9 Tales From Elsewhere 12

by 9 Tales From Elsewhere

  Napoleon made the dog sit, then he turned on a light.

  "There it is. Never leave home without your phone, dog," and he retrieved the cell phone from the couch. Finding pen and stationery on a coffee table, Napoleon wrote a note to Lioni:

  I will have the full amount owed to you without further delay.

  Sorry about Ron and Terry, though I'm sure they can be replaced.

  Thank you for a charming evening. Regards to your lovely daughter.

  N.

  Leaving the note for Lioni, Napoleon headed to the front door.

  "Dog, come."

  As Napoleon turned the handle and opened the door, alarm bells rang through the mansion.

  "Shit! Okay, dog, let's see if you can run." He sprang onto the beast's back and gave the command, "The Marriott Hotel!"

  At once, the dog took off down the drive, Napoleon hanging tightly to its neck. The sound of shots rang out and a bullet pinged off the dog's rump. Then they were out on the roadway. The headlights of a car blinded Napoleon for a second and he hunkered down for the expected collision, but the dog leapt over the advancing vehicle, touched down, and continued to run.

  Napoleon gradually became accustomed to the rhythm of the dog's gait, though not to the hardness of its back.

  "Stay off the main roads, dog," he commanded.

  At once, the dog turned down an alley and began to weave an inconspicuous route into the heart of the city.

  When the metallic canine finally stopped, it was at the loading dock behind the Marriott.

  "Good work, dog," said his master. If a robotic dog can look pleased, this one did, wagging its tail and drooling oil. "I'll send my next command through the app. Go home and don't be seen."

  And the dog was off and running. Napoleon took the cell phone from his pocket, turned it on, and opened the Tinder Box App.

  "It's time to call my bank," he said with a wide grin.

  Having called Lioni to arrange a meeting to make the payment, Napoleon slept until mid-morning. He woke bruised, sore, and smiling. The future looked golden, but first he had to get Lioni off his back.

  He spent the day getting all his ducks in a row. Top of his list was purchasing a couple of handguns, one in a shoulder holster, another at his calf, and an assault rifle. Once again, he realized how proud he was to be an American, as he paid for the arms at a shop within walking distance from the Marriott Hotel Atlanta. To buy the boat he needed, he'd have to go a little further afield.

  The forests of Sweetwater Creek State Park lay about fifteen miles west of Atlanta off the Tom Murphy Freeway. Napoleon waited in the dark on the edge of a field; the birch trees at his back separated him from the lake edge. Anyone approaching would have to cross the field on foot--the gate was locked to keep out teenaged lovers in cars. Napoleon liked these night operations--all senses alert, adrenalin squirting into the ole blood stream. This time he had remembered the night vision goggles and was feeling glad he had them when he heard the sound of car doors slamming.

  So you haven't come alone, Otelo my friend.

  His opponents approached on foot, along the road. Napoleon saw several of the men deploying into the woods. Two figures kept to the road, advancing in his direction. When they reached the edge of the field, they halted.

  "Napoleon!" Lioni called.

  "Right here! Who's that with you?"

  "It's me, Napoleon. Valeria."

  "Walk to the center of the field. Both of you."

  Napoleon watched them reach the middle and stop. He then broke cover and walked to meet them, carrying a briefcase.

  "Can't say I expected you, Valeria," he said.

  "Aren't you glad to see me? Banana in your pocket and all that?"

  He couldn't see her smile, but he knew it was there.

  Lioni said, "I figured you wouldn't try anything tricky with my daughter here."

  "No, of course not, but it doesn't hold you back. I saw your men take to the woods."

  "Just a little insurance that's all. A good businessman can't forget insurance."

  "Of course," Napoleon replied. "You know, I never did ask what business you're in."

  "Anything that makes him money," Valeria said, the humor dancing in her voice.

  "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Napoleon asked her.

  "Of course, darling. Aren't you?"

  Napoleon laughed. "I am at that."

  "You have my money?" asked Lioni.

  "Right here," he said, handing Lioni the briefcase. "While you're counting it, I'm going to move back under cover. Then I want you to stay put for ten minutes, just in case your men get antsy. Got that?"

  "As you say," Lioni replied. "So how did you come up with the money?"

  "Let's just say I've always been a dog lover and it paid off."

  "Must you run?" Valeria asked.

  "Maybe some other time." Napoleon began backing up toward the trees. Then, as he moved away from the Lionis, thin red laser beams shot from various locations behind them and several candy-red dots appeared on his torso. Knowing he would be dead in a second, a reflex honed in war sent him sprinting forward to the cover of Lioni and Valeria. Bullets zinged around him as he ran. Lioni drew a handgun from his belt but Napoleon's was already in his hand. His shot took Lioni in the thigh, just before he reached father and daughter. Napoleon kicked the gun from his foe's hand and grabbed Valeria, holding her in front of him like a shield. All shooting stopped.

  "I'll kill you for this," Lioni said between teeth clenched against the pain.

  "Isn't that what you just tried to do? Why couldn't you just take the money and leave it at that?'

  "Nobody kills my men in my own house," said Lioni.

  "Until now. Valeria and I are leaving. Keep your men off--I wouldn't want to hurt her."

  Shielded by Valeria, Napoleon reached the cover of the trees near the lake.

  "What do you expect to do now? You're outnumbered, Napoleon. Surrender and I'll convince Father not to kill you," Valeria told him.

  "Come on. I expected something like this." Napoleon grabbed her arm and pulled her along with him.

  At the beach, Napoleon's new motorboat lay nosed into the sand. "Get in," he told Valeria, half dragging and shoving her into the craft. She fell to the deck in the rear of the boat. A turn of the ignition and the motor came to life. He reversed out into the lake and was just bringing it round when a glancing blow drove him to his knees. Valeria put down the small fire extinguisher and grabbed the keys from the ignition. Napoleon was just coming to his feet when she dove off the gunwale. Coming to the surface, Valeria gasped for air then shouted, "Papa! Come and get him! Come and get him!"

  Napoleon watched her swim away. "Plan fucking B," he said, reaching for the cell phone. The face of the phone shone in the dark and he whipped off his night goggles. He pressed the Tinder Box App and the box appeared. As before, he struck the flint with the firesteel and kindled the moss. MAKE YOUR COMMAND it stated.

  HELP NOW, he typed, then added: !!!

  In the light of the newly risen moon, Napoleon watched as Lioni's men darted from the trees and took up positions on the beach. Then two more appeared supporting Lioni between them. Valeria reached shore and was helped from the water. She stood there dripping. All stood facing Napoleon in the boat. Time held its breath.

  "Kill him," Lioni said.

  Two things happened at once. Napoleon launched himself off the boat just as the dog with eyes as big as sand dollars and the dog with eyes as big as hubcaps skirted around the trees and attacked from both sides of the beach.

  Napoleon felt the shock of the cold water as his dive took him deep. Then, unexpectedly he hit a hard, metallic surface and felt himself being raised upward. He broke the surface to find himself astride the golden retriever with eyes as big as tractor tires. The crashing waves around them came from its thrashing tail.

  On the beach, the two dogs snatched up the gunmen and shook them in the air, before tossing them into the lake or into the trees.
They died quickly, though one or two were missing a few limbs when they slipped the old mortal coil.

  The two men holding up Lioni dropped him when the canine corps arrived. Lioni had scrambled to retrieve a weapon from one of his downed minions. Lioni opened fire on the second dog, but the bullets ricocheted off. The dog looked down on Lioni with its eyes as big as hubcaps, its jaws beginning to open. Lioni lifted the rifle and aimed at one of its large orbs, in direct line with the beast's central computer. But just before he could fire, a huge golden paw stomped down on Lioni and ground him into the sand.

  "Good job, Goldie," said Napoleon, seated behind the creature's neck. He surveyed the carnage below him. Lioni and all of his men annihilated. And the money recovered. It hadn't all gone according to plan, but it worked out. Except…Napoleon felt the bullet enter his body before he heard the shot. He tumbled forward and toppled along the edge of Goldie's ear, slid down its front left leg and landed hard on the sand. As the blood pooled under him, he could just make out Valeria in the boat with his assault rifle.

  "Hey, Napoleon. You dropped your phone in the boat," she called. "I really like this app. And when you put three exclamation marks, I guess it means all three dogs.

  Napoleon Bonappetit, formerly of the U.S. Marine Corp, had just enough life in him to see all three dogs come suddenly alert and turn their heads toward him. Such big eyes. Such big teeth.

  THE END.

  Garth Pettersen is a Canadian writer living in the Fraser Valley near Vancouver, BC. He has a Bachelor's Degree in History and a background in Education (History, English, Theatre). Garth taught Writing and English at Western Canada College once upon a time and has written children's stories, a YA novel, adult short stories, and an historical novel. His short stories have appeared in journals such as The Spadina Literary Review, The Opening Line Literary 'Zine, and Dark Gothic Resurrected Magazine, and in anthologies published by Main Street Rag, Zimbell House, Centum Press, and Horrified Press.

  Read his blogs on writing at www.garthpettersen.com/ or follow him on twitter @garpet011

  GOOD NEIGHBORS by Stephen Heuser

  Frederick stood outside the chicken coop, feeling the sun on his face as he stood upright. For a man of his height, even something as mundane as collecting eggs made him feel like he was being pressed in half. A grunt of relief escaped his lips as his back popped, followed by the rest of his body. He sighed at the cacophony as he trudged back to his house; first, his stomach had gone, and with it the best and most flavorful foods, then his knees, then his back... It seemed like he'd just gotten used to one bit of treachery when another piece of would abandon him, or start to creak and groan. At least he didn't have to worry about anyone seeing him falling apart, he thought as he walked into the cozy kitchen. The eggs joined a few apples and a hunk of cheese in the cold-box. The bottle of greenish milk, however, was promptly discarded, along with a colorfully molded bit of turkey.

  "Maybe I should hire someone," he thought out loud. "What do you think?"

  Tobias, an arrogant stray dragonling who'd chosen him as its keeper, remained quiet in the sunbeam. He lazily opened one eye, a sapphire in a sea of red and orange, before yawning, and returning to his slumber. Frederick scratched the beast's ears fondly, and it whuffed in happiness. It woke fully when it realized its human had begun to make itself food, and leapt to the counter to watch (and perhaps get a nibble of something delicious).

  "Get down," Frederick sighed, placing Tobias back on the floor. He sighed harder when his companion simply leapt back up, as though it had no idea what the foolish man had been saying. "You're a troublesome one, y'know that?" Still, Tobias got a bit of ham and his own saucer for water. Probably the reason he ignored most commands, Frederick admitted, picking at his own morning meal. Ah, but what was the harm, really? He scratched the dragonling between its wings, and was rewarded with a wheezing rumble as Tobias arched his back eagerly.

  Unfortunately, he couldn't sit around all day. Though his military pension allowed for his simple life with his chickens and garden, he wasn't so wealthy he could have someone fix every little thing that sprang a leak, or fell apart. The coop needed fixing up to keep whatever had been clawing hungrily at the roof out; he needed a new watering can, and a good pot to move his tomato plant into; the roof of the house had begun to sprout holes that only made themselves known on rainy days, and he'd never thought to buy a ladder before. A crash followed by the skitter-scatter of claws, and frantic flapping drew him into the next room. Tobias dove past him, a stretch of reddish fabric tangled in his claws. Frederick grimaced as he saw the tattered remains of the drapes, adding yet another thing had would need.

  "Troublesome," he declared, scooping up Tobias, and deftly removing the tangled cloth. He got a flapping wing to his face for his troubles, and Tobias was out the window and into the air a moment later. Frederick sighed for the hundredth time. So much for having an easy morning at least. Yet another bit of this or that he needed from the city.

  It was a fine day for the walk, at least. There wasn't a cloud in sight, and the sun had yet to bake the land with its fire. Returning home would be the feat, and probably see him drenched in sweat, and his legs on fire. His friends always asked why he didn't just buy a mule and cart, and he always answered that the day he couldn't manage a simple walk for supplies was the day they'd be leaving him for the worms, and this day was no different. His battered, wheeled basket was rolled alongside him, where it rattled and creaked over the stones and hard-packed dirt road. Soon enough he was cursing as the first drops of sweat ran down his back; there'd been a time when he could've ran the distance without any heavy breaths. There'd been a lot of things he'd been able to do when he was younger, he thought with a grunt, but there was no use dwelling on it now. Maybe Hornswald would have his cart open, and he could enjoy a glass of fruit-water. The thought was enough to bring a smile to Frederick's face, and despite his body, he set off even quicker.

  The grass, tall as a man in some patches, swam like water as the wind blew through it. The cries of foxes playing, of the thumping of rabbits running, echoed every few breaths. Hawks, and other, more worrisome things, circled above. It was relaxing, in its own, strange way. Sooner than he would've liked though, he began to see other folk crowding on the roads. Oh, they were nice enough as they passed Frederick, with friendly waves, and cheerful greetings, but they curdled his belly all the same. He offered tiny smiles and sparse words in return, grimacing after they'd passed him by. There was a reason why he didn't live closer to the city, and as he crested a hill, he felt it flooding into his gut.

  A sea of people massed at the foot of the hill, milling about the gates to Verdenhelm. Frederick wrinkled his nose at the stink of humans and animals mingled and washed over him. Even so early in the day, it'd take some time to get through the crowds. His hands itched furiously as they closed in from every side; a feeling of lightheadedness took him. He built up a touch of speed, and began shoving people out of the way as gently as he could. A few needed more of a boot to the ass, they were so enraptured by the city's walls.

  "Pardon me, pardon me, excuse me," he bellowed as he fought through the clumps of people. "Fucking move, thank you, coming by."

  "Who do y'think they were?"

  Frederick stuttered to a halt as some random young man tossed the question at him; he followed the youth's slack-jawed stare to see a handful of rotted bodies nailed to the wall. They moved weakly, staring with broken, piteous eyes at the onlookers; the enchanted torcs around their necks -- ugly circles of magic-hammered iron -- kept them from dying from their wounds, but not from the world. Bits of flesh had been torn from their faces where things had eaten at them; maggots crawled in open wounds; a few had arrows from people who'd been using them for target practice, before being run off by the guards. T'was a horrid sight -- if you weren't from the area.

  "I heard they were-"

  "I don't care," Frederick huffed, giving the boy his more fearsome glare. "Get the fuck out of m'way, bef
ore I run over your foot."

  That seemed to do the trick. The boy stumbled back, paling as the older man yanked his cart behind him. Travelers, Frederick thought, his lip curling at all the gawking faces. A smile fought its way across his face as he saw the usual cutpurses making their rounds through the crowds. A few met his eyes, and he gave them the barest shiver of a wink in greeting. Smirks flashed across their faces before they melted away into the throng of humanity, a handful of coins richer, and hopefully a lesson to Verdenhelm's endless visitors to keep their hands on their purses.

  "Hail and well met, stranger!"

  Frederick actually smiled as he came to the front gates. A young guard with only a hint of beard stood at the ready with a quill and paper. Crow's feet already showed from his smiles, and he offered a bit of jerky from his pouch.

  "Mathias," Frederick nodded in greeting.

  "Oi," the young man (more a boy, really, though to Frederick, almost everyone looked like a boy to him) said, leaning close. He tapped a polished gray badge of bird wings encircling a castle on his cloak, and with a start, Frederick realized he wore sleek, elegant armor under the rippling cloth. "It's Shieldsman Mathias now," he informed Frederick with an overly-serious face. Quick as it came, it melted back into his usual smile, and he winked with good cheer.

  "Congratulations," Frederick said, smiling heartily as the guard tried to keep from looking too prideful of his new position.

  "Yeah, well, it's just a formality," he grinned sheepishly. "Word is everyone's getting suited, one way or another." Despite the humble tone, he shifted slightly, smiling as the enchanted armor seemed to almost ripple weightlessly. "Anyway," he said suddenly, blushing as he saw the growing queue in front of him. "The usual errands? Go, go on through," he barked. Frederick smiled, signing his name quickly on the paper, and hustled into the city.

  Inside the walls, the city was still waking up, to Frederick's deep thanks. Most were still preparing in their homes, or just opening their shops. Children ran through the streets in play, some under the careful eye of a parent or sibling; a few were grabbed by the scruff and hauled off to help carry errands, squawking all the while. The clang of smiths hard at work echoed through the streets; the smell of fresh bread wafted through the air, making his stomach rumble; mules plodded slowly by, their owners calling out their wares to any who caught their eye. A few Hammermen laughed together at one such cart, their faces barely visible through the massive helmets they all wore. Blows that would fell giants rang on their bulky armor in good fun as they shouted at each other around mouthfuls of spiced rolls. At Frederick's approach, they moved aside, smiling and giving respectful nods in greeting. He returned their smiles with nods of his own.