by Tim Marquitz
Two half-dead beastmen had come across him on the battlefield and were doing their best to get inside his armor and devour the tasty meat within. Blow upon blow rained down from the creatures’ elongated talons. Inside his claustrophobic shell, the duke roared like a man possessed, beset as he was with equal parts rage and fear at his inability to act.
~
Young Worthington reached the lead creature first, ramming the fist of his detached arm between the beastman’s jaws as he attempted to force the rest of the limb down its throat. Unable to bite him, the disorientated lycan staggered backward and made to swipe at him with its claws. That was when the first of Foss’ shots took out its left leg. Falling to its knees, the creature attempted to wrench Thomas’ arm from its mouth and had almost succeeded in pulling the limb out past the wrist when the sergeant’s second silvered ball struck its chest dead center. The Duke of Wellington watched in surprise as the creature fell dead, and the remaining beastman turned tail and ran off into the night. Feeling three strong hands take hold of his armor, the duke found himself manhandled from beneath his horse. His dented helmet was pulled off, and Lord Wellesley stared up at the two ashen faces of his saviors.
“Well don’t just bloody stand there you idiots, help me up!” he bellowed.
Thomas and Foss obliged as best they could with their guts hanging out. Once the duke was upright, they watched their commander in chief survey the continuing battle.
“It’s not enough,” he commented, taking stock of the remaining numbers of French and English soldiers. “The tide’s not yet in our favor.”
Reaching into his saddlebag, the duke withdrew a crumpled white shirt and tossed it to the sergeant.
“You, man, make a signal to the artillery to begin their assault!”
Foss stared dumbly down at the clothing and let his broken jaw sag open.
“Don’t argue, man” bellowed the duke. “Just do it!”
Fortunately, the fog had lifted somewhat over the last fifteen minutes. Once Foss began to wave the shirt from side to side in the air above his head, a dull rumble of explosions emerged from the hillside behind them.
The first barrage of rockets fell well short of the French position, landing amongst the bodies of the dead. It didn’t matter, though, for no sooner had the shrapnel dispersed, did translucent white specters rise up from the dirt and drift toward the French forces. The wraith-like entities entwined themselves en masse around the hulking bodies of the beastmen and sought to bring them down by sheer force of numbers.
Wellington and his honor guard watched in fascination as several of the revenants poured themselves into the beastmen’s orifices like smoke, and then exploded them from within, showering the field with matted clumps of hair and gut. The remaining English infantry, whether undead or alive, took advantage of the reinforcements and charged forward to dispatch the flailing lycans with little mercy.
Within minutes, the majority of the French army was either dead or dying. Seated clumsily upon the rump of his horse’s carcass, Wellington steadied himself and eyed the two riflemen who had come to his rescue.
“I don’t suppose either one of you gentlemen has a drop of brandy about you, do you?” he enquired. “It’s damned hot in this get-up and I could certainly use a drink.”
Eager to improve his chances for promotion, Worthington immediately stepped forward and pulled the pilfered hipflask from his rucksack, holding it out to Lord Wellington. The duke drained the remnants of the flask in one breath, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
“Damned fine brandy,” he commented, before noticing the initials W.H.D. inscribed on the flask. He glared suspiciously at the private.
Thomas smiled weakly and shrank back to stand beside Foss, who once more stood with one arm resting on the muzzle of his rifle. Cocking his head to one side, the sergeant let out a low sigh through the hole in his neck and Thomas duly kicked him on the shin.
“Not a word,” he whispered.
Tucking the hip flask inside his armor for safekeeping, Wellington watched the remains of his infantry give chase to the wolfmen, as they ran for the hills. It had been one hell of a battle he now realized as he took stock of the dead. If hadn’t been for his agreement with the Brotherhood of Uclés he would almost certainly have succumbed to the superior forces.
There was time enough to hunt down that rogue French sorcerer before the year was out, he decided. It seemed the only problem remaining was how to explain to both the king and the prime minister that he promised one half of the treasury and the whole of the Isle of Wight to an order of supernatural monks, who could reanimate the dead, in exchange for their services.
Late Night Customer
David Dalglish
Darcy was cleaning the last of her tables when the man stepped into the diner, beer bottle in hand.
“Got to be kidding me,” Darcy murmured, glad that Bob, the diner’s owner, wasn’t close enough to hear. Not bothering to fake a smile, she wiped her hands on her rag, and then tossed it into the seat.
“It’s almost closing time,” she said, gesturing toward the many empty tables. “But we can whip up something quick if you’d like.”
The man remained at the door, looking confused. Darcy sighed. These types showed up far more than she liked, overworked farmers and factory workers coming in doped out of their minds on meth. Sometimes it seemed like the only thing their little town was known for; that and its chicken factory.
“Need some help?” Darcy asked, heading to the bar to get her pad and pen. Not that she’d need it, but she wanted to keep some space in case he was dangerous. The meth heads usually were, especially if they were hard up for cash. Bob was in the back, washing the dishes and mopping the floor. He was younger than her, just a year over forty, and had the beefy arms of someone who had spent most of his life working two jobs, none involving a cushy office. She knew he’d be listening in, even if pretending otherwise, and the second things got iffy he’d be out in a heartbeat.
Her late night customer blinked, and then shook his head and started muttering.
“Just need some coffee,” he said, glancing behind him, through the glass door to the parking lot. “Lots of coffee.”
Darcy sighed. Coffee drinkers weren’t known for their tips, and she’d already cleaned the pot and put it away. Who the hell needed coffee at 10:30? Night shift, of course. Given how ragged the man looked, she wondered if he’d just been fired from the factory. Walking back around the counter, she stopped before him and raised an eyebrow.
“Going to sit?” she asked.
He stared at her for a moment, and she wondered if she were about to have an incident. The man looked like he’d been through hell. He was handsome enough, for a working type. Short brown hair, tanned skin. His jeans and t-shirt certainly looked like he belonged around there, but when he spoke she couldn’t place his accent.
“Yeah, of course. Sorry.”
He sat at the nearest booth, shifting so his back was to the window. He rubbed his eyes, and when she offered him a menu he pushed it away.
“I know it’s late, so whatever you can prepare the fastest, I’ll take that.”
“That’s kind of you.”
Darcy scribbled down a ham and cheese sandwich on her pad of paper and then tore it off. At least the man wasn’t going to keep her there forever, though Bob might not be too happy with how inexpensive his order was. Bob had no problem staying late so long as paying customers kept coming, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t grumble and mutter about cheapskates. Not that he’d let her complain the same.
“Here you go,” she told Bob as she tossed the paper through the window.
“He all right?” Bob asked, looking through the window at her customer. “Don’t sound like he’s a local.”
“He ain’t,” Darcy said. “Probably just a trucker driving longer than he should.”
“He looks likes shit.”
“Say it louder, Bob. I don’t think he heard you.”
Bob leaned to the side and called out to their customer.
“Hey, buddy, you all right? You look like shit.”
Darcy winced and bit her tongue. Whatever hope of a tip she had probably went right out the window. Turning around, she saw her customer shaking his head, and to her surprise, he started laughing.
“Thanks for noticing,” he said. “Now when do I get my damn coffee?”
“Coming up,” Darcy said, plugging in the machine and replacing the filter. Once she got it running, she filled up a glass of water and brought it over to the man.
“What’s your name, hun?” she asked. “Because crude as Bob may be, you do kind of look like shit.”
Again he laughed, but this time not quite so loud. Dark circles were underneath eyes laced with red veins. His shirt was covered with sweat stains, and he stank like an outhouse. That she noticed at all was impressive, because with how many farmers came in to eat in the diner, she was well familiar with the smell of pigs, cows, chickens, and their shit. Stubble covered his face, rough and uneven.
“Name’s Brad,” he said. “Sorry to bother you … ”
He leaned closer, and she realized she’d taken off her name tag.
“Darcy,” she said. “Darcy Evans.”
“Well,” Brad said, offering her a grim smile. “Sorry to come in so late, Darcy. Don’t worry. I doubt I’ll be here long.”
She gave him a perfunctory smile, then went to check on the coffee. There was just enough for a cup, so she filled it and brought it over. He accepted it without a word, and after blowing across the top, began drinking without sugar or cream. Darcy stood there, hands on her hips. Other than locking the door and cleaning up Brad’s table, she didn’t have much else to do, and she’d worked far too long to pretend otherwise.
“So where you from, Brad?” she asked.
Small talk was the key to getting tips, of course, and it’d become such an ingrained habit that Darcy would even chat with the hopeless customers. Besides, the reason she took the waitress job after her husband died was because she missed contact with the world outside her little apartment. It sure as hell wasn’t for the money.
“Minnesota,” Brad said, taking another sip.
Darcy grunted. Well, that explained the accent.
“What you doing down here in Missouri? Family? Or you got a diesel parked out back?”
At this Brad began to giggle, his entire body vibrating along with the sound. It set Darcy’s hair to standing on the back of her neck, and that was when he pulled out the gun and placed it atop the hardwood table.
“No diesel,” Brad said as Darcy took a step back. “Just a truck.”
“Not much cash, mister,” Darcy said, forcing herself to remain calm despite the pounding of blood in her ears. “I suggest you put that thing away before Bob sees it.”
Brad spun it twice, reminding her of some sick game of spin the bottle. Then he grabbed it and set it beside him on the seat, between him and the window.
“Think your boss’ll mind if we have a chat?” Brad said, nodding toward the chair opposite him. “Least until the food’s ready?”
Darcy swallowed.
“Sure. If that’s what you want.”
She removed her apron and folded it upon her lap as she sat down, mostly to have something to do. Brad didn’t seem to be looking at her, and he didn’t seem particularly dangerous. Other than the gun, of course.
“Don’t mean to scare you,” he said, scratching at the stubble on his neck. “Could have asked, didn’t have to … shit. Sorry. Been up for two days, maybe three? Just driving. Don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I need to talk. Need to have someone listen. Just don’t want to die alone.”
The gun plus the comment clicked things into place. A calm sort of horror settled over her as she realized the man was preparing to end his life right in front of her. She wondered what it’d look like. Would she see his brains splatter out across the back of his seat and onto the windows? An absurd giggle bubbled in her chest as she wondered how much Windex it’d take to get them clean again.
Assuming he didn’t take her with him, of course.
“You don’t need to do this,” Darcy said, carefully watching his reaction. Didn’t want to push him too far or upset him. The last thing she needed was to piss off a suicidal man running on no sleep.
“This? What is this? I’m not doing anything. We’re just talking.”
His harsh tone was enough to catch Bob’s attention, and she saw him peering through the window from the kitchen.
“Food’s up,” he called out to her. Darcy looked to Brad, and she slowly started to rise.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Lasted this long. I think I got time.”
She went behind the counter and accepted the plate Bob held out to her.
“Everything okay?” he asked, keeping his voice low. There was no humor in it like before. Darcy hesitated only a moment, and she looked back at her customer. So far he hadn’t threatened her, and seemed more distraught than anything. But if Bob found out he had a gun, she didn’t trust his reaction. It was a gamble she hated making, but she trusted herself to get through the night without incident far more than her temperamental boss.
“Fine,” she said, praying she was right. “Just fine. He’s a little worked up is all.”
She brought the plate over and set it down on the table. The way he stared at her, she knew he expected her to stay. Sliding back into the seat, she sat up straight and tried to pretend Brad was one of her sons. She’d talked her two boys out of some pretty stupid stuff before. Maybe she could do the same with a stranger.
Brad picked up half the sandwich and began wolfing it down. Darcy could hardly believe it, and looked out the window to the parking lot to avoid the sight. She’d seen hungry people come in before, but Brad ate like a man who hadn’t had a scrap of food for days. Outside, she saw an old Ford parked near a street lamp, presumably Brad’s. As she stared, something flickered across the light, a shadow far too large to be an owl or a bat. The truck rocked side to side before the light blacked out completely.
“What’s going on, Brad?” Darcy asked, shifting her attention back to her customer. A chill seeped into her bones, and she felt painfully aware there was something more to Brad than she understood.
Brad sniffed. He finished swallowing the first half of the sandwich while picking up the second.
“This is good,” he said, and he laughed. He rubbed his knuckles across his eyes, and she realized he was starting to cry. “Damn good. The rest of the diners here in Missouri like this?”
“I can’t say. Bob’s a good cook, but we’re hardly special.”
“No, we’re not. We’re not special at all, none of us. We live in a sick, cruel world, Darcy. But at least it’s something we can live with, right? Long as we don’t know how awful it really is out there, long as we can keep our eyes shut tight enough, we can keep on going.”
He held the second half up, and she could tell he was hungry, but something made him shake his head and put it down.
“Have you ever seen something,” he asked her, “seen something you wished you could go back in time so that you never, ever saw it in the first place? You know what I mean when I say that?”
A buried pain throbbed in her chest, and she nodded. “I found my husband in bed after his heart attack,” she said. “I couldn’t sleep for weeks without seeing his face frozen like that.”
She left out how still he’d been, as if her beloved husband of thirty years had been replaced with a doll, or a plastic mannequin like they used in malls. She left out the clamminess of his touch, how his body had fought against her desperate attempts to hold him against her, clutching his lifeless, shit-stained heap against her breast as she sobbed. But she could tell Brad saw it in her eyes, and he nodded.
“You know,” he said, pushing away the plate. “But you don’t know. None of us do. There’s things we aren’t supposed to see, Darcy. Things we can’t know. Can�
�t acknowledge.”
“You just need a good night’s sleep,” Darcy said, trying to push away the cruel memories of her husband. “Come morning, I promise you’ll see things differently.”
Brad chuckled, and as he did a second street light went dark, a shower of sparks falling below it to the concrete. Darcy turned to look, seeing it from the corner of her eye, but Brad grabbed her wrist, startling her.
“Don’t,” he said. His bloodshot eyes stared into hers, and he slowly shook his head. “Don’t you look.”
“What if I do?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“Then you’ll be like me. I looked, and now I’m dead. Been driving three days straight, pissing in bottles and living off whatever junk I could buy at gas stations. But it’s been too long, Darcy, too damn long. I can’t live like this. Only question is how I let it all end.”
He was insane. He had to be insane.
From outside they heard a crash. Brad’s grip on her wrist tightened. He stared in her eyes, the force of will in them keeping her attention fixed solely on him.
“You don’t want to see it,” he said. “Pull away the veil, and there’s nothing but teeth. Stare at the floor, you hear me? At the floor.”
She kept looking at him even as he raised his gun. Even as the sound of cracking concrete reached her ears.
“At the floor, goddamn it!”
The window shattered, a great force slamming against the outside of the diner. Bricks flew inward, the table heaved onto its side. Darcy screamed as she fell, her body rolling along the tile, then screamed again when her shoulder struck the legs of a chair, putting a halt to her momentum. Amid the clatter came a deep roar, as if from the belly of a great engine. A gun fired once, twice, then ceased. The primal part of her wanted to squeeze her eyes shut and cower while waiting for some sign of safety, but instead she looked up even as blood dripped down her face from a cut along her forehead she didn’t remember getting. She had to see. She had to know.
