by Sam Witt
He raised his head and swept his eyes over the small crowd. “Go home. There’s nothing here for you.”
Rae, the youngest of the Conclave witches, watched Joe with open defiance. “That’s not true.”
Joe didn’t want to do this. He wanted to bury his wife and then go into the house and pour his stash of Kentucky bourbon down his neck until he drowned. Why wouldn’t this damned girl leave them alone? “You need to find a new top witch, little girl. The rest of you need to figure out who you’re going to follow, and the answer ain’t me. I’ve given as much to this place as I can; there’s nothing left for you to pick at.”
Most of the crowd looked away, but Rae wouldn’t be swayed. “You can’t just leave us. You aren’t the only one who lost something. We need you. But you need us, too.”
The words sank into Joe’s heart like a stone thrown down a well. They filled him with a hollow ache, and a vague sense of guilt and unease that told him she was right.
If he wanted to keep on living, he would need the people of Pitchfork County. He’d ,dedicated all of his life to them, whether they appreciated it or not. He’d sacrificed everything to protect this little corner of the world and while he wanted to run, while he wanted to lose himself in a tsunami of liquor and regret, he didn’t know if he would ever be able to pull himself free from Pitchfork County.
Because what would it all have been for if he let go now? What was the point of his entire life if, after finally setting the people of Pitchfork free, he didn’t stick around to see how it all turned out? “Go home. Pray that tomorrow is a better day for us all.”
Joe turned away from the crowd as they left his place. He didn’t want to watch them go, and he didn’t want them to see him just now. He’d been holding it together for as long as he could, and the realization that he wasn’t getting out of this mess anytime soon had knocked the last of the wind from his sails. He stood on the edge of his wife’s grave and watched the woods on the other side of the little creek behind his house and tried to imagine a world without Stevie. “I don’t know how I’m going to do this.”
When the last of them were gone and Joe was alone at last, he let the tears come. He could hardly see as he swung the hoist over and slid his wife’s coffin into the sling. He didn’t sob or wail, just stood in the cold and wept until the winter wind burnt his cheeks and there were no more tears to shed.
As Joe lowered his wife’s coffin into the ground, he felt his sorrow setting down roots for the long haul. But in the stony ground of his heart, there were other seeds planted as well. Seeds of anger. Seeds of righteousness.
He didn’t want to say here in Pitchfork, but he knew he wasn’t leaving. He had to set things right and show people how to live free once again. What did he know about living free? It was something he’d thought about for most of his life, but he’d never had any real experience with it. His father had called the shots while he was alive, and after Joe had worn the Long Man’s leash.
But he understood more now than he had before. He’d changed in the Black Lodge. He hadn’t simply killed his enemies; he’d taken some parts of them into himself. It burnt in his guts like a ball of lava. It seethed and twisted and roiled with power that he didn’t understand.
He could feel that new power waiting for his command, but the idea of exercising it made Joe want to puke. Something told him that if he stepped out of line, if he tried to do something without really understanding what he’d become, everything he’d struggled for would be destroyed.
Stevie’s coffin settled into the bottom of the grave. Joe had never felt anything like this. All the hurts in his life had been leading up to this one moment, this final big ache that would never be topped and would live on inside him forever.
He didn’t know what he was going to do. He wanted a drink more than he’d never wanted anything in his life.
Instead, he shoveled the dirt into his wife’s grave. With every scoop he dumped into the ground, Joe started to see his future a little more clearly. He’d made mistakes, but he thought he knew how to fix them. After all, he was no longer just the Night Marshal. He wasn’t just Pitchfork’s protector and resident spook hunter.
He was so lost in his plans, he didn’t see the two shadowed figures, one tall and one small, watching him from across the creek.
And he didn’t see them slowly turn their backs and vanish into the trees.
39
Cigar smoke filled the small room. Most of it spilled from the mouth of the grizzled man at the head of the scarred table. He puffed on a stogie so thick and rancid smelling, his partners joked it’d be better for everyone if he just smoked a mummy’s cock. He shook his head at the memory of the joke then stubbed the cigar out in the hollowed skull he used for an ashtray. He grabbed one of the skull’s horns and banged it on the table like a makeshift gavel. It was time to get this show on the road.
The rest of the room’s occupants shuffled toward their seats around the long table. There was no formal seating arrangement, but they all ended up positioning themselves with the most senior nearest the smoking man and the newer members all the way down at the far end of the table.
Not that there were many of those. The last inductee had picked up the job more than a decade ago, and they were all looking worse for wear. Shit was getting bad out there, and the news he was about to give them was the worst yet. He let them all get settled in before he started.
They didn’t have any formal ceremonies or rituals to observe; they were all far too pragmatic for that kind of foolishness. This group focused on getting the fucking job done, not polishing their titles and trying to sound important. He cleared his throat then dove in. “I’m sure you’ve all heard, but let me just confirm the rumors for you. The shit has hit the fan.”
They all shifted uncomfortably in their seats, and the smokers among them fished out their packs and started puffing. The man to his right rubbed the gray stubble on his chin and leaned back in his chair. “You sure about this?”
Their leader didn’t hesitate. “I know this is hard to take. But yes, I know this is happening. This isn’t a drill. I’m not making a mistake. I don’t want this any more than the rest of you, but we’re going to have to take back a star.”
An older woman with a bubbled scar down the side of her face and two fingers on her left hand slapped her palm on the table. “We can’t go in there. If the rumors are true, then trying to take back that star will be a bloodbath. We can’t afford to lose any more of us.”
The leader sprang to his feet, kicking his chair back and slamming both palms down on the table. “What if he figures out what to do with that newfound power, and we end up with something twice as bad as the Long Man? You have any idea how long he and his family have been out there in the cold?”
There was the rub. While the rest of the Night Marshals had support from one another and their organization, the people of Pitchfork County had been kept isolated from the rest of the troops. At the time, it seemed like a plan that could work. They’d use the Long Man to help keep a lid on the nightmare cancers that sprang from Pitchfork’s depths, and they’d kept the old monster from getting up to any shenanigans of his own.
But their cunning little plan had gone off the rails.
Not only had Jonah Hark gone off the books; it looked like he’d become the very thing he’d been fighting. From what they could tell, which admittedly wasn’t very goddamn much these days, Joe hadn’t just killed the Long Man; he’d usurped the thing’s position.
A younger woman, with blue-black hair shaved on the sides and swept back into a ratty topknot, raised her voice. She wasn’t the newest Night Marshal, but she was damn close. “I’ll go.”
The leader stared at the girl, and every eye followed his. “You’ll go and do what?”
She shrugged. “You need eyes. You need boots on the ground. I’ll go see what’s happening.”
There were grunts and murmurs around the table, but the leader had to admit it wasn’t a bad idea.
He’d never ask one of the Night Marshals to do it on their own, mostly because it was a suicide mission. If Hark had turned, he’d likely murder anyone who came nosing around. But if she was going to volunteer…
“You don’t have much time.”
“I’ll leave tonight. I travel light.”
“What if you get there and he’s turned?”
She smiled and mimed a shooting gesture with both hands. “ I guess we’ll find out which one of us is quicker on the draw.”
The Night Marshals’ leader grunted and waved her on. He hoped she’d be able to pull this off. He didn’t really care anymore whether or not Joe was still alive. That crazy fucker and his family had been a thorn in the organization’s side for years. He hoped the girl was as good as her word.
And if she wasn’t, well, there was always Plan B.
They’d scorch Pitchfork County to the fucking bare earth like they should have done decades ago.
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Also by Sam Witt
The Pitchfork County Series
Half-Made Girls: A Pitchfork County Novel
Ghost Hunters: A Pitchfork County Tale
Night-Blooded Boys: A Pitchfork County Novel
Witch Hunt: A Pitchfork County Tale
Dead-Eyed God: A Pitchfork County Novel
The Armageddon Thrones Season 1
The Apocalypse Hive: Episode 1
The Apocalypse Hive: Episode 2
The Apocalypse Hive: Episode 3
The Apocalypse Hive: Episode 4
The Apocalypse Hive: Episode 5
The Apocalypse Hive: Episode 6
The Apocalypse Hive Has Opened
The dead rise to seek vengeance on the living. Swarms of glittering emerald wasps spread violent madness through their stings. A black rain falls and spreads a mysterious disease. The end of all things is at hand.
What will you become to survive?
Start reading the new post-apocalyptic thriller from Sam Witt - for free! Visit the link below to get the first episode.
http://www.samwitt.com/armageddon-thrones-s1
Shit the Author Says
This book took a long time to crawl out of my head and onto the page. In wrapping up this first arc of Pitchfork’s story, I had to look both to the past and the future so I could wrap up some earlier threads and unwind some new ones.
I had to examine my feelings about the characters and their roles. I knew The Bad Thing had to happen in this book, but I didn’t realize how much it would upset me when it did. Sometimes, these little fuckers sink their hooks deep inside your brain meats and just refuse to let go.
I hope they’ve had some small impact on you, as well, and you feel their pain as keenly as I. Or maybe I’m just overly sentimental, right?
Part of that sentimentality comes from the same place as the darkness in these books. I grew up in Small Town, USA and lived a kind of childhood that most kids couldn’t even imagine. We rode our bikes all over town, we stayed out alone until the street lights came on, and the only thing we were in danger of was getting grounded if we spent too long hunting fireflies.
All that’s changed now. Meth labs are exploding in my home town. A teacher one school district over just got busted for child porn. Jobs are drying up and folks in my demographic are falling prey to slow suicide by alcohol and pills as they find themselves cast aside.
But it doesn’t have to be this way. That’s a big part of why I write. To try and shine a light in the darkness, to tell stories about men and women who stand up to the night and raise a middle finger to evil, no matter the cost. We can change things, but we have to be willing to fight for that change.
Never forget that.
Talk to you soon -
Sam
About the Author
Sam Witt writes dark thrillers infused with the supernatural. Informed by a rural Midwestern childhood and a big city adulthood, he combines downhome folklore and legends with a hard-hitting, take-no-prisoners writing style.
His Pitchfork County series follows the dark and twisting lives of a family intent on using their own cursed abilities to protect the place they call home from all manner of threats, from mad gods to meth cults.
For more information about current and future projects, as well as other cool stuff from Sam, check out his website here:
http://www.samwitt.com
Stay in touch:
@samrwitt
samwittwrites
www.samwitt.com
Acknowledgments
This book wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for the hard, sometimes heroic, efforts of my publishing team. These folks are the best and turned my scribblings into a book you’d actually want to read.
First and foremost, to my family. They provide the kind of critical alpha read that only people who know me well could. It hurts, but it’s worth it.
Jason Whited, my fabulous editor, worked tirelessly to hone my prose and keep me from making embarrassing grammatical gaffes.
KPGS who produces the awesome covers for the Pitchfork County Novels and puts up with my nitpicks about spider size and shades of purple.
All the good stuff in this book is the product of these folks. All the screw-ups are my own.
