Treasure Chest

by Adam Bennett

  “Just about.” Tel stretched his legs out and started rubbing his limbs. Cathis did the same, aching in every muscle, all the way to her fingertips. They came painfully to their feet and began walking slowly away from the cliff. The nearest village was an hour’s walk away; they’d be lucky to make it in two, presuming it had even survived the Confluence.

  How did we survive it? Cathis tried to remember, but it was almost as though she was hearing or reading another person’s account, so unreal and insane were the events that had taken place.

  “I did it for you, you know.” Tel was looking over at her.

  “Did what?”

  “Learned that fire ritual, came here to meet the Confluence, all of it. I knew what you would try to do, but I was afraid—terrified—that you wouldn’t live through it. I thought I could watch your back and keep you safe while you carried out your plan.”

  “You could have told me,” she said before she could stop herself. The irony that she was making that specific complaint to him was galling. She expected Tel to say that she’d never given him the chance to explain, or refer to their last fight, but he stayed silent. He didn’t even smile.

  He knows. Cathis didn’t like to admit it, but Tel knew her just as well as she knew him, and he must have realised what she was doing when the Confluence was at its height. He hadn’t reproached her then, and he didn’t now. He understands.

  They walked on in silence.

  The people of the village were at work repairing their homes when they arrived. There was not as much damage as Cathis would have expected; it seemed that between them, she and Tel had reduced the Confluence to no more than a regular typhoon. Their tattoos marked them as mages, so the villagers were glad to give them hot food, fresh clothes, and a place to rest. It was doubtful they realised how bad the storm would have been, but they knew enough to understand they’d gotten off lightly, likely due to the mages’ intervention.

  Food and warmth overwhelmed them, and they went to bed directly, taking different rooms. Cathis had almost wanted to ask Tel to share, and had paused to see if he would ask first, but after a moment in which neither of them quite knew what to say, they went their separate ways. It was probably for the best, Cathis decided. She still needed time before she was ready to talk things out.

  They slept late and arose to another welcome meal, which they ate together. Tel seemed expectant, but that was his way; he never liked to let things rest, always seeking clarification and resolution, often to the point of making things worse.

  “It’s not… I’m not there yet, Tel,” she told him, when she sensed he couldn’t hold his words in much longer. “It’s not that I don’t want to talk, and I’m not making you wait to punish you, it’s just… I’m not ready.” Her eyes met his. “But it won’t be long, and when I am, I’ll let you know.”

  Tel nodded, his expression alternating between a genuine smile of pleasure and a false one to cover his disappointment. “I’ll wait,” he said.

  Cathis would have liked nothing more than to stay in the village for another day or two to recover, but she needed space, so she made plans to leave at once. Tel, once again guessing what was in her mind, said he’d remain behind. Cathis was grateful; they’d have been following the same road for some miles, and the mood between them was already awkward.

  The sun was out when Cathis left, as it often was after a typhoon had blown through. She parted from Tel at the door of the house they’d been loaned.

  “I’ll be in touch in a few days,” she said, and at that Tel did give a real smile.

  “Take your time,” he said, and she knew he meant it. Then his old charming grin returned, smoothing away the years so that he looked once more like the young man she’d fallen for. “After all,” he added, “it’ll be a while before the next Confluence. We’ll have plenty of time to plan.”

  Cathis returned his smile, then reached up to touch his cheek.

  “Next time together,” she said.

  The Confluence was first published in WITCHES VS WIZARDS: A Fantasy Anthology along with 17 other fantastic stories. You can find it on Amazon in ebook or paperback.

  Associate Boogeyman

  Brandon Scott

  Jack Holiday was approaching the junction where route 226 met I-40; the only major interstate system that cut through the county. The speed limit on Highway 226 was fifty-five, but Jack Holiday was in no hurry and kept the midnight blue Buick Regal at a steady forty miles an hour. With all four windows down, he was drinking in the tranquillity which only a night drive could deliver.

  While making the turn for the I-40 on-ramp, he saw a hitchhiker standing idly by. From what Jack could tell, the hitchhiker was a lady in her late twenties to early thirties. She was wearing a loosely buttoned flannel top and jean shorts cut high enough to see the pocket’s peeking from under the fabric.

  Jack slowed to a stop and motioned for her to jump in.

  “Where ya headed little lady?” Jack said in his deep fried Cajun accent.

  “Absolutely nowhere,” she said as she leaned into the passenger window. Her eyes were no longer fixed on Jack, but rather past him.

  Jack felt the cool, firm barrel of a gun being pressed against the base of his skull.

  “Listen pal,” it was the voice of a man; an older man from the gruff tone, “we ain’t here to do anything stupid, but what will we do to ya? Well that is entirely up to you,” he pressed the barrel harder against Jack’s head. “Do you understand, boy?”

  “Well I suppose I do,” Jack replied. He maintained eye contact with the woman.

  The matter of fact tone Jack had taken made the man uneasy.

  “You smarting off, son?” he said. “Cuz I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Yeah,” the woman piped up, “you could ask the last smart guy what happened, but you’d have to find his brains first.” She finished with shrieked maniacal laughter.

  “Hey cool your tits over there or you’ll scare our new friend.”

  Jack said nothing.

  “You quiet, boy; most people are begging and pleading for their lives when my little gun comes out to play.”

  “Well, my Mama raised me with some manners, so I speak when spoken to, sir.” Jack’s calm voice was starting to annoy the couple.

  “Sounds like a ripe bitch,” the woman said as she opened the car door and slid into the passenger’s seat.

  “What we want are wallets and watches—I’d say jewellery of any kind is welcomed—and sadly we’re the pesky type that really insists on cash; you know I’m not really a credit man in times like these,” the gunman said.

  Jack turned directly to face the man, placing the barrel of the .357 right between his eyes. “Hop in and I’ll do you one better,” he said, his voice as cool as ice water.

  Disconcerted by the strange movement of the driver, the man withdrew his gun. “Ok,” he said. He hopped in the back and stationed himself in the middle of the bench seat as Jack pulled the Buick back onto the ramp of I-40 East.

  “Where we headed, darling?” the lady said while twirling her blonde hair. She had decided to put her feet up on the dash. Jack was displeased with this, but when guests came into your kitchen you had to offer them the fridge.

  “To an ATM off exit 100,” Jack said in a dreamy state. “Figured you guys could use more than just pocket change.”

  “Well, stranger, that’s mighty nice of you,” the man in the back said as he began to relax a little, but to keep up appearances he flashed his gun in the rearview mirror. “Just as long you ain’t shitting us, boy.”

  “Well, my Mama brought me up right, so they’ll be no tricks here… but maybe a few treats.” Jack’s face drew a smile as he eyed the man with the gun.

  The woman was tapping her feet on the dash. She was strangely attracted to her driver. He wore a black T-shirt and faded jeans; but it was his hair that did it for her. Jet black, it was cropped on the sides and longer on top. The way it was blowing in the wind, she couldn’t look away from
him. His eyes were black as tar, but they reflected the light with a glimmer and a glow she had never seen in her life. The man in the back took notice of this and quickly disapproved. “Honey, what you looking at?”

  She sat up and turned in her seat to rest her chin on Jack’s shoulder. He smelt of chocolate mixed with spices, and she felt a heat rise up within her.

  “Oh baby… you know me… I’m a sucker for the James Dean type.”

  “Why thank you, ma’am,” Jack said with a smile.

  “Oh dear, he’s charming too,” she giggled. “Something else your Mama taught you?”

  “Kinda, but I’ll show you what she did teach me.”

  Jack Holiday stomped the accelerator, launching the Buick forward at full tilt. The woman, unprepared for takeoff, screamed as she braced herself against Jack’s shoulder to keep from being thrown in between the seats. The man in the back leaned up and placed the gun directly behind Jack’s right ear.

  “What the hell are you trying to pull, son!” the man thundered. Jack ignored this as he placed a hand on top of the woman’s.

  “You see, Jeni,” Jack said, looking right into her eyes, their faces were close enough to kiss, “my Mama taught me nothing—no, she died—I’d like to think when I was three, or something like that. Physicians blamed it on consumption.” He looked at her puzzled face. “You know what consumption is, right?”

  Jeni didn’t respond and Jack didn’t wait for her to. “Well, it’s not that important—it was a thing that was way before your time—but, to get back on par, the woman that raised me—the Voodoo Woman—she taught me how to solve problems.

  “Ya see, what she did was teach me the things worth knowing. She’s frying in Hell for the lessons I learned,” Jack chuckled. “Yeah, she really taught me to solve those problems. And what we have at this juncture is a serious problem, wouldn’t you agree Jeni?”

  “How do you know my name?” Jeni screamed.

  The speedometer needle was up, pegged out just past one thirty five. “Jeni, I know a lot of things; like when your father would get blind drunk and put his cigarettes out on your back. I recall the day you prayed for a way out and then the day you became numb to it. I also know it’s the reason you really, and I mean really, hate Marlboros.

  “That was not your fault, Jeni, but the time you and Brad back there beat that businessman to a bloody pulp with a bat… you remember that, Jeni? You two were up in Kingsport when you and Brad took turns cracking his brains out on the pavement cuz his wallet wasn’t fat enough for ya. That one is squarely on you.”

  Jack hadn’t taken his eyes off her, and she saw a deep glow of red within them. “I mean, Brad helped, and that points the finger at him as well, but you, Jeni, pointed him out, poor fella. But I’ll let you know you sent him to a much better place, so I would say he got even.”

  “How are you doing this?”

  “Oh, I can do a lot of things,” Jack said in a near whisper.

  “The hell with this,” the man in the back said as he squeezed the trigger. Jeni backed away quickly in her seat, covering her face, but the gun clicked as if Brad had shot an empty cylinder. He pulled the trigger again with no result.

  Jeni removed her hands from her face and sat breathless. When her eyes met Jack’s she didn’t see the man that she thought was so cute anymore. He had become something more, something ancient, and none of it seemed good. The silence in the car was thick when Jack spoke.

  “Problem with ya six gun?” Jack asked, with his eyes still fixated on Jeni’s.

  Brad removed the gun from Jack’s head and two bullets immediately exited the barrel striking Jeni squarely in the face. A thick wetness mixed with chunks and fragments smattered the windshield as the force from multiple impacts knocked Jeni against the door. Her ruined head bobbled out the window, face up, keeping time with the rocking car.

  “Sent her straight to Hell, didn’t ya partner?” Jack said as he laughed. “Holy shit, man!” Jack continued, reaching over her dead body to open the door. She slouched, but didn’t fall. “Dammit, boy!” he shouted as he leaned back and gave her lifeless body a kick, sending the fresh corpse crumpling into the guardrail.

  “Man, that’s a nasty sound,” he said as he shut the door. Brad watched in horror as Jack dragged his hand across the windshield to scrape up whatever remains he could get before settling back in the driver’s seat.

  He licked gobs of blood and grey matter from his fingers as he spoke. “Look,” Jack said to Brad, their eyes locked in the mirror, “I want you to know I’m pissed at you.”

  “What?” Brad said dryly.

  Jack pointed to the other half of the Buick Regal. The gore had blacked out all visibility on the passenger’s side of the windshield. “You made this mess and guess who gets to clean it up?” He shook his head. “Yeah… me.” He looked back in the rearview again, his eyes aglow. “And I’m pretty steamed you cost me the girl… she was mine and you stole her, just like you steal everything else. And I know I got some essence from the blood and brain stew you made, but that’s not the same thing,” Jack’s lips gave a final pop against his index finger. “She tasted sweet. I see why you liked her.” Jack was smiling.

  “What are you?” Brad asked.

  Jack glanced up in the mirror and then back at the road. “Me? Oh, well think of me as kind of a Grim Reaper of sorts, and I hate the term, but I harvest souls; that was the charge for my crime, it’s my responsibility.” Jack looked back in the rearview. “And my Mama taught me responsibility.”

  He eased off the accelerator and brought his speed back down to fifty. “It’s a mighty fine night.”

  “Uh-huh,” Brad said as he turned the gun over in his hand. “So you take souls?” Brad asked.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Who do you harvest them for?”

  “A man named Papa Legba. A man you don’t know, but you may get to. Yeah, he’s the one who made me who I am today. I suppose you’ve heard of him as the Devil, or The Boogeyman, or an actual Grim Reaper.

  “As for me, I take the ones he wants real bad; the real nasty ones. He gives me a list and I fulfil the request. I don’t quite know my job title, though I prefer Associate Boogeyman—has a ring to it,” Jack chuckled.

  Brad grunted, “And what about me?”

  Jack smiled in the rearview. “No… you’re a freebie; I didn’t go to you, you and your woman flagged me down. You came to me.”

  “But you know me, you say?”

  “In a way. I can see souls. Some are good and some are just plain nasty. So, in a way, I know you. Like I know, once upon a time, you couldn’t stop drinking, and drugging, and loved those whores down at Captain Pete’s. I also know you killed that fella in ’78—the first life that you took—felt like a big man, didn’t ya?”

  Brad’s hand began to shake under the weight of the .357. “So, I’m a bad egg, eh?”

  “Oh yes,” he chuckled, “but to me you are sweet as honey.”

  Brad turned the gun on himself, but before he could pull the trigger Jack had launched into the back seat with blazing speed, seizing the gun from Brad’s grip.

  “Nope,” Jack said as he tossed the gun over his shoulder and out of the back passenger window. “You ain’t opting out that easy. Like I said, you are mine!”

  Brad pulled himself up and put his head out the window. He screamed for help and waved in pure desperation at every vehicle that passed, but none flashed their lights, nor did any swerve to get the Buick’s plate number. From what he could see, in the glimmer of light made by the oncoming traffic, no one had even looked his way.

  “It ain’t no use buddy,” Jack said. “They can’t even see the damn car at all, let alone you in it, acting the fool.”

  Jack grabbed Brad by his collar and pulled him onto his back; in one motion he straddled him. “Yeah, you’ll do just fine, sir,” he said, looking down at him.

  “NO, NO, NO! WAIT… PLEASE!” Brad shouted, with tears in his eyes.

  “But I j
ust gotta.” Jack smiled as he tore open Brad’s shirt. “I’d like to say this isn’t personal, but…” He leaned in close, his eyes glowing red. “It’s intensely personal.”

  Brad began to scream; his bones were being pulled through his skin.

  “I have my quota, friend, and you’ll do just nicely!”

  Associate Boogeyman was first published in RELATIONSHIP ADD VICE: A Thrilling Mashup of Romance and Crime along with 20 other fantastic stories. You can find it on Amazon in ebook or paperback.

  The Pain of Responsibility

  P. A. O’Neil

  “The nursery says your son is just a doll.”

  The ICU nurse jotted down the readings from all the various machines keeping Jane alive.

  “There’s been no change in Mrs Robinson’s condition, so why don’t you get some rest. I’ll just be outside at the desk. Call me if you need me.”

  Luke sat dumbfounded as he watched the nurse perform the same routine every hour on his comatose wife. It seemed to him like they had been there for days not the few hours since the birth of their son. He blinked his eyes, once, then twice, then as the rhythm of the beeping monitors and the respirator filled his ears, he closed them for a third time.

  “She’s right—you look exhausted.”

  Luke opened his eyes wide as he recognised Jane’s voice. He tried to rise, but found himself stuck, as if bolted to the chair.

  “Don’t try to get up, it’s called Dream Paralysis—it’s a kind of safety mechanism so you don’t hurt yourself. Yes, this is a dream, but it’s also me, Jane.”

  Luke’s heart broke as he saw a smiling Jane, fully clothed, sitting on the end of the hospital bed, while simultaneously lying there, hair dishevelled, tubes pushing fluids in, others taking fluids out.

  “I do look pretty bad, don’t I?”

  With his attention pulled back to his dream wife, he tried to ask her how she could be there; but as his mouth opened, no sound emerged.