by Mav Skye
Geronimo knelt beside Ernie. He took the knife from the younger Indian and brought it to Ernie’s forehead.
“What are you doing?” cried Ernie. “No, no, please don’t!” He tried to move his arms. His gun must be near by! But the Indian on his chest held him pinned to the earth.
When the sharp point pierced his skin, Ernie screamed! Were they going to scalp him now?
He felt the tip move across his forehead in long lines and curves. Pained frayed his nerves. Ernie cried out. And then it was over before it had started. Ernie realized that they weren’t going to scalp him after all. The chief stood and handed the knife back to the young Indian.
The medicine man rose and spoke to the chief.
The chief nodded and spoke a single word back, then snapped an order at the Indian sitting on Ernie’s chest.
As soon as the young Indian moved, Ernie was up on his feet, scraping his pistol off the ground and pointing it at the Indians. “What have you done to me?” He touched his bloody forehead and traced the cuts the chief had made. “What is this?”
Ernie was suddenly aware that the pain in his shoulder was gone. Like magic.
The chief glanced him over, waved towards the moon and finally said a word Ernie understood.
“Lobos.”
Ernie glanced over at the head of the creature in the medicine man’s hand. “Lobos?”
The chief nodded. Then he put his finger beside his nose.
Ernie said, “Be watchful.”
Geronimo nodded as if he knew what Ernie said, then he pointed at the moon.
Ernie said, “Of the moon.”
The chief nodded again, and then poked Ernie in the chest.
Ernie raised his eyebrows. “Of myself?”
The chief said, “Lobos.”
The dots connected and Ernie’s jaw dropped. He touched his bandaged shoulder. The bite had infected him the same way it had infected Gregory James. Whether the banker had been bitten before hand, and had wanted to escape before he hurt anyone (along with the bank’s money) or had decided to ditch Big Charlene, steal the money to start over again somewhere else, then gotten bitten on his journey… Ernie would never know, but he was sure that Gregory James had been infected.
And now so was he.
He dropped his gun on the ground and watched the Indians helplessly. “Am I going to turn into one of those things? I can’t. I can’t because I need to get to my daughter, you see.”
The chief spoke and motioned at the medicine man, and the man handed him the pouch he had poured the silver dust from.
The chief held it out to Ernie.
Ernie stepped up and took the pouch. Geronimo once more pointed at the moon, then tapped the side of his nose. Ernie understood that if he were to show signs of Lobos on the next full moon, he was to use the powder. How? He wasn’t quite sure.
The Indian chief turned and walked away, the other two men followed.
Ernie said, “Geronimo?”
The Indian paused, turned, surprise in his eyes.
Ernie said, “Thank you. For saving my life.”
The chief once more seemed to understand him. He nodded once at Ernie, turned and resumed leading his men into the shadows of the night.
Ernie bent and picked up his gun, then slid it into its holster. He felt a deep tremble in his belly, it warmed his insides and gripped his heart. If he could speak to his wife now, he would say he finally understood what it meant to brave the darkness for a cause. Ernie touched his bandaged shoulder and, despite the infection that his body held, the possibility of the beast he could become, Ernie felt renewed in strength and energy. He would find his daughter, come hell or high water. He knew that whatever danger she faced, they would be able to overcome. Together.
Ernie refilled his canteen, kicked out the fire, pulled the pack onto his shoulders, along with the heavy satchel of money.
He took out his compass and turned until the needle pointed South. He paused, feeling the carving on his forehead. He already knew what the word was, Lobos.
Ernie knew at that very moment that he’d never return to Silver City. He packed the compass away and began to walk into the night. He didn’t know how long he had before the infection would overtake him, but as long as he had breath in his body and sanity still reigned in his mind, he’d take the money, help his Lottie find the Daughters of the Revolution and support her wild spirit that so desperately fought for freedom, not just for herself, but for the country she loved so much.
The Wait
by Jason Michel
Cold.
I felt the cold and early morning dew on me.
On my face, my lank hair, my back, my shriveled old arse.
I remember my first thought–Where am I?–that brought a sudden flash of panicking electricity through my limbs and up my arched back. My head was resting uncomfortably against something hard. Granite. Then I realised–Oh … The graveyard–and I pulled my head up to find that my curled up position had left a crick in my neck. I rubbed the back of my head, twisting it until a click wracked my tired brain like a slamming door. I closed my eyes then opened them again.
The moon was still shining through the clouds, her fine silvery glimmer giving form to the shadows. The hard, solid shadow that I had been leaning against was Lucy’s gravestone. I had come to her final resting place again. Keeping her company. The worms below my feet wriggled and writhed. I could hear plants slowly forcing their way into coffins. Bacteria changing flesh to gas. They have all the time in the world. The moonlight on the hills signalled their accord softly.
Using gravity and leverage, I pushed myself into an upright squatting position. Face-to-face with the words in front of me – Lucille Pierce Appleby. 1970 – 2007. Loving Wife. Child of Nature. Safe Now in Odin’s Arms.
Memories flashed behind my eyes. Teeth gnawing through meat and bone. Hot blood splashing over my face, in my eyes. My tongue lapping at screams.
The granite stone still seemed new, despite being three years old. Erosion had been held at bay by will, the dedication of a man who could never forget her. A man who waits for the time when they shall be reunited. Me. I could hear her always. She sang and laughed to me in my quiet moments. I cooed loving and private things to her. Things that I shall not tell you.
Claws scratching and tearing in frenzy. A throat opens blossoming liquid. Cries become guttural.
My hands balled into fists that bring forgiving pain as I once more remember that night and that policeman. Seeing that cunting pig shoot Lucy brings a retching wave of anger still, though I know now that it is over. He had put two and two together and used his mediocre intelligence to figure it all out. Clever little piggy. Doing puzzles. Read the family history in the library. Learned the local legends. Saw that we Applebys had come over the sea a long time ago. That we had maraudered our way through the country. Shifted our shapes with the bloodlust. Then finally we had settled here. In this brown valley. In this desolate part of the island. The local people avoided our gaze and facts became legend. If a cow went missing once in a while, or a hiker, nothing was spoken of louder than a whisper. They knew better than to break the silent peace. Then the policeman came. An educated man. A city dweller. A missing French tourist had been reported. Things had begun to became tense. The atmosphere around us clogged with the miasma brought by the copper. Not since Christianity had tried to tame these islands had such a distrust prevailed. Whispers became shouts.
The policeman had cooked himself up some silver bullets melted from the church candlesticks.
He had waited for the full moon and hid himself in the woods. He then followed us on our Wild Hunt as we ushered our victim from the village. He waited until we had slaughtered the child of humanity. Lucy and me. The sacrifice was a sign to the villagers to keep their pact. The night was gloriously bright and a chill blew at our fur as we fucked and screeched amongst the blood and tender guts one last time before death took her. It came with a bang and a flash and she fell.
There is a theory that stones can retain echoes of what happens close to them. Echoes of scenes of violence, of joy or pain. Like photographic paper. A memory, if you will. Under certain magnetic forces, these echoes are released from their prison. People see ghosts. Feel shivers down their spines. Someone walks over your grave.
I knew Lucy heard what I brought for her last night because she tells me so. She heard that pious fucking copper beg and grunt and howl and bellow. Then silence. Silence is the relief. It is done. Remembered forever in stone.
It was my turn to whisper now. I crouched down and lay on the once tilled earth. Placing my hands on the grass and turning my face I began to speak.
I told her how I had found his house in London. How I had seen his wife and children through their windows. How happy they seemed as a family. How the moon did not shine on me when I gutted them like lambs in front of him with a kitchen knife, as the sky is orange and not black. How I drugged him and drove like Odin rushing into battle and was heralded by two ravens. How I parked in the centre of the village where I roped him up good and screamed for any man to stop me. How none did. How I went berserk. How I dragged him by my fangs through the fields that sent a wind to give me speed and where I saw a fox who nodded and licked his paws and through the woods where the trees parted to let me pass and how they bowed when I did.
To here, I told her, this place. Where I tore his limbs from him and gouged out his eyes and ate his heart. The taste of blood filled with the iron of a rich diet is still on my smiling lips. Lucy’s lips are smiling, too, on this cold and pure morning.
My wait is over.
It is done.
Afterword
Jason Michel has been a good writing buddy of mine for quite some time now. I met him before the chaotic mass of living, breathing ENERGY that Pulp Metal Magazine has become. His outland-ish imagination, playful voice, and easy narration style intrigued me. I immediately bought all the books of his I could find (most of them are out of print now.) Reading through Confessions of a Black Dog, I realized how intelligently he organized his stories, the depths of conscious and unconscious blur, along with the mix of religion, philosophy and mythology, the light and dark. His stories aren’t ones you can read just once, but again and again, just to catch the full meaning as a whole.
I have to admit that out of all the weird, the noir, and the gothic short fiction he has written, my favorite has been his werewolf stories. There are many more than the ones you see here, but these
both show off the flexibility and command of his voice and his untamed imagination. Be sure to check out his novella And the Street Screamed Blue Murder for an extra tasty dip into the dark world of journalist, Alfie Lime, where he stumbles upon an impossible street, where impossible things happen.
Turn the page for an excerpt of his upcoming noir novella, The Death of Three Colors. You will meet his dear Santa Muerte in all her glorious shades of death, and if one could be so lucky, perhaps she’ll greet you late one eve when the lights are down low…
~Mav
10/26/15
The Death of Three Colours
Excerpt of Jason Michel’s upcoming novella
Prologue:
It was the end of winter...
The hazy skull grins at me as shooting pain wracks my body again. My face is slashed to shreds and my body is punctured with bloody wounds. A fetid waft from The Blessed Angel of Death brings me a little comfort. Her song beckons me to follow. She looks down upon my sorry corpse-to-be and the madman grips the hammer tightly above his head.
The madman's moment of glory has not gone at all according to his oh-so-clever plan. He blames me. I think he could have a point. The noises issuing from his mouth have turned to primal monosyllabic grunts as he hurtles me towards my extinction.
I would mock him with fully grown insults, but I have no tongue.
It will be mere moments before the hammer hits us. I say "us," as the whinging sap trapped inside me is cooing a prayer to Our Lady of Annihilation.
The madman flies towards me with murder on his mind and I feel the weight of my crucifix on my chest. I guess its protection—if it ever truly had any—has worn off. I am no longer invisible to the eyes of those who would seek to do me harm. Little wonder, after the acts I have committed.
I find myself convulse with one last burst of anger.
A gnashing of teeth.
A straining of muscles bound to a chair.
And then... I relax as I know that I am going to die.
* * *
PART ONE
La Blanca
Oh Skinny Girl, protect me until the day, hour, minute I feel your bony embrace.
The song faded into a thousand stars behind my eyes until it became a faint ringing hidden behind the sounds of street life. The lightness of night dreaming perished, replaced by dawn’s gravitas of matter and discomfort.
The morning tasted of battery acid. That dear old vomit back-of-the-throat sense that momentarily hit the gag reflex and sent the brain spinning down the corridor of the high security prison inside. All those inmates tearing at bars on the windows, and the maddest ejaculating onto taut rubber walls. All those insecurities and characters that made me, well, me. All clamouring for attention.
My eyes opened slowly, painfully, as a harsh smear of winter morning sunlight poked through the blinds and slashed across my retinas like the razor blade in that Buñuel flick. I squinted and cursed the bastard burning nuclear orb, reaching over to cover my eyes from the luminescent assault. Then, hearing my hex, the sun was gone for the day, only to be replaced by inky clouds so heavy they threatened to crash into the grey offices opposite. I often wondered how many potential suicides lay hidden, curled up inside that building.
Outside my window, the Benway Road traffic was deep into the lunchtime rush. Cars polluted with noise and fumes, while cafés served heart attacks and a desperate nod and a wink for free. An alarm was going off somewhere. I heard the soft scratching of Vlad The Bastard at my door. It must have been way past time to feed him, but he had not started screeching yet. He knew it was best for both of us not to mess with me after I had been drinking. I still bore the scars on my forearm from our last fight. The hair on his bald patch was beginning to grow back. I loved that feral cat.
My shoulder felt cold and so I tugged at the sheet and blanket covering my naked foetal positioned body hearing the gentle thud of last night’s empty wine bottle bowled over. I stretched my legs down to the bottom of the bed and knew that the warm body I had shared the previous early morning had already left. I could not blame her.
What was her name? Sally? Sarah? Sheena?
It had begun with an S.
Wild auburn hair, soft green wandering Irish eyes, the flawed symmetry of her heart-shaped face, the dips and curves of womanhood. Knew her way around a stalk, like a loving pro. Shame she had gone walkabout, as that late morning I had an aching morning salute-the-flagpole erection that was hard enough to crack planks of wood. At my age, that was at least one thing to be thankful for. Small hard aching mercies.
Dragging myself up onto the pillow, images flooded into my mind’s eye of the previous night’s fiesta. The deluge splashed away the bawl of voices rattling around my skull, leaving room for flashes of dancing at a restaurant with a jealous old rich man’s pickup for the night. Onwards to an associate’s apartment just off Duke Street, reclining, observing humanity arguing about the merits of music because that was what Tarantino had told them they should do when snorting Bolivian marching powder. Back home, sniffing from dripping nasal passages with the copper haired S, flirting life away into a bottle, feeling her head between my legs, then mine between hers.
My limbs weakened as I thought of Ollie and felt that tight sensation of dread fill my guts. The night before, he had been filled with the bravado of false youthful arrogance and a mouthful of Rock ‘n Roll heroism. Bantering and throwing out angry righteous clichés to those who would listen. A youn
g and handsome peasant reeling and caught in the tempest of a failed relationship. I recognised the unfortunate sense that he would soon die and my intuition was always spot on. Not a thing to be proud of. A trip of self destruction without the self-wisdom that accompanied it. A body-still-standing on tiny plastic bags of powder and draining every bottle dry. The cowardice of a life that substituted football friends, sing-a-longs, barmaids and internet porn for any real connection, as that was another risk. And risk meant the perilous possibility of a searing failure in a life where we were all supposed to be a winner.
Modern man was this fragile little eggshell ego, crying and stamping their feet at every obstacle; overcoming the force of original thought with conformity, apathy and irony (all together in perfect harmony).
And you know what the real kick-in-the-balls irony was?
I damn well knew that there was not a cunting thing I could do about it. I had seen it happen before. Hell, at times, I had lived it. That rejection of all advice and help as the debt builds up and the constricting noose of patterns of behaviour tighten around the windpipe. The do-gooding idea of interventions was scorned by those compelled to sail that river. A life ending face down in a puddle in a Bangkok night club’s toilet had taught me what I needed to know. Many have struggled there on the edge of that cliff. Some crawl back by their fingernails. Others do not. They fall into the dark waters, never to swim back to shore. All for a dream sold to us by the posters of beautiful cadavers.
* * *
I blinked hard. Explosions flash-bulbed behind my eyelids, as a sudden gale smashed into the window, rattling the panes along with my neural connections. I instinctively brought my hand up to my neck in search of the comfort that usual lay there. I grasped nothing but skin and chest hair.
