you know?” He petted the German Shepherd that had been looking around his leg at me, and it came out onto the stoop, wagging its tail. “They had a dog in the back yard, too; I’ve taken him to live here. That’s not going to get me in trouble, is it?” I shook my head, and he became friendlier.
“Guess animals really don’t have souls, unless the dog’s as sinful as me. No call to have left it to starve, though.” He held out his hand. “I’m Bob Frost, like the poet, only not.”
“Ester DeBennedetti.”
“I’m not sure what they called the dog,” said Bob, “but he answers to Dog.”
I went back to his neighbor’s house, unlocked the door with my master key, and looked around. Not too bad except for the dust. No smell. They must have had lunch early that day or been planning to have it later. The clothes of those who’d been Raptured were always found lying in heaps, but their stomach contents always seem to have gone with them. A few internet forums hotly debated what, if anything, this proved. I was just glad I had less to mop up.
The place was a small ranch-style house, but the floors were a nice hardwood, only a little scratched; there were area rugs in a brown and green geometric design. Good choice, I thought, recalling the dog. A sofa with brown upholstery and a lot of throw pillows faced a flatscreen TV. The owners hadn’t segregated the house into man-cave and shabby-floral territories; I guess that spoke well of their marriage.
I switched on the TV, as I always did, just to see what channel it was set to. Usually it was news or sports. This time it was sports. I changed it to an entertainment channel and let the music play as I went around the house. There was a pair of jeans and a pale blue t-shirt on the floor of the laundry room in back; the bra and panties inside confirmed that they were from a Raptured body. I picked them up and put them in the washing machine, along with the contents of the laundry basket. Next to a jug of detergent was an unopened bag of dog food. I put it aside to give to Bob Frost for the dog, then set the detergent on top of the machine and continued my sweep of the house. The jeans and t-shirt had been Arlene Ladd’s, per the records, and there had been a five-year-old daughter, Keelie, at home too.
Dwight Ladd, the father, had been Raptured from the power station where he worked. He was one of the people who’d vanished in plain view of others; people brought his case up when anyone suggested the whole phenomenon was some kind of hoax.
Keelie’s drawings were on the fridge in the kitchen, and her striped leggings and t-shirt dress were behind the breakfast bar. You got used to finding things like this after a while, and though my heart squeezed a bit, it was nothing I hadn’t expected.
I added Keelie’s clothes to the wash, started the cycle, then went back to the living room and turned up the volume on the music before I started in on tidying the rest of the house. When the fridge was emptied and cleaned, I transferred the clothes to the spin dryer and looked around for what to do next. Arlene had kept a tidy house, so there wasn’t much to do but dust a few surfaces. I didn’t want to rearrange anything. If the Ladds came back, or if they were finally pronounced legally dead and their next-of-kin inherited the place, neither would find it any the worse for their absence.
Finally, I sat down on the couch and flipped the TV back to sports before turning it off. I thought of making a cup of coffee, but I hadn’t seen any instant stuff in the cupboards, and I didn’t want to clean the machine afterwards. Besides, I’d forgotten to bring along any milk. I got up and dusted, and by then the dryer had stopped, so I could fold the clothes and put them away.
Afterwards, I knocked on Bob’s door and handed over the bag of dog food.
“His name’s Brett,” I said. “Their kid had a drawing of him on the fridge.” Brett looked up and wagged his tail, but then he’d been doing that all along. He sniffed at the bag and whined a little.
“They were nice folks,” said neighbor Bob. “Damn shame they’re gone — I mean, I guess it’s what they wanted, but you never know, do you?”
~~~~~
Dwight took off his respirator and safety goggles and descended to the control room.
He checked everything, and went online to the chatroom the remaining power and water employees had set up:
water in the cooling towers 90 degrees F. added chlorine.
whos in the room
im in atlanta.
OK there?
2 guys down with the flu and not enough trainees.
i hear ya. hows the treatment plant holding?
they say we might hasve to let the phone lines fail to keep both plants active.
Dwight’s stomach knotted.
but the cel towrs are alreay off. evryones on dialup.
waters the priority you know we need the treatment plants and greywater for the cooling towers
i know but how will we keep intouch without chat?
He waited for a reply. In the corner he could see “fishbone is typing” but it was a while before the words came up in chat:
theyre saying chat is just gossip most of the time anyway and that each congregation needs to learn to be independent.
Dwight read this through twice before he typed back:
something going on there?
(fishbone is typing)
(fishbone is typing)
im sorry.
(fishbone has logged out)
When the Faithless had vanished, the Faithful of the area had put their various doomsday preparations into effect; but when forty-eight hours had passed with no sign of zombies or black helicopters, most had ventured out and convened on the church building. They had quickly voted to set up a communal shelter — no one felt like returning to the silent neighborhoods except to collect supplies. Even then it had taken them only a few weeks to move all non-perishable foods to several nearby warehouses. A few holdouts still remained in the nearby woods, but after all attempts to contact them — even by Pastor Burgess — had been met with rifle shots, the rest of the congregation decided to pray for them and give them their space. Dwight and Arlene had been secretly relieved, and suspected they were not the only ones. The Faithful with bunkers had always been a bit of an embarrassment to their less-extreme brethren. Dwight’s offer to try to keep the power on had been met with applause — or it had then.
Fiction Vortex - November 2013 Page 6
