by Nina Post
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not exactly mortal. What does it matter?”
“Pleeease just take it off.” His voice caught with a hiccupy, pre-panic sob, so she rummaged through her many pockets and came up with a packet of Cluck Snack Lem’n Jüc (“Discourages Leeches”). She ripped off the top and poured the Jüc over the leech, who harrumphed, turned and vomited on the ground before flyijng off.
The ferryman exhaled and put his hands on his knees. “Thanks.”
She watched the leech rejoin his flock, or whatever the plural noun was for leeches in flight. “It was polite of him to not vomit in your wound. He didn’t have to do that, you know.”
“Great. Remind me to send him a thank you card.”
She handed him a bandage and darted across the street, glancing at a peeling, pitted billboard exhorting the viewer to get their vampire hunting certificate at Pothole City Online College (“As Seen On TV!”). “Oh, come on.”
The ferryman followed her to an alley while trying to apply the bandage under his shirt. “I hope this isn’t a shortcut, because I’m still on the clock,” he said.
She stopped in front of a set of dumpsters and he stumbled into her. “What did you say?”
The ferryman rubbed his forehead. “The deal was to accompany Af to his appointment downtown and then back to his prison. Just because he reverted to the angel of destruction and just because the apocalypse seems imminent doesn’t mean I’m not going to charge him. Given the nature of my work, you can understand why I don’t include a force majeure clause in my standard contract.”
“I’m the force majeure.” Kelly bored into him with her stare. “You’ll charge half your rate.”
“Yeah, yeah. Half.”
The sky vacillated between TV-static gray and a glittering dark purple. A pudgy man on the corner screamed, “The Angel of the Abyss will be a contestant on the next season of Cheesemasters: Pothole City!”
The ferryman paused and Kelly pulled his arm. “False prophet. Probably. C’mon, we gotta go.”
As they rounded the corner and passed by a department store, a massive shadow blocked what remained of the sun’s light. A moment later, Af crashed through the roof of the department store building, shattering the centuries-old glass rotunda.
elly pulled the ferryman through the nearest department store entrance, which led to an empty women’s accessories section. Af’s hulking figure rested by the cosmetics counter and a rack of women’s hats. When he spotted her stalking toward him, he held out a claw. “Can I do anything for you?”
“Thank you, but no,” she said.
He scooped up a pile of cosmetics from the destroyed counter and let them slide through his claws like pirate’s treasure. “Pretty.”
She waved a hand in front of his distracted black eyes. “Did you tell anyone about the ferryman loophole?”
The ferryman wrapped scarves around his head. “Is that all I am to you? A loophole?”
“Why don’t you go over there”―she flicked her hand at a convenience store across the street―“and buy yourself a carbonated beverage. And Af? I’m not on a leisurely schedule. I have to find the SPs.”
Af’s attention skipped to hats on a rack. He selected a round straw resort hat with a wide brim and attempted to place it on his head, which required piercing the brim with one of his horns.
“No, I definitely did not tell anyone about the ferryman loophole.” Af adjusted the hat until he destroyed the top. “Wait―um, no.”
“No? Think hard,” she said.
“Ah―”
“What?”
“I might have mentioned something in the pool area.”
“And?”
“May I help you find anything?” A petite saleswoman approached them, unaware or uncaring that she was the only person left in the store. Her ink-pot hair, unevenly applied red lipstick, and ghastly pallor reminded her, unpleasantly, of her high school French teacher.
When she spotted Af, the woman put a hand to her throat and opened her mouth like a fish then retreated, thick heels clicking on the marble floor, skipping and skidding as she broke into a run.
Af unscrewed a bottle of blue nail polish. “I think I said something to Raum while we were using his espresso machine by the pool. And then again in the mail area.”
She ignored the safety issue of plugged-in electronics by the pool. “Who is Raum?”
Af mumbled something unintelligible.
“What?”
Af cleared his throat, which to Kelly sounded like accidentally shifting the Ferrari back into first gear while going ninety miles an hour―something a car-stealing ghoul bounty did in Georgia while she chased him in a 1977 Corolla SR5.
“The angel of death and the prince of evil,” Af murmured.
“I didn’t quite get that. Raum is who again?”
Af flashed her a sheepish expression as he painted one of his claws with the nail polish. “The angel of death and the prince of evil. Also, the destroyer of cities.”
“And at the time, you didn’t think, ‘perhaps I shouldn’t inform the destroyer of cities about the loophole that lets me out of prison for as long as I want?’”
The ferryman ducked in between them like a vaudevillian, fedora in hand. “For as long as he can afford. Very important.”
Kelly batted the hat out of the ferryman’s hand, eyes fixed on Af.
Af painted the rest of his dinosaur-sized claws on one hand.
“Af, I’m in a hurry. Tell me exactly what you said. This was part of what I was hired to do. Even though I already resigned.”
Af considered her over his bison-like shoulder. “You quit the job?”
“I haven’t told Don yet, but that’s what I’ve decided, because I recently suspected who his fugitive was.”
Af planted a giant hand on the marble floor, which cracked all the way to the door.
“And I saw that he misrepresented you.” She paused. “Tell me what you said to the prince of evil.”
“I had some DVDs to return, so I was in the mail area,” Af said, mentally retracing his steps. “I told Raum that I’d made an appointment and couldn’t go to book club with him. Raum is very social; he needs to be around people. He likes company, as long as it’s not human.”
“That’s it?” Kelly exhaled. “Maybe it’s not that bad, then.”
“No, it’s just as bad, because that would have been enough for Raum to figure it out.” Af wrapped a necklace around his tree-sized ankle.
“How?”
“He would have remembered our conversation by the pool, when I mentioned scheduling a dental procedure. He found it outrageous that I, an angel of destruction and prince of wrath, would undergo periodontal treatment. And he would have put the two comments together. Are you sure you’re OK?”
“I’m fine.”
The ferryman snorted and rolled his eyes. While not appearing to move at all, she pushed in the ferryman’s knee from the back and he collapsed to the floor.
“When will you learn?” Af said to the ferryman, and admired the shiny bauble around his ankle in a low mirror. A moment later, he propelled himself up and out.
Kelly and the ferryman left the department store and walked into a snowfall. A delicious one. The ferryman raised his face to the sky and closed his eyes. When the snow fell on his face he tasted it. “Milkshake.”
A heavy milkshake snow coated the streets and awnings. People stopped in their tracks and opened their mouths in ecstatic delight.
“Hard to think of a more effective way to subjugate everyone in Pothole City,” she said. “No one fights or gets anything done because milkshakes are falling from the sky. Diabolical and brilliant.”
The ferryman didn’t respond. He, like everyone else, faced the sky.
Two people rushed out of an advertising agency building, brows furrowed. They opened their mouths and closed their eyes.
“Mark was right, it is milkshake!”
“But the TV and radio ads haven’
t run yet!” the other one said.
“Great. The best promotional idea I’m ever going to have,” the first one said, “and I’m getting fired for it.”
She turned to the ferryman. “No one’s getting subjugated. Not on purpose, anyway. It’s just a promotional stunt. C’mon, milkshake zombie. We’re running the rest of the way.”
hey headed to an intersection where the rusted-out elevated train tracks made a ninety-degree turn. “I can’t reach Murray. I have to go to his place and see if he’s there. Maybe he knows where Tubiel is.” She bounced on the balls of her feet while glancing north, the direction of Murray’s loft. “Decide right now if you’re coming with me.”
The ferryman nodded, eyes wide. Kelly paused outside of a Mexican restaurant as the packed commuter train labored around the curve.
Though it seemed to move in slow motion, the train howled and screeched at a deafening pitch. Dozens of interdimensional monsters pressed up against the doors and side windows, while others clung to the roof and sides of the train.
“Maybe they’re leaving town,” the ferryman said.
Af came out of nowhere and smashed down on the tracks, rendering them impossible for any train to use. He hopped to the ground, crushing newspaper boxes and a solar-powered miniature trash compactor, which she knew cost Pothole City five thousand dollars each.
“Just so you know,” Af said to her, “I’m not actually trying to destroy the city. It’s just hard to observe a safe turning radius when you look like me.”
She chuckled. “If Pothole City gave you a bill for the building window, the bus, the glass rotunda, that marble floor, those newspaper stands, the solar-powered trash cans, and the elevated tracks, you’d have to cash in a lot of bearer bonds.”
The ferryman made a zipping motion across his mouth to indicate that he wouldn’t tell.
“I’ll send a big I.O.U. to the mayor’s office,” Af said. “I’m just trying to protect you.”
“Who me?” the ferryman said.
“Um, no.” Af gave him a look.
“Maybe you could stay in the air? This guy’s expensive enough without the collateral damage.” She jerked her thumb at the ferryman.
“I provide a valuable service!”
She noticed a rhino-sized coyote roaming under the elevated tracks, with scales covering the hump of its back and two huge horns curling out of its brow. It raised its snout and snatched a pigeon that flew out of its roost under the scaffolding, crunched down and swallowed.
“Excuse me for one second.” She held up a finger to the ferryman. “Do not go anywhere.”
She reached into her pocket and took out her vial kit. The coyote took a break from its pigeon snack frenzy to lick itself. A man in olive green pants and shirt stopped in front of her, barring her path.
“Who are you?”
“I’m a wildlife biologist with the Natural Preserve District of Pothole City.”
“Ooh, that’s a good one.” She noted his uniform and accessories.
“Were you about to apprehend this coyote?” the biologist asked.
“Are you serious?” She patted down her pockets. “Oops, forgot my coyote cuffs.”
“Then what’s that in your hand?”
“Cluck Snack Krispy Baked B’nana Bitz for Dogs and Ferrets. Want one?” She popped one in her mouth while holding on to the vial in her other hand.
“Uh, no. Now look, I don’t know what your purpose is with this animal, but if a coyote gets in trouble, he is the property of Pothole City, just like all wildlife except for migratory birds.”
“I know some folks who would take issue with that.” She walked closer to the coyote, which had pigeon legs sticking out of its mouth.
“Removing this coyote requires a permit,” the biologist said, raising his voice. The coyote looked displeased with the legs and spit them out.
“And a forklift.” She wanted him to go away. Pothole City was falling apart and this park bureaucrat was bickering about his jurisdiction over a monster coyote.
She held out her left hand and pointed up with the right, above the biologist’s head. “Look, an ivory-billed woodpecker!”
He whirled around and stared at the sky. It would take at least a minute for the biologist to determine it wasn’t there, considering all the other creatures occupying the airspace. She held out the vial and the coyote funneled into it. By the time the biologist turned back around, the coyote was gone.
“What―where’s the coyote?”
She shrugged. “It heard there were bigger pigeons down the street.”
“Which way did it go?”
She gestured south, and the biologist ran off. A refrigerator-sized water bug hopped off the train, unable to resist a snack. It grabbed the biologist with its forelegs, sank its pointed beak into him, then guzzled up the liquid inside.
Kelly winced. She waited for the right moment then waved at the ferryman to follow. They sprinted across the street, and she took a second to swipe the biologist’s badge.
“This could come in handy.” She frowned at the dead man. “Sorry you didn’t make it.”
hey ducked swooping creatures and falling debris the rest of the way north to Murray’s apartment. Kelly pried open the door, scurried through, and shut it behind them.
“Hi.” A youngish guy watching TV on the sofa raised a hand from a plastic bin of Cluck Snack P’nut Butt’r Chunks (“For Ferrets, Not Dogs”) in a tentative wave.
“Hi?” he said again, as though they knew each other.
The ferryman started forward, but she stopped him with a forearm in the gut. “Oof.”
She took stock of the loft, but everything looked intact, and aside from a general messiness that would have made Murray apoplectic, nothing was out of place or missing, indicating he hadn’t been home.
“And who are you?”
“Uh, that’s kind of hard to explain…”
She crossed her arms. “I’m kind of in a hurry and I’m losing my patience.”
“I’m a friend of Murray’s. In fact, I lived here for years until just recently.” He picked up the snack bin and held it close to him as though for protection.
Only one thing made sense to her, though it didn’t actually make sense at all. “You’re not Stringfellow Hawk, are you?” This apocalypse was getting to her. There was no way that―
“Yes! I am! How did you know?”
He was Murray’s pet that he lost. “You’re the ferret?”
The ferryman held out a hand and frowned. “Wait, whaaat?”
“Wow, that saves me a lot of awkward explaining.” Stringfellow collapsed back on the sofa, smiling.
“How?”
Stringfellow nodded. “It started back at the Conservation Center. Some old comrades of ours. Long story.”
“The Conservation Center?”
“It’s kind of a halfway house between captivity and reintroduction. I spent a few weeks there.” He gazed off into the distance. “I still have nightmares about the robo-badgers.”
Yvonne the cat wound around her ankles and she went to the kitchen to open a can of cat food. “How do you know Murray?” She filled Yvonne’s bowls.
“Murray and I served together as deputies of the four o’clock a.m. hour. It was a tough schedule to maintain; it takes its toll on anyone, even angels. So when Murray got promoted to protector of bankers and traders, I switched over to protector of small animals: ferrets, hamsters, hedgehogs, things like that. I even had employees, if you can believe that.”
The ferryman snuck into the kitchen behind her and looked in the cabinets. He selected a can of Cluck Snack Ravioleee (“Not for Ferrets or Cats”) and opened it by the tab.
“But our supervisor was a vindictive jerk who took Murray’s transfer as a personal affront,” Stringfellow said. “He took it out on me and made some modifications to my paperwork that turned me into one of the animals I was supposed to be protecting. But I was lucky―real lucky―that Murray found out. He took me in and ev
en got me all these ferret toys and snacks.”
Stringfellow gestured to the cabinets that held the snacks, and at the tents and things around the sofa.
“Your supervisor,” Kelly said in a dry tone. “He wouldn’t happen to be a duplicitous agoraphobe named Don, would he?”
“Yeah, how did you know?” Stringfellow said.
“Lucky guess. By the way, that Ravioleee isn’t for ferrets or cats.”
“Oh,” Stringfellow said.
The ferryman froze, fork at mouth. “Is it approved for ferrymen?”
She made an exasperated noise. “Does it say it’s not for ferrymen? Then yes.” She turned back to Stringfellow. “How did you turn back to this form?”
“My only guess is that Murray fixed it, even though I haven’t seen him lately,” Stringfellow said. He took the Ravioleee from the ferryman and tossed it in the tras, but the ferryman swooped in and caught it before it got there. “I guess he reversed whatever that jerk-off supervisor did. I should find another job now, though.”
The ferryman shook some Cluck Snack P’nut Butt’r Chunks (“For Ferrets, Not Dogs”) onto the Ravioleee and dug in with a fork.
Kelly went back into the center of the apartment. The ferryman followed her, then wandered around, stopping at the record cabinet.
“You haven’t even spoken to him lately?”
Stringfellow shook his head. “I’ve been here like this”―he gestured at his body―“since last night. His voice mailbox is full.”
“Yeah, I know.” She opened the front door. “Well, good luck, and thanks for showing me the pellet.” She hesitated. “Why did you show me the pellet, if Murray’s been so good to you?”
Stringfellow ate another handful of P’nut Butt’r Chunks, chewed them for a while, and cleared his throat. “I saw some things around the apartment.” He swung out his arm. “Things that made it clear Murray was not on your side. I just thought you should know, and the pellet was the best method I could find for getting the message across. Also, I’m no fan of Don’s.”
The ferryman rifled through the cabinet of record albums, perplexed. “What the―? They’re all the same!”
