TRANSIT by Michael W. Clark
The boatman acted as nonchalant as a creepy bastard could. Milson wanted to kill him right then but a dead man couldn’t take him across. Dead men were never nonchalant or smug, that’s what Milson liked about dead men, their lack of commitment and that they were mostly quiet!
This boatman had a noisy nonchalance. Quiet and genuine was better. Quiet anything was better in Milson’s view. Life was noisy, noisy and rude. The dead were never, intentionally, rude. “I should kill him.” Milson turned to Bullet. The boatman became quiet. It wasn’t the goal of Milson’s comment just a coincidental benefit.
Bullet never paid much attention to anything, especially what Milson said. “Was that a question?” Was Bullet’s stock comment to most any sound coming from Milson or anyone else? Betel quids were the only thing Bullet paid any attention to. They made him feel better and gave him red colored spit and teeth. It scared away the kids, the spit and the teeth, not his mood. Getting Betel quids was more and more difficult out here. Bullet spent most of his cash on acquiring them. He once sold a kid for parts to buy Betel quids. Kids thus had a few uses.
“Should I kill him?” Milson whispered less.
“If it means I don’t have to pay, yes.” Bullet let some red spit drip from the corner of his mouth.
“Oh, oh, it’s mid-week. Oh, oh!” The boatman was no longer nonchalant but quite nervous. “It means, rides are free. Guild rules not mine.” The boatman laughed himself to quiet, the best state for all concerned.
Bullet was then satisfied and went back to not paying attention. And since, nosy nonchalant had been replaced with quiet, Milson was pleased.
The boatman was very careful in docking. There was barely a bump or sound. Bullet jumped off first. Milson handed the boatman the fare. “I hate Guilds. Keep all of it.” Milson slapped it into the boatman’s hand.
The boatman’s rate of breathing was all that changed. Milson stepped off the boat very carefully. The dock was firm while the boat rocked. It brought to Milson’s mind, how different he was from Bullet. Bullet was never nonchalant because he didn’t care. Milson was never nonchalant because he did care. Same result from different directions, just like the dock and the boat. They supported you for different reasons. Milson didn’t look back down the dock as he walked away. If he had, he might have gone back and killed the boatman. Milson did hate the Guilds.
Bullet moved fast. He never waited. Milson though saw him up ahead on the path. It wasn’t very wide even for a dirt road. The trees enclosed the path. Three men came out from the trees. Milson just watched continuing his normal pace. The three men blocked Bullet’s way. Bullet attempted to pass on the right but failed. He attempted it to the left and failed. The men were laughing with contempt. No one had touched Bullet yet. Milson knew it was coming though. He was certain Bullet knew it too.
Milson was catching up to Bullet because he had stopped moving forward. Milson pulled out his blade to prepare. The Handle was said to be made out of a black hole star. Milson didn’t believe it but the Handle was indestructible in his experience. It had never chipped or showed any signs of wear. It had to be indestructible though because of the blade. It wasn’t actually a blade though but a filament, the diamond wire, he called it. He didn’t know what it was but it easily cut through anything he had ever tried it on. It was pulled up into the Handle for the safety of anyone around it. He flipped the Handle once just to verify the filament would extent. It did with a crack. It seemed to cut air molecules too.
One of the men reached out at Bullet. Bullet dodged the grab. Milson was close enough. “Down.” Milson said and Bullet dropped to the dirt like a stone. The filament could extend quite a distance. Milson caught the first man mid-temple. The top of the man’s skull slid right off before the body fell. The man in the middle was much taller so his entire head was removed. It had a surprise expression on its face as it came off the body. The third man was very short. Just the very top of his skull was removed. He screamed in pain. Milson retracted the filament immediately before it hit Bullet. Bullet killed the short man without standing up. He too had respect for the filament.
Milson scanned the area. If anyone had seen the filament they had to die. “No further action required.” Milson turned to Bullet. “Three good scalps.” Milson poured out the remains of the brain in the half skull. He used his finger tips to hold it upright. “Thinning hair, but scalp includes the skin.” Milson pulled out his obsidian knife to remove the scalp from the head. Its hair was long and in a ponytail. It was easy to retrieve.
Bullet handed the top of the third man’s skull to Milson. “This is yours. I keep this.” Bullet held up a bag of coins. “They wanted a fee to pass.”
Milson nodded. “Clearly, a mistake.” He peeled the scalps off the partial skulls right there in the path. Put the scalps in the dirt, bloody flesh side up, and peed on them in a very controlled manner. He finished emptying his bladder on the three men’s bodies.
“I just wanted to pass. I didn’t ask them for cash not to kill them.” Bullet looked into the bag.
“Maybe we should next time.” Milson tipped the pee out of the scalps and then rubbed the fleshy pee side in the dry dirt. “Neah, can get more for the scalps.”
“Can get much Betel quids with this.”
“They said this was a good way to come through.” Milson knotted the hair so he could loop a thong through it to carry the scalps on his belt.
“Advice usually is a trap.” Bullet kept looking in the bag counting in his head all the Betel quids his was to buy. His excessive red drool leaked onto the dirt making a bloody looking mud pool beside actual blood pools.
Milson stood up. “Yes, it is. It still might be.”
“Getting there faster is my intent.” Bullet hooked the bag in his belt.
Milson nodded. “Faster with attention.” Milson started walking.
Bullet followed only for a moment. He didn’t walk behind Milson because of the farts. Milson’s farts were bad. Milson understood.
Bullet jogged with the thoughts of bags of Betel quids instead of coin. People liking coin over all else were simply odd to Bullet. “Money is a way to get stuff.” Was his father’s explanation of coin. His father though would ‘just get stuff’ without the middleman, meaning coin. Just getting stuff, particularly, other people’s stuff, had got his father killed. Bullet learned from the incident that exchange was better than take, better meaning less chance of getting killed. Bullet was ok with exchanging coin for quids. They just needed to find a guy with quids.
Milson jogged beside Bullet silently. They both preferred it. Milson had to find a guy to exchange the scalps. He knew Bullet wanted quids. They were on the main path through the island. The guy with stuff would be somewhere along this way. Milson had been told this information but he didn’t need to be told, it was pretty obvious to anyone who had made it past being a kid. Milson had gone island to island. From one wall to the other and back. It was how he found the Handle. There was use in moving around. Supposedly, there were still islands he hadn’t been on, like this one. A new island, new stuff but still guys were guys. Guys were the same old stuff. Better to keep on the move. So Milson only had enough stuff that he could easily carry. No reason for more.
“He pisses sitting down.” Milson said when he turned the corner and saw the guy Bullet was talking with. “This was the guy with stuff.” Milson knew Bullet well enough to know he thought the same thing. Bullet thus stood three arms lengths away from the guy. But he was the guy they were looking for. The guy with cash and a whole lot of stuff. Such men were thus both useful and dangerous. Milson would stay back five arm lengths.
“My men?” The guy pointed back the way they had come.
Bullet grunted. “Have coin. You have Quid?”
Milson held up his scalp belt. “Have items to trade.”
The guy stared at the scalps. He then looked at the bag of coins Bullet held out. “Oh, my men, well, former men.”
> “You own men?” Bullet frowned. Slavers were the worst. Bullet got his name from a slaver. The slaver died soon after the naming.
The guy laughed. “No need to buy what you can rent. If you buy, you feed. No need to feed. I say that I do.” He laughed again pointing at the coin and scalps. “Not my men then, my rentals. Which are no longer on the market. Oh, oh, well, I guess they still are, but in a different way. Ho, ho.”
Bullet frowned more. “You have quids?”
“I do. Quids I do have.” The guy nodded stepping backwards.
“I have coin.” Bullet rattled the bag. Milson was ready but silent. He was listening for the trap. In Milson’s experience, traps always made some sound, a different sound than the usual sounds. Milson always listened at these times. It was better to listen than talk.
“Well, actually, my smelly son, those are my coins you have, taken from my former rentals. Ho.ho.”
“I have now.” Bullet griped the bag tighter but didn’t pull it back.
“Yes and I have Betel Quids. We can deal though, we can deal.” The guy stepped back more.
Bullet didn’t step forward, neither did Milson. Milson just listened. Bullet drooled.
“You fellas are good enough to be rented.” The guy reached over behind a large tree. Bullet and Milson didn’t move because they were already ready. “You two took out three. You can be my new passage protectors. The fee is a single coin, a zinc one. Five lead ones. Copper is six.” The guy had pulled coins out of the tree. He held an example of each coin in the palm of his right hand. They were all small. Bullet and Milson didn’t need examples, they knew what coin was what. “You collect ‘em and bring them to me and I will give you whatever you need, food, and place to stay, ah, Quids.”
Bullet shook the bag. “Buy Quids, try quid.”
The guy closed his palm into a fist. “Samples still cost.”
Bullet shook the bag again. “Buy Quids, try quid.”
The guy looked at Milson. “He the talker of the crew?”
Milson tilted his head up quickly as an affirmative.
The guy scanned the pair back and forth. “Hard bargainers are ya? Ho, ho, ho. Ok. Gotta go get a sample.” He pointed up an opening in the trees. “Don’t keep betel here.” He backed up the opening. Bullet and Milson remained where they were listening strongly.
The scent in the pathway went from fresh greens to decay as the wind blew from behind them. Both smells were familiar to Milson and Bullet so they didn’t notice the change. It smelled like the water when the wind changed direction. They didn’t notice this either. They both heard his footfalls though. As the guy came back, he looked surprised. “So you are both still here.”
“Want Quids.” Bullet held the bag out with one hand and had the other palm open for a quid.
“Ha! Neither went for the coin in the tree?” The guy laughed.
“No coin there only trap.” Milson was still standing where he stood when the guy left. It was a good position, no reason to leave it. “You palmed coin.”
Bullet nodded. “Want quids, not trap.”
“It was a test, not much a trap.” The guy put a quid in Bullet’s palm. “On the house since you passed the test.”
“Failing it, you die. I know.” Milson watched the guy. “Not much learning in dying.”
“Ha! Learning is for the living you saying?” The guy watched Milson. Quid heads were seldom unpredictable. They either drooled more or less but it was still red. The guy offered a Betel quid to Milson. “Free too for passing the exam.”
Milson shook his head. “His desire, not mine.”
“You make a good team. I could use that. I need to have you both.”
“Need those who keep from getting dead.” Milson clarified the comment with a touch of his Handle.
The guy had already seen the Handle on Milson’s belt. The guy had only seen one other in his life. “How true. How true. It is a problem for us needing assistance.” The guy smiled more oddly than he had so far. “You fellas wiped out my men with no damage to yourselves. A big plus for you.”
Bullet spat a big wad of orange on the path. “No tobacco!”
“None on this pad of shit island. Quid got betel and whatever fruit is in season.” The guy still looked at the Handle.
Bullet spat again. “Fruit bat shit!” He reached in his mouth with his index finger and fished out some remains. He spat again.
“Traditional Quid. Don’t like local cuisine? No very courteous. Tolerance of local customs is a virtue.” The guy looked over to his left.
“Want quids, not virtue.” Bullet spat twice more and put the bag of coins in his coat.
Milson glanced over to where the guy’s eyes wandered. “We have all the virtue we need.”
“Which is none.” The guy looked at Bullet’s coat.
Milson nodded taking hold of the Handle. “That is all we need.” He heard a creaking, so he flipped the wire straight out over the guy’s left shoulder. It cut through the thin bark wall around the opening the guy had come and gone in. There was a scream and an arrow followed back through the opening. It struck Milson in the leg only because Milson moved fast enough that it didn’t hit him in the belly. Milson flicked the wire to the side. More screams and another arrow which hit the dirt.
The lateral moving wire, though took off the top of the guy’s skull. The guy grunted and his knees buckled. He was on his knees for a moment before he fell forward.
“Guess he needs one a your scalps now more than coin.” Bullet smiled awkwardly. It was an action he wasn’t used to doing. “Ha!”
Milson fell to ground right next to the guy. He looked at the arrow in his leg. He looked at the arrow on the path. They appeared to be the same type, being short with barbs on the sharp tip. Milson sighed.
“Have to push it through. I then make my own pain.”
Bullet scanned the opening from his position flat on the ground. He was avoiding arrows and the wire.
Milson rolled over on his stomach. He positioned the feather end of the arrow on a hard section of the path and the pushed his leg down. He wanted to scream, but he was too exposed to generate more attention. He took the pain in to be used at a later date. He reached behind his leg to take the blood shaft of the arrow and pull it the rest of the way out of his leg. He had the odd thought that the feathers might tickle. They didn’t.
Milson took the scalp loop thong with scalps still attached and wrapped it around his leg covering the punctures. The scalps didn’t tickle either. Milson didn’t make any sound because Bullet was listening. There should be more coming. But none did. Milson reached over for the top of the guy’s skull. It wasn’t much of a scalp, it had very little hair on it. Hardly worth the effort to remove it from the bone.
“They should have come by now.” Bullet crawled backwards in the dirt.
Milson attempted to move in the same direction as Bullet. “Maybe there wasn’t as many as we thought.”
“Maybe? Still.” Bullet listened. There was nothing.
Milson felt numbness if that is possible, traveling out from the wound. “Maybe it’s something else.” Milson was getting weak. “Poison tip.”
Bullet nodded. “Poison quid.”
Milson always hated poison. Poison and venom. They seemed unreasonable in some way, lacking an opportunity for a fight. Milson struggled to pull himself toward Bullet. Bullet remained flat in the dirt listening. Milson felt cold as well as numb. He farted loud and long. And a giggle was heard on the other side of the opening. Bullet located the position of the sound and pointed. Bullet waited for the wire to strike. It didn’t.
Bullet looked over at Milson. He was pale and lifeless. Bullet looked back at the giggle position. He slowly crawled over to Milson, reached down to get the Handle. He heard footfalls, so Bullet turned over and released the wire across the thin wall. The wire cut down everything in its path. Trees and necks and torsos. Bullet didn’t look at the mess. He just listened for quiet. When it came, Bullet crawle
d backwards then stood up and rapidly moved toward the smell of water. Bullet had the Handle still in his hand.
THE END
SPARKLE SHIP SHINE by Hall & Beaulieu
“Thank you for calling Sparkle Ship Shine, where we love to make your ship sparkle and shine,” I said, just like I have a million times before. “My name is Sadie, how can I help you?”
It was the worst. Everyone I know was out having fun and there I was stuck at work, making like 30u for a whole day's worth of cleaning luxury liners. Lazy, rich people's luxury liners. I wasn't even supposed to be working. Jonas, my wonderful manager, is getting married next week and unexpectedly decided that this was the perfect night for him to go spend some quality time at the Buzellian “Gentlemen's” Club. Worst name ever. The last person walking through the door of a place like that would be a gentleman. Slime-ball. At least it pulled his attention away from me for the night—the way he looks at me gives me the creeps—but it also left me working all alone.
The guy on the other end of the phone was still talking but I was barely listening.
“Uh huh,” I answered in the least committal way I knew how. He was going on and on about how we 'didn't totally satisfy his expectations of cleanliness' or some garb like that. Who knows?
“Okay, sir,” I said. “You could, like, I don't know, come back in?”
He really didn't like that suggestion.
“Well, it won't be free. You already left the store.”
He liked that even less.
“Our policy clearly states that if you have a complaint it must be lodged before like, flying away or whatever.”
And then he was yelling again. I hated this. What did I care if the port side storage room didn't live up to his definition of sparkle? It was clear he wasn't going to stop yelling, so I hung up the phone. Jonas wasn't going to be happy, but whatever, I was covering for him. He was off leering at dancers and sucking down overpriced alcohol and I was getting yelled at. Jonas would just have to get over it. It was getting late and I still had a ton of work to do before I could leave. The phone started ringing again but I ignored it. I knew who it was. If he was mad before, I'm sure he was furious now. I already told him that I couldn't really help him, so why waste my breath talking to him again?
9 Tales Told in the Dark 19 Page 5
