The next morning, Barnaby and his sons were awakened by the sound of sirens. A crowd of onlookers was standing at the street edge, gawking down at the scene by the river. Where the other messengers had camped the night before, Barnaby saw only white sheets stained with blood. They were all over the area, which was surrounded by a ring of coppers and gurney men. An ambulance up at the street was pulling away and Reggie saw two more up there. One of the gurney men shouted over to the coppers, “Hey, got more over here. Looks like an arm. I think.”
“What’s he mean, Barn? What’s he mean it looks like an arm?”
“I don’t know what he means, Reg. Let’s not draw atten-…Shit.”
One of the coppers had started walking over to their camp, motioning for a partner to join him. They came over holding those hydrogen lights they carried on their belts. They must have come before, Phinias thought. How he and the others had slept through whatever happened was anybody’s guess. Phinias guessed that he knew what happened, but didn’t give any sign. He just folded his head down towards his chest like he always did when the law man came around. It took too much strength to hold himself up under his guilt. So he cowered before the memory of what he did before he drank himself into the sewer, and he hoped the law men wouldn’t ask the questions that he knew would loosen his tongue.
The gods must have been happy with his service, because the law men were kind to Phinias that morning. They asked him if he’d seen or heard anything. He started to shake his head, but Barnaby put a hand on his shoulder and he went still like he always did. Barnaby told the law men that he and his sons had been asleep the whole night long. They had the canvas pulled up over their heads so they couldn’t have seen anything even if they had been awake. One of the law men wanted to get a look at Phinias’ face, just for identification, he said, but his partner told him not to bother. What did it matter anyway, the one law man had said. A bunch of gutter rats by the river getting torn up like that? Messy, sure, but who’s gonna notice? Yeah, who cares anyway, the other one had said as they walked away.
Barnaby watched them go and then pulled Reggie and Phinias close to him to stay warm. He kept a glare on the coppers as they trudged up the hill behind the gurney men. They were pushing three gurneys piled high with bloody sheets. At the top, they loaded the remains into an ambulance and drove away. The crowd lingered for a while and then cleared out as Chicago went about its business. Barnaby and his sons huddled for warmth under the canvas and tried to get a fire going.
That day was quiet for the most part. One of the gods needed a message delivered, and Phinias got the nod. He wheeled his bike out from under the bridge into the frigid air and cupped his hands over his mouth. Turning around to look at Barnaby and Reggie, he thought he should tell them that he’d seen the little cat man again, but what would it matter. If this camp really was their resting place, so be it. That’s what Barnaby had always said. So be it.
Phinias delivered a message for Ingenuity that day, collecting his two coins from the god and stowing them in his bag with the others. Of course, there were only ever two coins in the bag. Phinias thought that the gods engaged in some clever legerdemain that made the old coins disappear each time he put the new ones in. Reggie called the coins communion wafers and Barnaby chastised him endlessly for making such blasphemous statements. Barnaby didn’t worry about the coins, he told his sons. He knew they were there for a reason and that reason would be revealed when it was time.
When Phinias got back to the camp, Barnaby and Reggie were playing a game of pick up sticks using pieces of straw they’d gleaned from the wake of a passing hay wagon. This stretch of the river was close to the outskirts of the city and the farmers still used the streets to haul their goods to the neighborhood markets. Phinias sat down and joined in. A few hours later, they all tucked into a bowl of Barnaby’s special combination stew. Reggie had procured an old ham joint from the butcher. It was a little bit this side of fresh, but Barnaby assured them it would go down well. He pulled out a jug with a smile and held it up high.
“Boys, let’s all raise a toast, shall we. I’ll get us started,” he said, uncorking the bottle. “To family. Because in the end, family is all a man has. You two are the best sons a man could hope for, and I love you.” He took a big swallow of the wine and passed the jug to Reggie.
Reggie looked at the jug, lifted it to his lips and took a small sip. Then he held it up and said “To the gods. For giving a guy that shouldn’t be alive a second chance at living. It ain’t much, but it’s what I got. I, Reginald Jameson Bartholomew Eustice Welks, am most assuredly grateful.” With that, he downed three good swallows and handed the now half empty jug to Phinias. He took it and drank one long swallow before raising it up and closing his eyes. Then he handed the jug to Barnaby and in this manner they finished it off with two more passes around the circle.
As they settled down to sleep later, Barnaby regaled his sons with a story of his life before the Great War. Reggie followed with a story of the woman who left him at the altar after she found out he wasn’t a virgin. Phinias listened like he always did, and let himself slowly drift into sleep. He was almost out cold when a smoky scent wafted through the air above his face. He opened his eyes and found himself staring into the face of the little cat man who was blowing on a burning bundle of grass and leaves.
“Wha-, what do you want?” Phinias asked, uttering the first words he’d spoken in nearly seven years. The little cat man said something in his telegraph language and waved his hand over the three men in a circle. Then he blew hard on the burning bundle and sparks scattered into the air over Phinias’ face. He pinched his eyes tight and tried to cover his face with the canvas, but the little cat man was holding it back with his free hand. When Phinias opened his eyes, the little man had turned into a jungle cat again and was padding off down the riverbank and out of sight.
Phinias settled himself down and dozed half to sleep. He felt safe even though he knew there was a monster loose in Chicago, a monster that killed Bicycle Men by tearing them to pieces while they slept. Phinias enjoyed the feeling of safety and wished he could share it with Barnaby and Reggie. If they were awake, he thought, he might even be able to use words and tell them that he’d seen the little cat man again and that he thought he was protecting them from the rat monster. When they asked him what rat monster he was talking about, he thought he could describe it for them, since it was starting to feel easier to speak. He wouldn’t have to act like a fool waving his arms around and grunting. He could talk to them, finally, he could speak and tell them everything he’d seen since yesterday. He might even finally ask Barnaby why he used spit to clean the pipe he used to stir their chow with instead of waiting for the water to boil when he made the stew.
Phinias was growing so comfortable with the idea of talking that he decided to wake Barnaby and Reggie up. He leaned over to shake them and started screaming when his hand touched Reggie’s still beating heart. In the dim light of the dying fire, Phinias could see that most of Reggie’s face was missing and his throat had been torn out. His chest was opened and his organs were lying scattered around his shredded abdomen. Bones stuck out at jaunty angles from his collar and his side. His arms were missing and one leg was ripped in half. Phinias could see the lower half a few feet away.
He looked around frantically for Barnaby but couldn’t find him. All he saw was blood and pieces of Barnaby’s coat. His top hat was hanging off the handlebars of his bike where he always left it. Phinias held himself and started to rub his upper arms. He darted his gaze down the river bank in one direction and then in the other. Then he stood up, throwing the blood soaked canvas off of him. He looked down and saw his own clothes were covered in what was probably Reggie. He moved to his bike and grabbed his goggles. He put them on, mounted the bike and lifted his foot to step on the pedal. He froze when he heard the hissing from above him. Looking up, he saw the monster, climbing down the iron frame of the bridge and eyeing him viciously. Its long snout and whi
skers twitched just before it leaped. The last thing Phinias Gardner saw was the rat monster’s claws as they grabbed his face and started ripping.
When it was over, the rat monster shrank down and scurried off into a drainage culvert. At the street side, a Maya shaman looked up into the sky at a great horned owl soaring towards him. He held his arm up for the owl to perch on. They walked down the street together and turned the corner at the next block. On the next street, a woman dressed in monk’s robes led a spotted jungle cat into an alleyway where they disappeared behind the aether veil and went to tell the gods they needed to find new messengers again.
Nothing but a Dog
A Trio of Travellers Tales
By Travis I. Sivart
“Our children are being slaughtered!” Grigor shouted over the noise of the room in his rough baritone voice, as the gathering of villagers yelled and argued. The room quieted to a murmur that sounded like a halfhearted rain on a canvas awning, and allowed him to speak at a reasonable volume. His thick beard quivered as he said, “Three of our children have been killed, ripped apart and mauled by some unholy beast. We need to take action, not sit here, hiding like scared children.”
“I know this is horrible,” Jaroslav said, Grigor’s unofficial rival as leader of the community, “we all love and cherish our children. But the three that are missing did wander off when it was dark.” He scanned the room with his clear eyes and ran a hand through his trimmed beard, “It has been a lean harvest, and the snows are coming. The beasts are on the hunt because they know this.”
The crowd muttered, torn between being assuaged and outraged.
“No!” Grigor interrupted, “Marko was fourteen, practically a man, and had already joined the woodcutters and was betrothed to pretty Dariya,” A young blonde girl in braids hid her face in her hands, and gave a shuddered sob as Grigor pointed at her. “Beasts would drag the body away. These were only partially eaten. Do I need to remind you? They were torn apart. Their stomachs torn out and only the tender organs eaten by the monster that did this! The trees around were painted with the blood of our children! And these children knew to not wander away. Why? Why did they go so far from their houses after dark?”
Jaroslav sighed. Always the more level headed of the two, he didn’t want all the details told to the women and panic and fear running through the village. “We can avoid anything else by staying inside after dark. There is nothing more to fear, if we keep our heads. This is nothing more than the work of a pack of hungry wild dogs; they know people and the children may have thought they were friendly.”
“I do not think so Jaroslav,” interrupted Grigor, “this is the work of a demon. Fedir told us what he saw. Do you need to hear it again? I think you do. Fedir, tell us again what you found at the stream.”
A large man stood slowly, towering over his friends. He was not smart but he knew his business and the woods better than most men. A dark, matted fur cloak hung over his shoulders, a trophy from a wolf that had attacked him when he was a youth. The day the children had gone missing, he led the woodcutters into the woods.
“This ain’t about the children,” Fedir said is his slow, halting manner, holding up four fingers, “but three weeks ago, I went to the stream, to fill the skins, before we were to be coming back to the village. I saw the bones first. Lots of them. Then I saw the carcasses. I think they were deer. I think. Lots. Many,” he held up his hands, flashing his fingers, showing the count of fifteen, “they all were missing their bellies, and they were missing their throats too. And they were laid out, all neat like. The water was red, with blood.” Looking down, the big man shuddered, not meeting the eyes of the other villagers. Women made the sign to ward off the evil eye as he continued. “I, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t know what to do.”
His brother, Oleksander, put a comforting hand on his shoulder, always protective of his older, but slower, brother. The candles made of goat fat guttered, as a cold breeze from between the cracks of the wooden logs that made the walls of the inn and community hall cut through the room. Thick, black smoke swirled and danced, and no one spoke for a moment.
A wiry youth leapt to his feet, “I say we slay the fiend!” He had been to the city once, and though he was worldly, and since returning was always shouting about the next cause. “It doesn’t attack grown men, and together we can kill it! Lord Talon may even reward us for it. He rewards people who take initiative.” The crowd immediately took up his cry to pursue what hunted in the woods around the village.
“Confound it, Luka,” Zenon the Elder, a white haired man, said with a wheeze. The room quieted to a murmur as the old man stood, pushing his way onto his one good leg using the table. He leaned heavily on a wooden crutch, “It is a smart and tricky thing. This beast would not show itself. As for Lord Talon, you do not know everything. Perhaps he would not be so pleased if we decided to do as you suggest.”
The door flew open with a bang, and cold air swirled through the room causing the candlelight to dance. Petro, the night watchman, stood in the door on tenterhooks, eyes wild, hair tousled, and his fur cap missing. “Something this way comes!” he said, “A horrible beast, the size of a wood shed. I saw it in the light of the moon, with its glowing eyes. It will be upon us in minutes!” He slammed the door behind him as he went to the cask, grabbed a tankard from beside it, and filled it with the dark frothy brew and drank. All eyes turned to Zenon. The old man held up his hands to calm the crowd when a noise cut through the night.
A deep growl sounded in the distance, as if a great beast were on the prowl. The guttural sound was rhythmic and unnatural. They could hear it growing closer as it climbed the hill that led to their homes. A high pitched whistling scream sounded, shaking the shudders and doors, the tankards hanging on the wall clanked together. People crowded to the back of the hall, but Grigor and Jaroslav rushed to the window to see what was coming. The sounds slowed. The ground shook with footfalls of the encroacher.
“I see it,” Jaroslav told the others, “it is as tall as a hut, with four legs, and its breath steams in the night.”
“Our doom has come then,” Grigor said as he turned and went to the wall, taking down the muzzle loading blunderbuss from above the cask of ale. Loading it with skill and speed, he readied the weapon with shot and steel, and tamping down the cotton he prepared to defend his people, his family.
“Jiminy whiskers! Someone is coming out of the side of the monster. A woman?” Jaroslav asked as he quit the window.
“The witch, Baba Yaga?” asked Hanna, the local midwife and gossip, “I heard she has been seen in the woods not too far from another village to the south. She has a walking hut with legs of a chicken. She surrounds it with a fence made of human bones, and skulls top each of the posts, with always one missing so she can put her next victim on top of it! She lures children away and eats them.”
An unseen guest watched from the above, hidden in the shadows of the rafters. The dark presence loomed over the villagers, and drank in their dread, the way a mortal man would drink wine. The being was heady from the ambrosia of the murky fear of the people. It could feel their panic pulsing in the air. This was just one way it fed from these people. It had many reasons to tend a flock, even if it was a flock that belonged to another, for now.
A soft knock at the door stopped further talk as the room went silent. All eyes turned to look as the door slowly creaked open; the biting cold whipped in and tore the cloak of warmth from the superstitious folk. The being above watched, as the tension rose. Three shadows stood in the door, silhouetted by the watch fires of the village square behind them. Two of the figures moved into the room, as the tallest turned to look outside before following.
They came into the light as the last of the three shut the door. The wear of travel showed on their faces as clear as the distrust showed on the faces of the residents of the hamlet. The first to enter was a woman with dark hair that was worn in a tight bun. Her dress was a proper Wedgewood blue
walking dress, with buttons that went all the way up to her throat and lace at the cuff of the sleeves. She carried a lace parasol and rings sparkled on her fingers. She was no mythical hag that peasants should fear.
The second was small man, hooded and dressed in a long cloak that covered a purplish gown underneath that resembled priestly garments. The last was a tall, wiry man with short, dark hair. Nothing about him stood out except his weapons and armor. A plain, curved sword was at his side, and a holstered pistol hung from the opposite hip. His clothing was more leather than cloth, and gleamed a reddish brown in the dim light. Grigor raised his gun.
“I did portend these travelers,” Evdokiya, the wise woman, said and glared around the room. Tossing a half dozen bones on the table, from the wooden bowl in her hand, they clattered as the village waited for her soothsaying. “They will help us,” she continued as she pointed at the bones, “I see more than a beast hunting, I see that dark clouds gather, and evil is upon us.” The room burst into panicked discussion. “Shush, you squawking geese. The watch fires are lit, and the gods watch over us. The danger may not take us if we offer the sacrifice they want.” The room quieted.
After a pause the woman with the strangers spoke, “Pray, I am Elizabeth. We mean no ill, nor fright. My companions are Suykimo and Zachary. We merely seek a place to rest for the night, we have traveled far.”
“What is that armored, screaming beast outside?” Grigor asked, not lowering his weapon.
“It is no beast, good sir. It is a machine. Like a steam locomotive, but using legs and roads instead of wheels and rails. It makes for a noisy and bumpy ride, but it is as adequate as a horse and carriage. But it eats wood and makes steam rather than eating oats and producing fertilizer.”
Machina Mortis: Steampunk'd Tales of Terror Page 15
