MudMan (The Golem Chronicles Book 1)

by James Hunter

  Levi groaned and rubbed at one temple. “Not a joke—” he started.

  “Now hold up, that’s some racist bullshit right there,” Chuck interjected. “You sayin’ I can’t be a leprechaun because I’m black?”

  “Well, I mean that’s kinda weird, I guess” she said, “but it’s more the fact that you’re not all fun sized.” She shoved the chip into her mouth and bit down with a sharp crunch. So good. Her belly definitely approved.

  “Oh I get it, a sizeist—discriminating against the tall folk.”

  Levi, still rubbing at his temple, let his true form bubble up and out, the table jolting as his gray legs swelled beneath. “I don’t have the patience for this.” His voice was now rocky and deep, the sound of an earthquake given vocal cords. “It’s the same thing every time with you, Chuck. You’re not even a full leprechaun, you’re a halfie. More to the point, every other leprechaun is short and white, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise when no one believes you. Now please, back to business.” He grabbed the edge of the table and squeezed, the wood dimpling under the pressure of his fingers.

  Ryder scooted away an inch or two.

  “Chill, dog, no need to Hulk out and get all belligerent up in here,” Chuck said, smoothing out his fluffy coat and leaning back. “I was just giving her a hard time—”

  Ryder scarfed down chip after chip as she watched, amused. This was better than TV. So maybe Levi was a stick-in-the-mud, but Chuck seemed alright. An asshole, sure, but a fun one. If he was coming along on this trip, it might actually be bearable.

  “Back. To. Business,” Levi said again.

  “Cool, man, cool. Look, everything’s good to go. I got us rucksacks with everything we’ll need for the Sprawl. Sleeping bags, camp supplies, compass, maps, hacksaw, even a couple of peashooters that’ll work out there in BFE. All taken care of, okay, so just chill.”

  “Where’s the gear stowed?” Levi asked, stealing a quick glance around.

  “Got it all stashed in the train station. My ride’s parked out back. We can finish our drinks and baby gi”—he faltered just short of saying the word—“err, what was your name again?”

  “Sally Ryder. My friends call me Punk Rock Sally. Everyone else calls me Ryder. You can call me Ryder.”

  “That’s cold-blooded, right there.” He shrugged. “Fine, if that’s how it’s gonna be. As I was sayin’, we’ll finish our drinks, Ms. Ryder can finish inhaling those nachos—like a Hoover vacuum over there—then we’ll scoot on over to the train station and gear up, no worries. See”—he turned to Levi—“told you I can be professional.”

  Ryder watched Levi out of the corner of her eye while she polished off the chips. He didn’t look relaxed exactly, but he did look a tad less uptight. The Mudman nodded his blocky head, shrinking back into himself. Basset-hound face firmly in place again, he picked up the beer and took a drink. The motion looked natural and normal, but Ryder got the sense that it was only for show. Something the Mudman did to fit in, but not something he needed to do at all or even wanted to do, for that matter.

  “Chuck,” Levi said, setting his empty glass down, “you’d better not be tricking me. Better not be working some scam. ’Cause I swear if you pull some leprechaun nonsense on us … I’ll find you, Chuck. Very bad things will happen. Painful things, involving legs and fingers and toes.”

  The gangly leprechaun drained his glass, issued another ferocious belch, and wiped a hand across his mouth. “Yeah, I hear that,” Chuck replied, brushing off the threat without missing a beat. “But don’t sweat it, Boss man, you and Miss Thing”—he flashed Ryder a wink—“are safe with me. Now let’s roll.”

  THIRTEEN:

  The Sprawl

  Ryder lounged beside a small campfire, hunger gnawing a hole in her middle while her mind circled round and round. Chuck sprawled on a sleeping bag across from her, propped up on one arm while he stared into the dancing flames. Levi was off, rummaging around in the dark, looking for more wood, or anything really, to burn. So far Chuck, their “guide”—and Ryder used the term only in the loosest sense of the word—hadn’t been much of a guide. Up to this point he’d been about as useful as an ejection seat in a helicopter.

  Guy couldn’t guide a turd down a toilet.

  Sure, he’d had sturdy hiking packs waiting for them at the train station as promised, but he’d forgotten more than a few essentials—one being firewood. Matches, lighter fluid, fire-starters, sure. But no wood, which turned out to be quite problematic since they were in what amounted to an endless desert devoid of any sign of habitation or vegetation. Just gritty sand, blowing wind, and towering dunes for miles and miles on end.

  And they needed the firelight, not only because the desert was downright frigid once the sun dipped below the horizon, but because there were apparently unfriendly things that called the ugly patch of sand home. Bizarre, mutated things hungry for live food, but afraid of fire—or so said Levi. So far, however, the trip had been uneventful.

  After the madness of the Hub, the train station and subsequent train ride had been less than spectacular. The station itself had been a sleek, well-managed place of sterile white tile, too much chrome, and overhead florescent lighting, with assorted maps plastered all over the walls. For the most part, the station could have passed as any metropolitan train station: the MTA in New York, the Chicago “L,” the LA Metro Rail—all of which Ryder had visited.

  There’d been a few quirks, of course: the cashier selling tickets had luminescent skin and seven arms, for example. Or the lockers, where Chuck had stored their gear. A whole wall of metal storage boxes, like you might find in any subway system, except the inside of each locker was illogically bigger than the outside.

  Still, pretty humdrum when viewed next to the likes of the Lonely Mountain. And the train ride was an absolute snooze-fest. Literally. Their tiny train cabin had a couple of narrow bunks built into the wall, so she snagged the top bed before anyone could protest and conked out—her body suddenly exhausted. The gentle sway of the train kept her fast asleep. And she slept deeply enough that no dreams came, or, if they did, the train rocked them right away, granting Ryder a few blissful hours of undisturbed rest.

  Levi had shaken her awake hours later when the train pulled up at some dump called Bradshaw Landing. A dusty and dilapidated city of sand-worn wood, pitted concrete, and rusted out steel. Chuck produced a pair of goggles and a breathing ventilator, which he insisted she wear, at least until they made it away from the Landing. The dust and pollution was, evidentially, unbearable for most folks, especially outsiders. Levi didn’t need one, but wore one anyway, to avoid unwanted attention.

  They’d disembarked at a shitty station with corroded tracks and a few dilapidated benches, but didn’t venture into the city proper. Too bad, since the only alternative was an endless desert stretching out in the other direction—rolling dunes bracketed by a jagged streak of mountains, which tore their away across the skyline. The Sprawl. Some shriveled man sporting dust-covered cowboy garb met them near the railroad tracks.

  A friend of Chuck’s, though he offered no name and didn’t have two words for her or Levi. Chuck slipped the old-timer a handful of bills, and the old-timer, in return, handed over the keys to an old beat-to-shit Jeep—a vehicle that’d seen its best days sometime during World War Two.

  “Don’t let her looks fool you,” Chuck assured them, patting the Jeep’s rickety hood. “This sweet piece is built to last, know what I’m sayin’. They don’t make ’em like this anymore. For real, this baby’s better than the Energizer Bunny, she’ll just keep going and going.” He laughed, like the whole fucking world was a joke only he got. Ryder couldn’t help but roll her eyes—the guy was something else. And nothing good.

  They drove west, away from the town and into the rolling desert.

  The Jeep died four hours later, the radiator blown to hell, white steam spewing from the dented hood like a smokestack belching out a cloud of smog. What had originally been a day trip suddenly tur
ned into an overnight trip. Potentially more than one overnight.

  “You’re the worst guide of all time,” Ryder said as she contemplated the swaying fire.

  “Haters gonna hate,” Chuck replied absentmindedly.

  “Seriously, though,” she said, “this can’t be what you actually do for a living. I’ve known plenty of guys like you. Always working a hustle. My dad was like that. Always kept ‘a couple of irons in the fire’—that’s what he’d say. One week he’d be selling cologne on the street corner, working out of a cheap briefcase he picked up at Goodwill. The next, it’d be knockoff purses at the airport. Week after that, he’d start a landscaping company.

  “Always after a quick buck, my dad. Hard worker. Terrible decision maker. Couldn’t ever just buckle down and hold a normal job. He tried a couple of times, but that only ever lasted a few months. He’d stumble onto something new—a sure thing, always a sure thing—and there we went. The whole family chasing the next play.”

  “Sounds like my kinda cat,” Chuck said, head bobbing minutely. “You said was. That mean he ain’t ’round no more or what?”

  She shook her head. “No. He’s not in the picture anymore. Eventually one of his irons got too hot to handle, came back to burn him big time. Burned everyone.”

  “Keep your eyes shut tight now,” she whispers to Jamie, before taking her hands and pressing them tight over Jamie’s ears.

  She waved a hand through the air, it’s not worth talking about. “So what about you? I know you aren’t some outdoors woodsman—not wearing those Jordans.”

  “Shoot. I hate the wilderness,” he said, tossing a small pebble toward the fire. “Desert, trees, bugs, dirt. Hell no. Having to take a shit out in the open—that’s some literal awkward shit, know what I’m sayin’? Ass hanging in the breeze. Naw, I’d be doing anything else, if I could.”

  “So how’d you get the job in the first place?”

  “’Cause I’m connected. A people person, natural-born networker. I’ve got a finger in just ’bout every piece of action, so when people need a runner for something”—he slapped his chest—“boom, I get tapped. Hate doing the tour guide bullshit, though. Pain in my black ass, except for your boy, Levi. Dude pays big money. Big, big money. Whenever word comes down that he needs a hand, I’m there. Guy throws out cash money like it ain’t no thang. Not like some of these shifty sons of bitches—hire you on, be working you the whole time. Levi’s ain’t right in the head, but he always pays up.”

  “He’s sort of secretive,” Ryder replied, thinking about the wad of cash—ten grand, flat out. “Where do you think he gets all that money?”

  Chuck ran a hand across his chin and shook his head. “Got me. I’ve asked around about him, discreet like, though. Outworld’s a weird place, a big place too, but that cat is weird even by Outworld standards. Dude’s a ghost. He ain’t a halfie, that’s the truth. But he ain’t nothing else either. A Golem, people say. One guy I know, thinks he’s the Golem of Prague—built by some old Jewish rabbi way back in the day.” He shrugged, All just hearsay. “I’ll tell you this much, people in the Hub are scared of him. Levi might think he flies under the radar, but folks on the street know his deal. That guy shows up and people go missing.

  “And if Levi makes someone go missin’, ain’t no one ever see ’em again. Usually the people he snatches up are world-class assholes, though, so most people don’t mind. But they sure as hell steer clear. I could care less about that. It’s all money for me. And he’s got it in spades. I heard tell through the mystic pipeline that Levi’s sitting on top of hoarded Nazi gold, like back from World War Two. I don’t give a rat’s ass where it comes from, though, long as I get paid.”

  They were quiet for a time, the bluster and sigh of the wind filling the night with its song. An occasional gust would kick up embers and send them swirling into the night air, drifting off into the wilderness.

  “So what’s your real game?” Ryder asked when she couldn’t handle the quiet any longer. “What do you really want to do?”

  He was quiet for a minute, head see-sawing from side to side. “If I tell you, you gotta promise you won’t tell anyone else. You good with that?”

  “Yeah,” she replied. “Like I have anyone to tell, anyway. Only person I know besides you in this fucked up world is Levi, and he’s not exactly into deep, personal conversation.”

  “I wanna open a bakery,” he said after a moment, not even a hint of mockery in his voice. “I love baking. Pecan tassies, sweet potato pie, southern-style hummingbird cake, butterhorn rolls, English tea ring. Can’t get enough of that buttery, awesome goodness.” He patted his stomach longingly.

  Ryder laughed, she couldn’t help it. “Stop bullshitting me,” she said once her giggling died down.

  “That hurts,” he said, stone cold serious, “and I ain’t lying. I wanna open a fuckin’ bakery, okay? When I was a little kid, my momma, she’d always be baking something. Something warm and good. I’d help her. We’d make the dough, she’d read me books while it rose, then we’d go to work. Cookies one day. Sweet bread another. Made me happy, doin’ that with her. I still bake when I got the time and it still makes me happy. Findin’ something that really makes you happy in life is pretty rare, lemme tell you.”

  “Wow.” She frowned and ran her gaze over him, trying to see the baker buried beneath the hood. “Sorry,” she said, “I just don’t see it. I wouldn’t peg you as baker, Chuck.”

  “Yeah.” He offered a heavy sigh. “No one sees baker Chuck. People look at me and they think I should be dropping mix-tapes or shootin’ hoops. But that ain’t me. What you see, this image, it’s all part of stayin’ alive. Livin’ in the Hub is all about survival, and lookin’ like a thug helps me keep breathin’. Trust me, if I showed up lookin’ all Carlton Banks—plaid shorts, tennis shirt, bow tie, penny loafers, dancin’ to Tom Jones—I wouldn’t last a day. But somewhere down the road I’m gonna have enough cash to leave all this shit behind, open up my own bakery. Use all those recipes my momma passed on to me. Be who I wanna be. Openin’ your own business ain’t cheap, though. But I’ll make it—even if I have to make my own luck to do it.”

  He reached into his shirt and withdrew the tacky golden four-leaf clover. He pressed it to his lips as if offering a silent prayer, then slipped the bling back down his shirt. “Someday. I’ll be done with the Hub and Outworld. Set up shop over in Louisiana or maybe South Carolina—you know, someplace where folks ain’t afraid to eat good food and get fat as hell. And I’ll be legit. No more hustles to run. Just doin’ my thing, not havin’ to look over my shoulder all the time.” He smiled. It wasn’t his usual cocksure grin either, but something small and sad and genuine. “What about you?” he asked eventually.

  She grimaced and shook her head. “I don’t know what I want in life. I guess that’s always been my problem. I think I got that from my dad. He didn’t really know what he wanted either. I wish I could be like my sister, Jamie—she has it all together. Nice house over in Wisconsin. She has a degree and a good job working as a nurse. I mean she’s not rich, not living the highlife or anything, but she’s got a steady thing. A good thing. Sometimes I think that was supposed to be my life—but then everything went sideways.” She canted one hand. “Jamie got all the lucky breaks and I ended up with the shit end of the stick every time.

  “Coulda been my life, but instead? I’m a high school dropout and now I work at a used bookstore—which, believe it or not, is actually the best job I’ve ever had. I make fancy-ass coffee I can’t afford to drink for college kids who think they’re better than me. Who are better than me. I’m a recovering addict without a fuckin’ future.” She reached up and ran a hand over a face too old for her years. “I guess all I really want is to stop surviving for once and start … I dunno, thriving, I guess. I don’t really care what I do. I want a good thing, like my sister. I just want to stop getting by, if that makes sense.”

  “Hey, you preachin’ to the choir. I mean, I feel that.” He pa
used. “So if you want a normal life, what in the hell you doin’ hangin’ around with a cat like Levi? Guy ain’t normal. How’d you get mixed up with him? You just a Rube girl, am I right?”

  “Rube?” she asked.

  “Yeah, Rube. It’s what we call all the gullible suckers out there in the big wide world who are oblivious to all of this.” He waved a hand through the air.

  “Well, I’m not a Rube anymore.” She tentatively traced a finger along the outside of her shirt, feeling the edge of the scar running down her middle. “I still don’t really know how I ended up here, bad luck I guess. Story of my life.” She faltered for a moment. “What do you think Levi’s after? You’re out here for money. I’m out here because I don’t have any other choice. But him? What’s he want?”

  “Shoot. Might as well ask what a rock wants. Shit, I don’t know why anyone would be out here.” He turned his head, staring into the cold, dark desert surrounding them.

  “Right?” she said. “What’s the deal with this place anyway? Who would come out here?” She batted at some kind of buzzing insect circling her head.

  “Far as I know,” he replied, “no one wants to come out here. Sometimes fools pass through here”—he hooked a thumb toward the jagged mountains behind him, a black shark bite across a dark blue sky—“idiots making for the Spine. But I ain’t never heard of no one actually going into the Sprawl just ’cause. Like for shits and giggles. This professor y’all chasing must be dumb as a brain-dead monkey. This place is a straight-up dump. Dust, dirt, more dust, more dirt. Plus, there’s all kinds of weird mutants out here and shit. Old cities scattered around, most of ’em are radioactive.” He shook his head. “Crazy.”

  They fell silent as the heavy footfalls of something big drew near. Levi lumbered into the ring of firelight a moment later, no longer wearing a human form. He’d dropped his disguise the second they made it out into the desert. Instead he was once more a hulking tower of gray. Holy shit he’s ugly, Ryder thought, not for the first time. Lumpy body; beady black eyes; crude, sloping forehead; massive jaw with that huge underbite. Wasn’t a mother in the world that could love his face. Even a blind mother would have trouble.