by ed. Pela Via
Callahan laughs, washing his hands under a rusted tap, drooling pale brown water. The damage, he repeats. Took the drones and me about eight hours to reattach all four of your limbs. Three hours more than usual. Your heart stopped beating for eight minutes. We made sure your brain still got oxygen, though.
Fuck, says Asher.
Callahan slides the goggles off, revealing eyes flooded with blood. Asher. You can’t keep going. It’s getting harder.
Asher nods and says, what else can I do?
The doctor sighs. Someone slid a present under your door, by the by. Catch.
Asher’s nerves fail on him and the envelope slaps against his chest. It takes him a dozen seconds to pick it up and open it. He unfolds the letter.
FRIEND,
SEEMS YOU HAVE TROUBLE KILLING YOURSELF. WE CAN FIX THAT PROBLEM. PERMANENTLY. TODAY’S THE LAST DAY TO PAY BACK WHAT YOU OWE ME. COME THIS AFTERNOON WITH THE MONEY. OTHERWISE, WE SHALL SEE YOU TONIGHT.
DISRESPECTFULLY,
YOU KNOW WHO
Callahan studies Asher, then says, what’s tonight’s trick? Gotta get the instruments ready.
I think I have a rough idea, replies the magician.
———
It’s not resurrection in the strictest sense, of course. That right there is a form of reality bending that’s only been achieved in old tales and fables for kids—pure hogwash. Instead Asher settled for clever brutality, fixable injuries. The oversized pack of dynamite he unwrapped in front of the audience was a prop, mostly plastic, stuffed with heat-triggered smoke tablets. Before the show, he had strapped tiny blasting gelatin charges to his limbs, bombs no bigger than summer flies. Strong enough to shed various body parts, too weak to turn him into burnt stew. He wore thick metal plating under his loose sweatshirt. He coated his face with anti-burning ointments and a colorless protective residue he bought from a dubious shaman at the market, supposedly stolen from the city’s firemen. He injected himself with morphine, swallowed enough pills to put a whale into a coma. When he pressed the trigger, his arms and legs were destroyed—good thing Callahan kept an army of cloned limbs at his workshop. After that, it was just a job of performing surgery and reality bending quick enough for him not to die.
The night before, an antidote already working its way through his bloodstream counteracted the poisonous gas he inhaled like a lung-scorching joint hit. He received the pain, the skin bubbling with tennis ball sized sores, teeth melting, hair falling out, all the usual radioactive horror, but no death.
Two nights ago, it was a self-inflicted shotgun shot right through the bare chest. He was on so much morphine he couldn’t see straight, the trigger had to be remotely pulled by Callahan. Hurt like a bitch, took the doc four hours to remove the bullet fragments. Asher got a three minutes’ standing ovation for that one.
The night before, a swarm of killer bees assaulted his face drenched with pheromones and anesthetics.
The night before that, he drowned in a giant aquarium.
Asher’s cortex shifts gears as he walks over the bridge linking the rest of the city to Anachronos’ Isle. The prison island now turned mutant ghetto always made him feel at home despite his skin color. The grey-skinned mutants with their deformities were seen as freaks, things innocent human children and pretty girls with rich dads should be kept away from. He focuses on tonight’s act, reorganizing thoughts in the hopes of figuring it all out. He wanders the streets, passing shattered towers clawing for the sky, their sides lined with barred windows. Mutant kids run through the alleys—horns, wings, spikes and claws growing out of their flesh.
Another turn and he stops in front of the mansion. A mutant with a pair of hairy noses guards the door, cradling a riot shotgun.
Asher steps up to him and says, I’m here to see Carpat.
The guard shrugs, sniffs and spits. Don’t know who you mean, partner.
Asher brings a hand to his forehead and rubs it, sighing. Look. I need to speak to him. Tell him it’s extremely urgent. And he will be interested.
You look familiar, says the guard.
I just have one of those faces.
Hey, no, you’re that freak from the circus, down in Sector 7. Saw your picture on the posters.
Freak, repeats Asher. He stares at the guard’s noses and says, man, it must suck for you to get a cold. Snot city.
Get lost, human. Carpat won’t see the likes of you.
Asher says, let me show you a magic trick.
The guard steps back and raises his shotgun, aiming for Asher’s chest.
The trick, explains Asher, is you letting me in. Here’s how it works: you step inside that mansion, you go get Carpat, and you tell him I pissed off some squid bastards quite badly, and they want to do me in. The name is Count Voto. Funny part is, Carpat doesn’t like him. Old grudges. And I have some information about him he could use. Valuable information.
What if I shoot you instead, circus boy?
Asher grins. Then Carpat receives a letter from one of my friends in a few days, informing him the pug-faced inbred lapdog guarding the door this afternoon shot someone who held precious facts your boss could have used to bring down one of his rivals. What happens next is between you and your easily angered employer. You know, the one renowned for violence and torture?
The guard frowns, and lowers the shotgun. Asher whistles.
Stay here. I’ll be back.
Oh, I’ll be waiting.
After a few minutes of shuffling cards and staring at the sky, the door opens. The guard steps out.
Well?
The guard nods, moves aside and mumbles, Carpat will see you now.
Why, thank you.
As Asher strolls past the brooding guard, he winks and whispers, abracadabra.
———
They struck a deal. Carpat listened. Asher shared his information. Carpat thanked him, and true to his reputation, offered his services. The young magician asked the gang lord only two things. First, a handful of armed henchmen. Second, the help of the most talented grave robber in the city.
Once all was said and done, Asher headed for the eastern market with enough coins in his pocket to buy himself a coffin he could rot in.
Showtime. Packed crowd, conversations stacking on top of each other in grumbling piles, the warm smell of sweat and unwashed bodies colliding, peanuts and sandwiches filled with questionable meat, spotlights making the temperature rise.
Peeking through the curtains, Asher spots them with no effort. Spread out and not even trying to blend in with the crowd, as discreet as dynamite. The squid-kin wear distinctive mafia clothing, summer blue military jackets with four sleeves, one for each arm. They wait, unblinking.
Asher backs away from the curtains and says, I left my will in the caravan. Make sure my mom gets her share. And there’s enough money for you to open your own clinic. Or blow it all on shrooms, shrimps and sluts. Whatever floats your boat.
Callahan pats Asher on the back. Are you sure you can do this?
Asher turns around and smiles. Are you sure you can do this, doctor?
It takes Callahan a long time to hug his friend and whisper, I’ll miss you.
———
Ladies, gentlemen, and inbetweeners. Welcome.
The crowd cheers and claps. Some devoted fans chant die, die, die, and stomp their feet in anticipation. Children chomp on popcorn while their fathers sip beer.
Asher stands in the very middle of the big top, multicolored lights blinding him. His lips almost touching the microphone, he says, tonight will be very special. More applause. He waits, then says, tonight, I will not kill myself. Silence. Confused faces study each others’ for an explanation. Tonight, resumes Asher, I’ll let someone else do the job for me. Why waste my own bullets when others are oh so eager to take care of it? He offers a devilish grin and the audience hoots and laughs, applauding louder than before. Everyone, it is my pleasure to introduce my assistants. Meet my murderers.
Asher steps away from the m
icrophone and nods. The spotlights move, illuminating random audience members before finally settling down. Three different lights shine on three shub’nar, who hiss and look around, reeling from the sudden attention. The crowd eggs them on, cheering or booing them. Some hidden faces throw racial slurs at the shub’nar.
Asher says, our squid brothers are here to shoot me. Months ago, before this all started, I borrowed money from a less than honest character, you all know him by name. Count Voto. I needed money to pay for my mother’s medication. I repaid him in full, but his bills keep coming to this day. When I stopped sending money, the threats began. And tonight, it ends.
One of the shub’nar shouts, we don’t care about witnesses, trickster. This is your last chance to pay Voto.
Asher laughs into the microphone before backing away. He unbuttons his shirt and drops it to the floor. He spins around on himself, displaying a skinny sunken chest and an army of ribs lurking under a tapestry of tattoos, showing them all that there are no tricks tonight, no hidden armors, no misdirection, only a young man grabbing death by the jaw. Once everyone in the circus understands this will be Asher’s final show, he grabs the microphone with one hand, raising up his middle finger with the other and says, everyone, I would like to thank you for appreciating my art and showing up night after night. Godspeed to you all. He pauses. As for you three bastards, you can tell Voto I’d happily rip his tentacles off with my bare teeth and shove them up his flabby ass. Blow me.
As soon as the last two words escape Asher’s lips, the shub’nar whip out their respective weapons. Myriads of explosions bang through the tent. Sparks fly from the foaming mouths of shotguns. The audience screams and pushes for the exit. Bullets tear through the magician’s flesh, lodging themselves deep within him. He feels it all, more pain than any of his previous deaths granted him but he forces himself to stand tall, blink through the red veil cloaking his vision. The shots keep coming, but too many for it to simply be the shub’nar and as he falls to his knees, blood pouring out of his mouth and filling his nostrils, he catches a chaotic glimpse of one of the squids’ head blowing apart, Carpat’s men landing a killing shot, an all out gang war blooming within the circus.
More shots echo but he can’t see anymore and the sand is so warm, he may just rest there forever. Blackness shrouds his thoughts in tune with his crawling heartbeat and ragged breath. Flash visions of his father drinking and his mother trapped in bed, a young Callahan performing a back-alley abortion, the first girl he kissed, the last girl he kissed, the rainy day he spent performing coin tricks by the canal and his heartbeat is mute and the sand isn’t warm anymore, turned to mushy ice against his skin. His brain offers him one last desperate grasp at beauty: a picture of the faraway city of Mallik, a place he only saw through a postcard pinned to the wall above his bed and at last, Asher Marok, the death juggler, gives up the ghost and understands what it feels like to truly die.
———
Callahan sits across from Carpat. The crime lord’s scorpion tail dangles by his side, swinging back and forth like a poisonous pendulum.
My condolences about your friend, doctor. I wish his plan had worked.
Callahan nods, eyes glued to the carpet. Thank you.
I trust my men did their job?
Yes. Blew the squids to smithereens. Callahan locks eyes with Carpat. Seems this city will have to witness another gang war.
Carpat laughs. It will be a short one, I assure you. Your friend provided some very handy information. I expect Count Voto to be dead within two moons. Of course his numerous friends and family won’t be pleased, but my people can handle them.
I’m glad to hear it, replies Callahan. The gods know this place has seen enough blood. Now, I believe this is for you.
The doctor removes a stuffed envelope from his jacket. He places it on the coffee table.
This is Asher’s will and a good chunk of his money. I trust you will make sure his mother will be taken care of. There is more money than needed, feel free to keep the rest as a thank you.
Carpat shakes his head. No need. All the money will go to her. I will make certain she will never starve or have to worry about her living conditions.
Thank you.
As for you, doctor, if you are looking for a new home and a new job, my crew can always use a healing hand.
Thank you, Carpat, but I will have to decline. I am done with this city.
I understand. I’m sure you can show yourself out. I have a war to take care of. In the next few days, I will leave some flowers on your friend’s grave.
Callahan offers a polite smile, then gets up and leaves.
———
Charcoal clouds leak dirty raindrops over the cemetery. Callahan kneels in front of Asher’s resting place. He places a bouquet of black flowers on the marble. The tombstone reads:
HERE LIES ASHER MAROK
MAGICIAN, DEATH JUGGLER, ESCAPE ARTIST
DEAR FRIEND AND BELOVED SON
Twin blue pills down the throat chased by a splash of water and Callahan hopes the sickness won’t get to him. He has no sea legs and the journey will be a painful one. The city of Nualla-Stem is long out of sight and there is nothing now but a flat stretch of grey, the ocean spreading as far as the eye can see. No collapsing buildings, no airships, no industrial chaos, no skyscrapers afire, no rot.
On deck, he passes by families enjoying the journey, fathers crouching next to daughters and pointing at the withering sun and packs of shrieking dolphins following the boat. The doctor smiles at the passengers and opens a door, plunges into the darkness. He makes his way down several flights of stairs bathing in red light. The ship’s bowels growl through the walls. He reaches the lowest deck and walks down the hallway until he faces his room. He opens the door and closes it immediately behind him.
Thirsty, begs the bleeding man in bed.
The place reeks of maggots and damp earth and stale air. Callahan opens the window. He reaches for the water flask and brings it to his patient’s cracked lips. Grey mutant skin lurks beneath the soaked bandages concealing his face.
There you go.
Thanks, the man croaks.
Callahan sits by his bed and lights up a cigarette. He exhales in the dark and lets the sea air steal the smoke away.
The patient coughs, a ragged thing. He mutters, what’s . . . what’s the damage, doc?
Callahan can’t help but crack up. The damage, he repeats. The usual question. This body is rotting but I can slow it down until we reach shore. Then we’ll need a reality bender or a shaman to cure it for good. Expect a lot of pain for the next thirty-seven days. Longer if we get trapped in a storm.
Sounds peachy.
They don’t trade words for several minutes, until the man coughs again then says, what did you do exactly?
The doctor scratches his beard, gathers his thoughts. Exchanged brains. Bent reality as best as I could. Rewired nerves. Replaced organs that were damaged. Ugly. Didn’t think it’d work. Kept swearing the whole time. Wouldn’t stop shaking. Blood everywhere. The grave robber recommended by Carpat was good, though. Got you a fresh corpse. Minimal stink. Rigor mortis had barely set in. Might feel some stiffness. So it worked, I suppose. I mean, gods, look at you.
I’m a mutant.
Yeah, says Callahan. Like you always dreamed. And Carpat thinks the procedure didn’t work, and Voto will soon be dead. No one’s the wiser.
Another successful death, whispers Asher. Greatest trick of my career.
What about your mother?
What about my mother? She won’t starve. She’ll get better. She’ll heal. Maybe see the sunshine again, burn her wheelchair.
She believes you’re dead, Ash.
I couldn’t afford to let her in on it, and you know that. Think she can handle seeing me like that?
Doesn’t matter what you are now. You’re her only son.
It’s begging for the word to get out, and for Voto’s remaining family to hunt her down, eventually. Bastards
wouldn’t stop coming until I was dead. Squids are the best at holding grudges.
Sure, says Callahan, sure. He lights up another cigarette and invites the silence in. When he’s done, he tosses the butt out the window and closes it. Funny thing, though.
What’s that?
I placed your brain and a few organs in this new body, right. Some nerves and transferred some blood. Something’s been bothering me, though.
Asher waits.
No soul, says the doctor. I didn’t transfer no goddamn soul.
So what, replies Asher. You think we have no souls? Just walking bags of flesh with brains and nerve endings?
Callahan gets up and heads for the door. He opens it. The light from the hallway slithers into the room. I’m not too convinced about the rest of us, Ash. But I’m pretty sure about you.
——————————
Click-Clack
by Caleb J Ross
Some say the train’s click-clack echoed his mother’s escape, that the looming engine overtook and ultimately replaced the sound of her footsteps, leaving Ernie with only the train’s passing heat for warmth and its lumbering weight to serve as the heartbeat he had nestled for the past nine months.
When Jack found the baby, newborn and discarded, webbed among the weeds and other failed carcasses lining the rails, birds pecked and sucked at remaining afterbirth. The infant’s skin sparkled to the rising sun reflecting off bloated insects. Overnight rains had rinsed the mother’s scent from the gravel and railroad ties, leaving the child without a single trail to follow, without a single strain of familiar air to feed its fading breath.
Jack scooped up the body with a shovel he reserved for roadkill. He named it Ernie and called his boss to request leave for the remaining day.
