Soft Apocalypses

by Lucy Snyder

  Fate smiled on his determination a couple of weeks later. Well. Smiled is the wrong word. It was more a fately smirk. A newly-hired guard—one who apparently dozed off during his orientation on the strange creatures living in my father’s castle—stumbled onto Pal after my familiar’s morning swim in the moat. The guard, a kid barely out of school, freaked the heck out. And lit Pal up with his Taser. Which would have been an act of epic, life-ending stupidity on the guard’s part had Pal been a normal grizzly bear. But instead of sending Pal on a man-slaying rampage, the powerful shock triggered his polymorphic enchantment and he began rapidly (and painfully) cycling through his past familiar bodies until the guard stopped zapping him.

  When the smoke of burnt fur cleared, Pal was in his ferret form. Small. Cute. Non-threatening. Portable. Clearly it was time for a trip down south.

  So just a few days later, I pulled my rented Dodge Ram truck up in front of Madame Devereaux’s sprawling blue ranch house. The old witch was bent over the engine of her 1968 Volkswagen Beetle in the shade of the huge magnolia in her front yard. Her African mudcloth sundress and orange Crocs were smudged with black oil and red transmission fluid. Her granddaughter Shanique sat close by on a metal folding chair, holding a red toolbox at the ready, clearly trying to keep her brand new purple sneakers from getting greased.

  “Hey there!” I waved to them as I got out of the truck with Pal perched on my shoulder.

  Madame Devereaux straightened up, squinting at us from behind her thick, old-fashioned bifocals. “Jessie Shimmer, is that you?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Ain’t you got that paw of yours fixed yet?” She pointed at the gray satin opera glove covering my left hand and forearm.

  “Oh, it’s fixed. No more hellfire.” I pulled down the cuff of the burn-proof glove to show her my pale, luminous flesh. I was glad it was closer to normal. Having a hand made out of flame is great if you’re trying to barbecue things, but it’s lousy for pretty much anything else. It’s especially hard to hold onto anything when your hand doesn’t have any bones; I’d had to rely on my natural talent for spiritual extension, a type of parakinesis, and even that failed if I wasn’t paying attention. My Frisbee game sucked hard.

  “It still looks weird, so I still keep it covered up,” I finished.

  “What you doing here? Your daddy need something?”

  “No ma’am … Pal here wanted to come back to see if there was anything we could do to thank you for curing him.”

  The old lady seemed simultaneously flustered and annoyed. “I done told you I don’t need no payment for that!”

  “It’s not about payment, ma’am … he just wants to do something to thank you.”

  We went back and forth for a couple of minutes in gentle argument until Shanique finally said, “What about your healing stone, Grandma?”

  “Hm.” Madame Devereaux rubbed her chin. “I reckon gettin’ that back would be a fine thing.”

  “Healing stone?” I asked. “Where is it?”

  “Boudreaux Metier borrowed my best crystal to cure some of his coon hounds what came down with distemper last year. It’s a relic your daddy gave me, a dark purple amethyst carved in the shape of the goddess Hygieia. ‘Bout four inches high. Boudreaux said he’d just be a couple days with it but he ain’t brung it back yet. I tried to call him on his cell, but I reckon he dropped it down the sump again. He lives a ways back in the bayou and I just ain’t been up for going out there on my own.”

  She paused, wincing. “Boudreaux always wants you to set a spell, see, and try whatever vile rotgut he’s brewed up from his still. I think that boy’s done burned out his tastebuds. Anyway. If y’all were to go get that stone back for me, I’d surely appreciate it.”

  “Consider it done,” I replied.

  It was almost evening before Madame Devereaux’s directions got me on the road to Boudreaux’s place out in the bayou. She’d warned me that my truck’s GPS wouldn’t be much good, and sure enough, the device was telling me I’d reached a dead end even though I could see a straight path of mud-reddened gravel parting the thick forest of pine trees and cypresses. I could have cast a spell to track him, but that required a bit of Boudreaux’s hair or a toenail clipping or a personal item, and Madame Devereaux didn’t have so much as a mason jar of his moonshine.

  We followed the road down into a darkening hollow, then up onto a small hill where we encountered the real dead end. A couple hundred yards away, I could see an Army green house lurking in a clearing. The two-story plantation style home had seen better days; the double wraparound porches were warped and Spanish moss dripped from the upper railings. A couple of rusty cars on blocks and cords of firewood were piled in the yard around the building.

  “I can’t say I like the look of the place,” Pal told me telepathically, craning his neck out the window and sniffing the piney air. “I smell carrion.”

  “Boudreaux’s got coon hounds,” I replied. “He’s a hunter. Of course you smell dead things. He’s probably got a critter pit or something to dispose of carcasses.”

  Despite my words, far more sinister possibilities were already crowding in my mind. So after I killed the engine I went to the trunk to get out my Mossberg shotgun and a sheathed knife I could slip inside my boot. A girl can’t be too careful. My defensive magic is pretty decent, but sometimes there’s just no substitute for a firearm or a blade.

  I slung the Mossberg over my left shoulder and Pal perched on my right, his whiskers twitching with anxiety. Still, he didn’t complain. I began to make my way through the litter of leaves, small branches, and scattered car parts toward the house. Halfway there I stepped over the crumbling remains of a low stone wall that, once I’d crossed it, we both realized contained some kind of warding magic.

  “Oh dear,” said Pal.

  I reached down, picked up a couple of tinder-dry pine needles, and spoke a couple of old word for “flame”. The charm seemed to stick in my throat. Nothing happened. Not so much as a spark or wisp of smoke. Crap. I’d run into a magic-dampening field before; it had been powered by captive witches and wizards trapped in a thrall circle. Not an easy piece of spell work. The stones behind my feet didn’t feel strong enough to be the source.

  Pal was staring at the unlit needles in my hand. “This does not bode well.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” I thought back to him. “But Boudreaux’s a friend of Madame D. … if he’s in trouble she’d want to know. Especially if the trouble could spill over to her and Shanique.”

  Still, it was time to do a couple of quick tests before we went any further. My left eye was an enchanted stone; I blinked through a couple of views to confirm that the suppression field wasn’t affecting items imbued with permanent magic.

  “My ocularis is good, so whoever’s casting this isn’t that powerful.” I reached into my pocket, found a lighter, flicked it with my thumb. A sturdy little flame flashed to life. “And we’ve got fire. So my shotgun will still work. It’ll be fine.”

  We continued on to the house. I kept the shotgun slung at what I hoped looked like a casual angle, but I could bring it up in a hurry if I needed to. If we were being watched, I didn’t want to seem threatening. We got to the front of the house, and went up the creaky, mossy steps onto the worn porch. I knocked on the brown steel front door. Waited. No answer.

  “Hello, Mr. Metier, are you there?” I called. “Anybody home?”

  I was about to knock again when I heard the deadbolt slide back and the door swung open to reveal a tall man dressed in a tattered black dress shirt and muddy black tactical pants. His hair was a filthy, gray-streaked blond mane and his long beard was turning into dreadlocks. He didn’t look or smell like he’d showered in months. And it was more than just dirt, old sweat, and crusty underwear; he wore an unmistakable stench of meaty rot.

  “Whatchu want, girl?” He had the voice of a man who’d smoked a million cigarettes, and glared down at me with eyes the color of an algae-sheened cesspool.

 
; “Madame Devereaux sent me.” I couldn’t keep my voice steady. “Are you Boudreaux Metier?”

  He shook his head, and as his beard moved I saw that his black shirt was topped with a stained clerical collar. “I’m Brother Hiram. Boudreaux is busy with the Lord’s work.”

  “Jessie.” Pal’s voice was tight with fear. “This fellow doesn’t have a heartbeat. We should go. Now.”

  “The Lord’s work?” The magic suppression spell, no doubt. If this guy had enslaved Boudreaux, he probably wasn’t working alone. I had the horrible feeling I didn’t have nearly enough ammo. Time to call for help. I fixed a smile on my face and carefully backed away. If I got past the first car on blocks I could sprint for the stone fence and be past the wards in maybe five seconds. “He must be real busy. I’ll just come back later, okay?”

  Brother Hiram opened the door wide and strode toward me, his frown deepening. “You say Madame Devereaux sent you?”

  “Yes.” I half-stumbled off the porch and down the stairs. Maybe I should drop the neighborly pretense and just shoot him. But that might not stop him. I didn’t know what he was. He seemed too smart and self-aware to be a zombie. A headshot would just annoy a vampire. I couldn’t remember what to do with a ghoul or a revenant. Heart? Stomach? Decapitation?

  “That Madame Devereaux is a hoodoo witch, ain’t she? That must mean you’re some kinda witch, too.” Brother Hiram was staring at my gloved hand as if it still glowed with hellfire.

  I raised the shotgun to my shoulder, aiming at his throat. If I got him with a good solid blast under the jaw, maybe I could pop his skull off. “Don’t come any closer.”

  “I reckon the Bible’s pretty clear on the subject of witches.” He stopped coming toward me, but didn’t raise his hands or avert his stare. “The good Lord said in Exodus 22:18, ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’”

  Then there came a rustling all around, the sound of cold bodies unfolding themselves from leaf-covered shallow graves and straightening up on dead legs. I turned to see how many creeps were coming toward me; a quick glance around showed at least thirty undead men in ragged clothes shambling toward me. Crap.

  I only looked away from Brother Hiram for maybe a second, but that was enough. He rushed forward and grabbed the barrel of my shotgun with a strength I didn’t imagine he possessed. Before he jerked it out of my hands I managed to pull the trigger, hoping to get him in the face, but the blast went wide. My ears rang.

  Hiram held the Mossberg high, swung it around and slammed the butt into my sternum. Right over my heart. The blow woofed the air out of my lungs and hurt like hell. I stumbled backward, bright stars sparking in my vision, but managed to stay on my feet. Pal’s little claws dug into my shoulder as he scrambled for purchase.

  “I ain’t in a mood to suffer the likes of you.” Hiram glowered at me, gripping my shotgun in his dirt-streaked fists.

  His ragged mob was nearly on me. I had time to do exactly one thing, so I grabbed Pal with both hands and tossed him up into what I hoped would be safety in the branches of the nearest cypress.

  “Go get help!” I thought to him as I turned to face the men surrounding me.

  “What am I, Lassie?” His voice teetered on the edge of hysteria. “We’re out in the middle of nowhere—how am I supposed to get any help?”

  I kicked a man dressed in a rotting flannel shirt and camouflage pants; his lips had been mostly eaten away from his face by maggots. “Call Madame Devereaux! She’s in my contact list … if she doesn’t answer, try my brother!”

  “And your cell phone is where?”

  “Glove box!” I punched a guy who had pus-filled holes where his eyes should have been.

  “Is the truck locked?”

  It was. I swore, kicking away a guy who had a spiked billy club strapped to the decaying stump of his right arm.

  “Jeepers creepers, Pal, go find a car battery and lick it or something! Embiggen yourself and break in!” I thought back.

  “Y’all stop foolin’ around and git ‘er down, already!” Brother Hiram barked.

  The zombies dogpiled me, pressing me down into the leaves and slimy mud. I thought I would pass out from their weight and stench. A moment later, one of them had looped a rope around my neck and they were dragging me through the yard as I gagged and fought for breath.

  They pulled me up onto my knees beside a huge woodpile and held me there, my arms outstretched. I didn’t fight them, taking a moment to try to get my bearings and breath back. I was completely surrounded. I’d have a chance if I could just get my shotgun back, but without it, I was pretty much screwed. The hidden boot knife’s sheath was jammed painfully into my calf. No way to reach it.

  I heard the sound of heavy footsteps in the leaves, and the mob parted to let Brother Hiram through. He stood in front of me, still holding my shotgun. His face was grim. “You are a witch and an abomination unto the eyes of the Lord. But ye shall repent, and before this day is over you will be calling the Lord’s name with all your heart and He will welcome you with open arms into His kingdom. Eternal salvation will be my gift to you.”

  I dearly wanted to tell him in graphic anatomical detail exactly where he could stick his salvation. But I had a rare moment of prudence and realized that anything I had to say would just make things worse. So I held my tongue, watching to see what their next move would be.

  Hiram nodded at his rotting crew. “Git ‘er ready.”

  Two of them carried over a 6”x6” square wooden post beam. A pair of iron D rings had been securely screwed into the middle of the rough-hewn beam, as if it was supposed to be hung someplace. Someone had routed a series of well-worn grooves a few inches from each end. The wood was mildewed; it looked like it had been spending a lot of time near the water, and it was stained with something dark and rusty. Old blood. The beam was a bit longer than the width of my outstretched arms; I guessed it was probably six feet even. Six by six by six. What the hell were they going to do?

  Dead hands pulled me up, turned me over, and threw me down on the beam, binding me tightly by my wrists to the wood with coarse sisal rope that fit neatly into the grooves. My stomach churned as I realized what they had planned.

  “We used nails for the first couple of crucifixions,” Brother Hiram said. His expression had changed now that I was seemingly helpless; he was looking down at me with something that almost seemed like kindness in his dead eyes. “But nails make the wood too weak after a while, and I seen a couple of people pull off the nails, and then the whole thing’s over too quick. Rope’s better all the way around.”

  Hiram paused. “I reckon God wants us all to suffer so we’ll appreciate Heaven when it comes along. So I ain’t doing my bit for the good Lord if you die too fast. You need time to really reflect on the pain you’ll be feeling and accept him into your heart, and I aim to give that to you.”

  They hauled me up to my feet and kicked me forward onto a muddy path that wound down through the trees. The guy in front of me was shirtless, and a huge swath of flesh was missing from his side. I could see nearly all his ribs. In my lightheaded terror his bones reminded me of a xylophone or marimba, and suddenly the Violent Femmes’ “Gone Daddy Gone” was playing inside my head.

  The wooden crosspiece was a hell of a thing to carry. It weighed probably fifty or sixty pounds, which normally wouldn’t have been much of a problem if I just had decent grip on it, or even if they’d put it up on my shoulders. But the damn thing was dragging halfway down my back, twisting all my arm joints out of their sockets. They’d bound the scratchy ropes so tightly that my flesh hand was turning puffy and purple; I didn’t know what my eerie hand looked like beneath the glove. I couldn’t pull the crosspiece up, I couldn’t put it down; I was constantly off balance. When I fell, they’d haul me up and shove me down the path again.

  By the time we got to the edge of the swamp, I was half-blind from exhaustion and perspiration, gasping for air like I’d just run a marathon. My jeans and tee shirt were covered in red mud an
d dead leaves and pine needles. My arms and shoulders ached horribly, and my hands had gone completely numb.

  “Git ‘er on out there,” Brother Hiram said.

  The dead men pushed me out into the chest-deep water, and my vision cleared enough to see the tall wooden post set out in the middle of the swamp; it looked like a stolen telephone pole that they’d stripped of its original hardware. A pair of newer steel hooks was bolted to it about three feet from the top. On each side of the tall post were short steps made of cypress logs.

  They pushed me out to the post, and the tallest of the men grabbed each end of the crosspiece and hauled it and me up out of the water. After a couple of shoulder-wracking tries they got the crosspiece hung from the hook. They splashed back to shore, leaving me hanging out there in the damp heat and eerie quiet.

  My booted feet dangled about two feet from the deep green water; I tried to grip the pole with my legs to take the weight off my arms, but the wood was too slippery. It smelled like they’d smeared it with axle grease. The sun beat down on me, merciless as Brother Hiram, and mosquitoes whined in my ears. My arms were screaming, and I could already feel the hang-strained muscles in my chest beginning to spasm.

  I closed my eyes, concentrating.

  Pal, are you there? I thought. I could use some help over here. Pal?

  No response. Either he was too far away for telepathy, or … I didn’t want to think about the alternatives.

  I’m so screwed, I thought.

  A low roar rolled across the water. It sounded like a huge crypt slab being dragged across the hollow marble floor of a mausoleum. I was suddenly aware that, beneath the stench of the dead men, I could smell the sharp rankness of reptile offal.

  My skin broke out in goosebumps despite the heat. I scanned the water, spotted what I first thought was the fat trunk of a downed tree. And then realized it was moving. Toward me.

  The swimming gator was nearly as big as a dragon. It was easily twenty feet long and had a maw of sharp, jagged teeth the size of steak knives. And, as it came closer, I saw that it had milky white eyes, and patches of its thick hide were missing from its back, revealing grey leathery muscle beneath.