Something Wicked Anthology, Vol. One

by M. Scott Carter

“This is childish,” the voice said. It even scrunched Herman’s dead features into something resembling frustration.

  “I don’t care,” I said. “I am a child and I don’t intend to be tricked or taken advantage of by some alien. If you truly intend to keep your end of the deal, you promise. Then, if you trick me somehow and go up into space, away from this awful place without me, you’ll go knowing you tricked and lied to a little girl and if you have a conscience, you won’t be able to forget it. Now promise, or the deal is off.”

  “I promise,” the voice said.

  “Okay,” I said, and then stepped closer. When I leaned down over Herman’s body I could smell the blood and goo on his head. I gagged and turned away. There were tiny little bugs flying around the blood, some of them landing in the mess. With my head turned away, I took a deep breath and held it, then turned back, grabbed him under his armpits and pulled him up.

  I held him away from me like a garbage bag with something disgusting on it that you don’t want to get on you. I walked as fast as I could out of the shed, back into the sun, but he was heavy, so I couldn’t go too fast. Herman’s little legs hung limp and dangled back and forth. His head flopped forward onto his chest with a soggy, slapping sound. Fresh blood started coming out of the crushed bone and little specks of it were splashing onto me. I tried to turn away but I could feel the little splashes hitting my neck.

  We’d just about gotten around to the lumber pile where the scorpions lived, when my arms got so cramped up I had to put him down. Slumped against the woodpile, Herman didn’t move at all. I was breathing hard and held my hands away from me. I wondered if I’d ever be able to get that smell off of them.

  “Are you still there?” I said. Then I saw the eye start moving again.

  “I’m still here,” the voice said. It sounded different outside.

  “I’m not gonna be able to carry you to the appointed place,” I said. “There’s no way.” I started to put my hands on my hips, then I remembered about the smell and held them out in front of me again.

  “You must find another way to transport me.” The voice sounded impatient.

  “You got any great ideas, Mr. Know-it-all?”

  The voice didn’t say anything; then I got an idea.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said. Then I went to get Herman’s red wagon. After dumping the stinking body in the wagon, I covered it with a piece of blue tarp I found under the front porch. Then I washed my hands under the cold water of the outside spigot, waved goodbye to the trailer I’d grown up in, grabbed the wagon handle and started off toward the appointed place.

  The wagon rattled back and forth, making my arm shake as I walked up our driveway. When I got to the road I stopped, looked both ways and then crossed. The rubber wheels rolled real smooth on the pavement. Once we got across, I turned and started along the little path that bordered Mr. Bascom’s place, where blackberries pushed through the barbwire for miles on end. Then I saw a pick-up come over the hill and down the road. I squinted but couldn’t tell if I recognized it at first. Once it got closer I recognized it. Mr. Bascom’s truck. Probably coming back from the feed store.

  I tried to speed up and look natural at the same time. When he got up close he slowed down, looked at me kind of funny. I just smiled real big and waved, pulling my red wagon. Mr. Bascom waved back and kept going on past toward his driveway down at the end of the road. That was close.

  When I got to the ‘Hanson’s Homegrown Meats’ sign that divided Hanson’s land from Mr. Bascom’s, I climbed through the fence and pulled the wagon under, onto Mr. Bascom’s side. If I was gonna get caught, I’d rather get caught on his property.

  Pulling the wagon was harder in the grass. Sometimes I had to go around big piles with flies all around. I was getting tired. I started switching my pulling arm back and forth. Finally, we got there.

  I pulled the tarp back with the tips of my fingers, ‘til I could see Herman’s face. The sun was beating down now and my brother stunk. The eye just looked straight up at the sky.

  “This the place?” I asked.

  “This is the appointed place,” the voice said.

  “What do we do now?”

  “Wait for the night,” the voice answered.

  I took a look around. I could hardly tell where the road was until I saw a car go by. No way anyone except the cows were gonna see us. I sat down with my back to a fencepost and waited. Sweat poured down my face and thoughts raced through my mind. The voice didn’t say a word. Didn’t do anything. I still couldn’t help looking over at the wagon. My little brother laid in his red wagon, dead.

  I got to where I could hear the cars on the road before I could see ‘em. When I could see ‘em, I watched ‘til they went out of sight. I watched the cows. They didn’t do anything. Everything was still and quiet and warm. Every once in a while the breeze would blow a little, but never enough.

  Eventually, the sun started going down. Made the sky pink and purple and gold. Everything got real pretty for just a little while before it was too dark to see. The trees slow-dancing with the breeze. The grass as green as the Emerald City. Once it finally started to get dark, it seemed to happen really fast. Then it occurred to me I was never gonna see any of that stuff again. Ever.

  Crickets started sounding like they were everywhere. And frogs. I could hear the rustle of the grass when one of the cows got close. I could hear the cars from even farther away. Now when they passed, all I saw was the beam of headlights. Then one of the beams slowed down and turned into a driveway across the road. My driveway. Mom was home. I heard her door slam shut.

  I got up to look but I couldn’t see her. Saw lights go on in the living room. Then my room. Then nothing for a minute. Next thing I knew I heard the front door slam into the trailer as it swung open. Mom had a flashlight shining in the yard and she was headed round to the back of the trailer. Looking for Herman.

  For another minute everything was quiet, peaceful. Then everything started happening all at once. Mom started screaming. Her voice was cracking but the screams just broke through the cracks. People must’ve heard her for miles. I ran over next to Herman. The eye still looked up into the sky. Then I saw light in the eye. I looked up and the trees were swaying. All of a sudden it felt like a big storm was coming. Wind pushed my hair back away from my face. Gave me goose bumps all up and down my arms. Mom was still screaming when the bright lights came from over the treetops.

  “You ready?” I said, not looking down.

  “I’m ready,” came the voice inside Herman. “I’m ready.”

  Illustration by Hendrik Gericke

  ‘Treasons’

  THE TREASONS

  by A.A. Garrison

  They left in the gray of morning, Penning and his only son, Willam. By carriage, the city was a half day's journey. The treasons were at high noon.

  The two mounted the carriage's uncushioned bench and Penning started the horses, the chinked, tumbledown house drifting past. Willam followed it with his head, Henri on the porch and waving. Willam called out, "Bye, Mama!" and waved back. The humble property was soon out of sight. It was Willam's ninth birthday.

  The rutted dirt road led them through hills and fields, the Pennings' few neighbors suspending their toil to tip homemade hats. Penning returned their gestures without stopping. The few atrocious buildings they called a town were all but abandoned, the saloon and the store and the stables, dead windows reflecting the carriage and nothing more. The strip was empty but for two Laws, watching from their sentry hut, always. Penning tipped his boater to them, but different than he had to the others. The Laws did the same. Willam pretended not to see them.

  An hour later, Penning and son were on the highroad.

  Willam's face lit up as the carriage hummed onto the macadam, his first time. He looked up to his huge father, questions in his eyes.

  Penning peered from under his boater. "The highroad, son. It'll take us there."

  "The rocks," Willam said. "They're flat, l
ike."

  Penning agreed; the rocks were in fact flat.

  "How?" Willam asked. "The rock, I mean. How'd they make it flat?"

  Penning shook his head. "The old ways. Not of us. Not anymore."

  Willam stared at the curious surface as one would at the night sky. The horses clopped instead of thudded. The two rode on.

  In time the road wasn't so flat: bite-shaped sections gone to ground, tectonic collisions making bumps, calligraphies of cracks sprouting weeds. The sun appeared punctually, bringing with it the lonely tableland. The faintest of yellow lines jumped out then, bisecting the broken roadway, a mere rumor. The two encountered the first way-station at full light.

  Willam answered this as he had the highroad, begging explanation. "What ...?" he said, enrapt with the alien structure.

  "A way-station," Penning said, not looking from the road. "For fuel, supplies, they used to be."

  "Like the general?"

  Penning said yes.

  Closer, the station resolved into a foursquare disorder of block and metal, roofless and wind-torn, sitedon an island of the highroad's same macadam. Four rusted boxes stood near the road, man-sized and upright, a little menhir. Ancient rubber tubes hung at crazy angles, cracked to a shredded consistency, some severed or missing.

  Willam's head turned by slow degrees, the station its fulcrum. "What're those boxes there?" He pointed.

  "For fuel," Penning said. "They would dispense fuel."

  "Can we go dispense fuel?"

  A fatherly chuckle. "I'm afraid not, son."

  Willam watched the station leave them as he had the house.

  Mid-morning, the new day clear and summer-warm. There was another way-station, and more fantastic old architecture, some carriage-looking things that Father called "cars." They met no one until the next town.

  The highroad worsened, then gave out entirely, announcing civilization. More houses and fields, but from these no one waved. Willam pressed against his father.

  The town proper was larger than that of their origin, but as unbeautiful. Men as strange and unfriendly as those on the outskirts bustled in ones and twos, wearing muslin and crude shoes, rope-belted trousers. Tired women stared from foggy windows, filthy children scrambling about. There were two sentry huts instead of one, Laws stationed in both. Penning's carriage was the only.

  He parked at a stable declaring the thoroughfare's northeast corner, little more than some paddocks and troughs, a leaning shack. The shack produced a slovenly man who'd outgrown his tunic.

  "Say hi," the hostler said, and nodded warily. "Say hi."

  Penning repeated the greeting and stood down. For two pieces, he arranged water and feed. The hostler accepted the pay and made accommodations. The horses drank noisily.

  Penning returned to the bench and watered himself from a demijohn. He offered it to Willam and the boy sipped, throat bobbing. "How far's the city?" he asked after.

  "We're halfway," Penning said. He doffed his boater and tunic, revealing a rabbit shirt of Henri's handiwork. Farm-muscled arms, crisscrossed scars like everyone in this age. He reassumed his hat and clapped his son's shoulder. "Not too long."

  "The city?" the hostler said, hugging a burlap sack brimming with oats. "The city, you say?"

  "That's right," Penning said, from beneath his hat.

  The hostler made a face like looking into the sun. "What business have you there?"

  "We're to see the treasons."

  The hostler became uglier. "The treasons, eh." His eyes flickered to the youngling passenger. "You two both?"

  "Both."

  The hostler's eyes touched Willam, brows reaching - A tad young, isn't he? "Very well," was all he said. He shook the oats into a trough.

  The horses ate and drank their fill, and Penning bridled them up. Willam was searching the town, looking every which way.

  The hostler haunted his shack's doorway, looking on. "I fancy the treasons myself," he said to Penning. "Good to see those scum get what's coming to them, I say. Could go every day."

  Penning didn't look up. He said "I don't fancy the treasons," then climbed the bench and took the reins. Once they were moving, he added "Say thanks," and tipped his boater.

  The hostler didn't answer, the face screwed up with askance. He watched until they disappeared down the packed dirt road.

  They lunched on a sun-shot hill coiffed with timothy grass, from a scuttle packed by Henri. String-tied cloth packages: venison, goat’s cheese, hardtack, apples. The city's skyline tined the horizon.

  "Mama says the city's bad," Willam said. He chewed diligently. "Why're we goin’ if it's bad?"

  Penning swallowed; dabbed his chin. "Because there's something there you must see."

  "The treasons?"

  "The treasons."

  Willam bit, chewed. "But Mama says that's bad too."

  "Yes, it's bad," Penning said.

  Willam studied him. "Why?"

  Penning looked out over the world, his bronze skin absorbing the light. "It's your ninth year, Willam. Your gramp took me to the treasons on my ninth, as did his father on his. It's tradition. Do you know that word?"

  A doubtful: "Yes."

  "It means it's something you'll do with your son, on his ninth birthday."

  Willam consulted his lap, processing this. "Okay. But why?" He did his best to look perplexed.

  Penning crunched an apple. "Told you, son. Because there's something you must see."

  Willam went back into his lap, then shook his head. "I don't understand, Papa."

  That fatherly smile. "You will."

  The city was small, then less so, then large, until it was everything they saw. Scowling towers in tooth-like configurations, incomplete, like the preceding road. Vast, decaying mounds, "cars" and other antique refuse. Highroads weaving with highroads, over and under, their odd, flattened stone consuming the world. There were others on the roads now, single riders or pairs, some carriages like theirs. A minority nodded and offered greeting. Penning stopped at an outlying stable.

  This hostler was even seedier than the last, the face lopsided with scars, a flock of roosters and naked children underfoot. He and Penning haggled a price, then the carriage was led to the strangest barn Willam had ever seen: not wood, but a reddish kind of stone, the blocks sandwiching thin strips of mortar. Willam had time to wonder just where the outfit would go, when the hostler opened a wall-sized panel dominating the barn's left half, a thundering roar. White writing over the front: JACOB'S GARAGE FULL SERVICE DOMESTICS IMPORTS, faded to a just-there gray, like something seen through fog.

  The hostler beckoned the carriage into the dark beyond, waving big. Willam said "Papa?" and Penning put a hand on his shoulder. It was cooler inside. The barn contained a continuum of bays harboring horses or mules. The carriage went to the right, beside another, and the hostler took the horses.

  Penning dug under the bench and came up with his silver six-shot, tucking it in his waistband, half out, as if trying to make it seen. He put on his tunic though he wasn't cold, and bade Willam to do the same. Aside from the demijohn and empty scuttle, the carriage was left empty. Penning told the hostler, "Say thanks," and he and Willam went on foot.

  When they were away, Willam asked, "Why'd we leave the carriage?"

  "Because the city is no place for carriages," Penning answered.

  "How far do'ee have to walk?"

  "Not far."

  Willam glanced the gleaming six-shot, but said nothing.

  A mile, and the city thickened, rising up around them. Willam had never known a thing so great, nor imagined such.

  Penning took the boy's hand. "Keep hold, son," he told him, not slowing. "Don't let go for anything."

  Willam said he wouldn't, and meant it.

  More people now, many more, perhaps the world in congress. Willam smelled them before he saw them, felt them before he smelled them, sensed their danger before anything. The ruined buildings made valleys, all clogged with bodies, ageless rubble
and twisted metal riptiding the flows. Gray-eyed men crowded doorways, several keeping mastiffs that growled, mystical conversation beneath shouts and commerce. Some women wore skirts like Mama; others wore little at all, these giving their eyes to anyone who passed. Vendors peddled vegetables and plucked chickens, used-looking tools, bizarre merchandise Willam had no name for. One sought Penning out, a dark man with untrustworthy eyes, keeping pace as he extended handfuls and quoted prices. Penning didn't look. The man eventually went away.

  Willam did not let go.

  They walked down a hard, gray path like a little highroad, avoiding the people pushing by. A sentry hut dominated every other corner, four stony eyes in each. Laws walking free, too, more than Willam had ever seen or cared to, as if this was where they were bred. Mounted horses clopped down the obstacled road, the crowd zippering before them and healing back. Most men showed weapons like Penning, six-shots or blades or billies. Some of the many windows were open, to men or women or nothing. Not a smile to be found.

  Penning steered them deep into this strange maze, seeming to know just where to go. They had turned yet another corner when a great commotion stirred from behind, forcing Willam around. He watched a carriage stroll down the way, driven by Laws, the crowd parting all the way to the walks. A quartet of horses drew the carriage, in caparisons the white of the Law, the cart caged and full of people. Those on the streets watched like Willam, except pointing and shouting: "Traitors!" "Dirty reds!" "Scoundrels!" Some laughed and threw things or kicked, eager salvos of spit. The prisoners made no response, indigently clothed or nude, the cheeks sharp with hunger. Their heads lolled with each bump.