Spells, Salt, & Steel--A New Templars Novella

by Gail Z. Martin

  Salt wouldn’t be much help on this hunt, and iron dispelled ghosts, but it didn’t have any special properties against squonks beyond being hard and heavy, which works on most things, at least up to a point. But bashing it over the head might get me close to its big teeth, and I’d prefer to avoid that. I’d also loaded my shotgun shells with absorbent cat litter crystals, the kind that swell and trap water. Squonks liquefy when they die, and I thought those crystals might do damage like rock salt and also soak up excess squonk.

  I pulled out some big plastic trash bags and set them to one side, along with a set of thick rubber gloves that reached up to my elbows and a dustpan and whisk broom. I pulled out a coil of netting stuffed with fabric and pink absorbent granules that looked like a roll of sausage as thick as my forearm and made a circle on the ground, leaving an opening on one side. Then I opened a canister and laid down a coating of pinkish sawdust-like stuff all over the inside of the circle. I had to pause a moment and swallow. The smell still brought back unpleasant memories of school, puke, and the janitor’s liberal use of the “pink stuff.” Finally, I pulled out those tasty planks of cedar and mesquite and laid them down spaced a few feet apart, leading the were-squonk into the circle, toward the big prize—a few sausage patties I’d swiped from the B&B refrigerator on my way out.

  I took up my position behind a picnic table I turned on its side for cover. I had silver bullets in my revolver, old school ammo for an old school gun. And in my sawed-off, I had shells I’d filled with my own special squonk mix. Just in case, I had an iron crowbar and a silver-coated tactical knife, but I really hoped I didn’t have to use them, and a bag of mesquite briquettes to use as squonk treats if I needed to distract it.

  Then I waited.

  Squonks aren’t the stealthiest creatures in the forest, and their musk is...distinctive. It smelled like a combination of bean farts and tequila barf, and the fact that I know what both of those smell like is an unfortunate commentary on my sorry life. Together, they qualified as a biohazard.

  Chiara’s intel had the size right: the creature that lumbered into view had the paws and body structure of a massive dog, but the size of a cow, and it looked like it tried to wear an elephant’s skin and just pushed it up to make it fit. Next to a squonk, a Shar-pei wrinkle dog looked positively freshly pressed.

  It had twitchy little ears on the top of its head that quirked from side to side like its own radar dishes, and big mopey eyes like those awful kitschy paintings of sad-eyed kids. All that might have been cute in a derpy sort of way if it weren’t for the razor-sharp rodent incisors that were as long as my hand and as sharp as my blade, and the glint of red in its eyes that reminded me it was were.

  For now, the squonk hadn’t noticed me. It chomped its way through the treats I left for it, meandering closer to the pink circle. It either didn’t smell me or didn’t care because it never looked up as it snuffled from one gourmet grilling board to the next, right into the circle. When it reached the sausage, it stopped to take a deep breath and let out a low wuffle of pure bliss. It gobbled down the meat, and I rose from cover, aiming.

  Right then, the were-squonk saw me and jerked just as I fired. The bullet should have hit it in the head, but instead, buried itself in the creature’s shoulder. I swore and grabbed the sawed-off, trying to make my second shot before the were-squonk recovered from its shock enough to attack.

  Too late. That damned thing moved fast. It charged me, and I dropped behind the cover of the overturned picnic table, bracing its wooden crosspieces with my shoulder. The squonk hit hard, pushing me and the table back several inches and making me wonder if my shoulder would ever work right again. It jarred the shotgun from my grip as I tried to brace the table. Damn, that hurt.

  Then I remembered—squonks eat wood.

  Two massive top incisors came down over the edge of my picnic table barrier like the squirrel from hell, ripping away at its two-inch thick wood like biting into a sandwich. I scrambled back, managing to snag my knife and the crowbar, but the table had shifted, and my revolver and the sawed-off were out of reach.

  I came up swinging as the squonk head-butted the table out of the way, lifting it off the ground and throwing it a few feet to smash against the kiosk with the map. I brought the crowbar down on the squonk’s back haunches, but that didn’t faze the creature, other than managing to make it madder.

  The were-squonk glared at me with its red eyes and snapped its fucking big incisors like it was trying to figure out where to bite me first. I backed up, with my knife in one hand and the crowbar in the other, wishing I could get around the critter to grab my guns.

  Between its tough hide and its bulk, the crowbar hadn’t made a dent. Iron dispels some magic, and it plays merry hell with ghosts, but it didn’t seem to affect the squonk. I doubted the silver on my blade would hurt it more than the knife itself, assuming my left hand didn’t stay numb and tingly from the hit I’d taken on my shoulder.

  All of a sudden, dead Gus the deer hunter popped up between me and the squonk, with his trusty rifle on his shoulder leveled for a shot right between the creature’s eyes. No sound or projectile came from the ghostly gun, although I saw Gus move with the recoil, but the squonk squealed and backed off, warily eyeing me and my ghostly back-up. I gave Gus a thumbs up, and he grinned at me.

  I eyed the cordon of the circle, knowing that I needed to get my gun and lure the squonk back onto the powdered surface, and I hoped to hell that my gunshot wasn’t going to bring any cops running. I was fucking this up royally enough by myself; I didn’t need help.

  The were-squonk charged me, and I threw myself out of the way. Not fast enough; one of its big paws swiped across my bad shoulder, opening up my jacket and carving into my skin. I dove and rolled, coming up covered in blood and bark chips.

  Gus appeared out of nowhere, standing face-to-face with the squonk, gun leveled so close to its muzzle it would have had powder burns if the rifle were solid. The squonk let out an un-monsterly squeal of surprise and backpedaled as Gus advanced and bought me time to get out of the way.

  I scrambled for my bag of mesquite briquettes. The squonk kept a wary gaze on me and Gus, and I wondered when it would figure out that Gus couldn’t actually hurt it. I had a new plan, and while it was piss-poor and batshit crazy, I was running with it because the old plan hadn’t turned out so well. I grabbed a handful of the mesquite nuggets and tossed one at the squonk’s feet.

  It wuffled again, sniffing the chunk of wood, before it gulped the chunk down in one bite.

  “That’s a good squonk,” I murmured. I eyed the cement block bathroom, which was really a fancy outhouse. It looked like a single square room with a big steel door, that the last occupant left hanging open. I tossed another nugget to the squonk, forcing him to move a little farther away from me and a little closer to the outhouse as a desperate plan took shape.

  I glanced to where my shotgun lay, and then to the pink circle. Unfortunately, the gear I needed to pull this off wasn’t close together. I’d have to risk trying to get by the squonk, and it didn’t look like it had forgiven me for shooting it.

  Another mesquite nugget made the were-squonk forget about me temporarily, and I edged closer to the circle. My original plan hadn’t worked, so I grabbed the tube of fabric and swung it around my head, sending it flying over top of the squonk and into the fancy outhouse. Gus looked from the outhouse to me, and I jerked my head at the squonk and the little building. Gus grinned and nodded, telling me he was in on my crazy-ass “plan.”

  The squonk gave me a baleful look, either remembering that it didn’t like me or pissed that I was holding out on the snacks. I tossed it a couple more briquettes, leading it closer to the outhouse, and when it turned to get them, I grabbed the remaining canister of pink powder and dove for my shotgun.

  Just as the squonk looked ready to charge again, I hurled a handful more mesquite at it, landing between it and the outhouse, buying me more time. I grabbed an M80 and some duct tape from my b
ag and slapped it around the canister of pink stuff. The squonk had almost finished the nuggets, and I didn’t have many more left.

  “Fetch!” I yelled, getting the were-squonk’s attention as I hurled the remaining nuggets one-two-three-four over the creature’s head and into the cinderblock bathroom. It glared at me, trying to figure out whether to eat me now or later, but the mesquite must have been a real treat because it trotted after the chunks into the cement room.

  I leveled my sawed-off and fired once it cleared the doorway, hitting it square in the ass with the cat litter crystals, which made it jump forward, farther inside, as it bellowed. I lit the M80 and threw the canister over its head, and then barreled toward the building to slam the steel door. I braced my back against it, digging in my heels.

  The M80 sounded like a cannon in that confined space. Then I remembered that shit gives off methane, and a second boom blew the corrugated tin roof off the outhouse and the door off its hinges, knocking me over with the blast.

  Bits of metal roof rained down on top of the steel door that covered me, which had bowed with the force of containing the blast. Chunks of cement block fell like hail.

  The forest smelled of roasted squonk and outhouse, pungent enough to bring me back to consciousness without smelling salts. I crawled out from under the door, still bleeding from where the were-squonk had clawed me, and now in some new places where I’d connected too hard with the rocky ground. I’d have a goose egg on the back of my head from the door, but since it saved my life, I counted myself lucky.

  I half expected to find gobbets of were-squonk splattered across the remaining walls of the outhouse and hanging in the trees. Instead, it seemed the legends were true about dead squonks turning into water from their tears. The absorbent pink powder and the industrial-strength hazmat “sock” were bloated with liquid—all that remained of the squonk.

  “Well fuck a duck, it actually worked,” I marveled and took a celebratory swig from my flask. Then I realized that the sound of the shots and the explosion probably carried for miles and I stood in the middle of a disaster zone with glaring evidence of having destroyed park property. So I did the only thing I could do: swept up the powder, used the gloves to gather the squonk-water filled sock, and carried everything to the fire pit, where I doused it in salt and lighter fluid and watched it burn.

  Gus appeared on the other side of the fire, grinning broadly, and gave me a thumbs-up. We stood around the fire in silence, just two hunters basking in the glory of a righteous kill. Gus pulled a flask of his own from the pocket of his camo jacket and saluted me, then knocked back a swallow or two. I wondered how many hunts he “helped” with, flushing out deer for other hunters. Maybe this wasn’t so bad, as afterlife options went. Gus seemed to be happy, so unless I heard later on about some crazy hunter ghost going all Cabin in the Woods on people, I felt good about letting him go on with his eternal hunt.

  The fire was nearly out. I fretted about the smoke, but after the gunshots and explosion, it was almost anticlimactic. Still, I was happy to shovel dirt on the last of the embers like the good scout that I never was and get out of there. I’d done my best to bandage the gashes on my shoulder, but I’d lost enough blood to feel woozy, and I figured I’d take Sara up on her offer to patch me up.

  That’s when I heard voices and figured the cops or rangers were closing in.

  I grabbed my bag and looked around, trying to figure out whether to hide or run. Gus blinked from near the fire to at the mouth of the trail and signaled for me to vamoose. I ran in the opposite direction of the approaching rangers, figuring I could circle around on one of the other trails. Before I was completely out of earshot, I heard the most godawful racket and realized Gus was giving the performance of his afterlife, wailing and moaning like a banshee, scaring the bejeezus out of my pursuers to let me get away.

  Once things quiet down, I’m going to bring a six-pack of beer back to that old oak tree and leave it for Gus. One good turn deserves another. Hunters take care of their own.

  Chapter 7

  “I can’t believe you trapped the were-squonk in a hazmat sock,” Blair chuckled, when I finally made it back.

  “Clearly, you underestimated my creativity under pressure,” I retorted, as Chiara popped the top on a cold one and passed it to me.

  “Must be because you’re so much smarter than you look, Wojcik,” Blair replied, getting the last word, like usual.

  A week had passed since the were-squonk adventure. I’d hauled my sorry ass back to the B&B, and Sara had taken pity on me, dragging me into the kitchen, pouring me a couple of shots of Jack and patching me up on the condition that I told her the whole story. She knew who Gus really was, a local man who had disappeared one snowy December and whose ghost had been spotted from time to time, unable to pass up helping with a hunt. Sara had poured herself a drink, and we sat up talking for a long while, but injuries, alcohol, and exhaustion meant I was in no condition to suggest anything more. She did slip me her private number before I left. I had already decided to find a reason to head back up there before too much time passed, now that I’d had a chance to go from gun-shy to cautiously intrigued.

  “It’s a talent,” I responded, deadpan. “Protective coloration.” I took a sip of my beer, holding my cards in my left hand. The shoulder still twinged from where I’d gotten clawed, but the bump on the back of my skull had gone down, proving Chiara’s contention that I had a cast-iron skull.

  She and Blair had presented me with an engraved plaque, the kind that usually has a taxidermied deer head attached to it, with a nameplate that said “were-squonk.” The rest of the plaque was empty, but it was soaking wet when they presented it to me, all the while swearing up and down it had a head attached to it when they put it in the box. Hardy-har-har.

  A week of fishing had done me good, and now the poker party weekend was in full swing. Demon lounged beside the fireplace, having stuffed himself on treats that mysteriously “fell” to the floor. Father Leo sat next to his brother Tom and looked like just a regular guy in jeans and a black t-shirt—no clerical collar. So far, he was beating the pants off the rest of us, as the chips in front of him attested. Chiara and Blair were determined to break the good padre’s winning streak, but I wouldn’t have bet on it. Louie had gotten the weekend off and came up with a cooler full of his excellent homebrew ale. My buddy, Dave, had also driven up to join us, as well as Chiara’s brother, Tony. That would make for a crowded cabin, but the girls got the loft, while the rest of us found space for sleeping bags on the floor. We agreed to let Father Leo sleep on the couch, partly out of respect for the priesthood, but more for the fact that he brought the best booze.

  The remains of a six-foot hoagie sat on the counter, along with empty pizza boxes, a cheese tray, and several bags of chips, jars of peanuts, and bowls of dip and salsa. A garbage can overflowed with beer cans and bottles, and in the background, an announcer narrated the Steelers’ home game.

  I had a crap hand, but I didn’t give a flying rat’s ass about losing. Father Leo said he had a couple of new jobs for me, and the Occulatum wanted me to explain why they got a request from the good padre to make an anonymous donation to replace a park outhouse near Kane. I’d worry about that on Monday. At the moment, I had a full belly, a warm beer buzz, the company of good friends, and the knowledge that I’d done battle with the forces of darkness and lived to tell about it. And right now, that was more than enough for me.

  Authors’ Note

  This is a work of fiction, so any similarity to real people living or dead is entirely coincidental. The towns and landmarks mentioned do exist, but the businesses are completely fictional, and any similarities are also coincidental.

  I grew up in Meadville, and Larry grew up in Sandy Lake, so Northwestern PA is home turf for us. Although we’ve lived in the South now for quite a while, we make frequent visits back and have enjoyed the chance to explore and revisit favorite places when we do our scouting expeditions for this series, the Iron
& Blood and Storm and Fury Steampunk series (set in an alternate history Pittsburgh in 1898), and two upcoming series also set in Western and Central Pennsylvania. Rogue, one of our Storm and Fury novellas, is set in and around Meadville, Cambridge Springs, and Mercer back in the Gilded Age.

  The Linesville Spillway and its carp are real, and we’ve posted photos on Facebook about the truly massive and closely-packed fish, so you can see for yourselves. Likewise, the Keystone Ordnance Works old TNT ruins are also real—and off-limits. Urban explorers have posted photos online. Gail heard the story about the Nazi sniper from the father of a high school friend, a man who claimed to have done guard duty there in the army during WWII. We haven’t been able to verify it, but hey—this is fiction. Squonks figure in Pennsylvania lore, but remain unverified cryptids. As for Gus the ghostly deer hunter, a surprising number of injuries and fatalities happen in the PA woods due to drinking and tree stands, which are a bad combination.

  The text Father Leo quotes at Johnny Vasili is from the Malleus Malificarum, Part 3 Question XXX, and you can find the public domain version here: http://www.sacred-texts.com/pag/mm/mm03_30a.htm.

  This is the first of at least four novellas in the Spells, Salt, and Steel series, so watch for new episodes!

  Larry N. Martin is the author of the new sci-fi novel Salvage Rat, and co-author of both the Spells, Salt, and Steel series and the Steampunk series Iron and Blood: The Jake Desmet Adventures (Solaris Books) as well as the related series of short stories/novellas: The Storm & Fury Adventures. He has co-authored stories in the anthologies Clockwork Universe: Steampunk vs. Aliens, The Weird Wild West, The Side of Good/The Side of Evil, Alien Artifacts, Gaslight and Grimm, Space, Contact Light, and Robots.

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  Gail Z. Martin is the author of Scourge: A Darkhurst novel, the first in the new Darkhurst epic fantasy series from Solaris Books. Also new are: The Shadowed Path, part of the Chronicles of the Necromancer universe (Solaris Books); Vendetta: A Deadly Curiosities Novel in her urban fantasy series set in Charleston, SC (Solaris Books); Shadow and Flame the fourth and final book in the Ascendant Kingdoms Saga (Orbit Books); and Iron and Blood.