The Death of All Things

by Faith Hunter

  He broke the connection, pulling back and hiding his face in the shadow of his cowl. I don’t think he meant to give me that vision. I must’ve gotten closer to the other side than either of us realized. No wonder he’s considered grim, if the souls he carries only hold negative emotions.

  Sorrow, grief, and the events of this day will haunt me until I’m as bent as the old village women. I’d wanted to find answers and accountability. I found them wrapped in more questions without answers. I wanted peace, but I don’t think that’s possible yet. I didn’t expect to find compassion and pity for Death. But I’d stared him in the face and that…changed me. Again, I considered saying something to him, this time to express my sympathy. But I sensed he would not want that.

  In the end, I nodded my respect, collected my robe and scarf, and lifted the rug to leave. One more glance over my shoulder and I witnessed Death begin his own dance. Graceful, beautiful in its own way.

  I left to the hum of his scythe cutting the air as he collected the newly departed souls.

  THE LEGEND OF JOHN BARRETT

  Shaun Avery

  His prisoner saw the strange town first.

  Or perhaps it was more accurate to say that Gary the Torso felt it. Hanging from the side of Barrett’s horse, tied to the saddle with a rope that looped tight around his waist, he suddenly went stiff, tense, saying, “Hey, what the hell is that?”

  Barrett, never the pleasantest of people but feeling especially short-tempered and weary following this last bounty hunt, shot back, “What’s what?”

  “That. On the horizon.”

  Barrett pretended to look, peering through the trees of this dense forest. “Nope, can’t see anything,” he said. Then grinned to himself. “Why don’t you point to it, whatever it is?”

  Gary the Torso seemed to be considering these words. Before replying, “Barrett, you bastard, you think that’s funny?”

  Actually, Barrett did. In fact, he had been laughing when he first took this job, back at the Furthest Reach Agency a few weeks ago. The Agency specialized in the apprehension of supernatural criminals, employing bounty hunters to track them down and bring them in, so it dealt with all sorts of beings. Still, Barrett had been forced to ask the question, “How dangerous can a torso be?”

  “Hey,” had come the reply from Fingers, one of his fellow bounty hunters. “Guy’s a Level Two.”

  This was the sliding scale they worked on at the Agency, the one they used to determine an offender’s level of supernatural skills. It went all the way up to five, but few people had taken down many of those. Except Barrett, of course, though he suspected that some might think his methods had been…questionable.

  “So?” he’d said to Fingers.

  “So he’s taken down a few of us already,” Fingers had replied, then gone on to describe all the painful things that Gary the Torso had done to bounty hunters, bestowing injuries that would, at one time, have been invariably fatal. But Fingers was a sissy. And now the job was done, Gary the Torso safely apprehended, magic skills neutralized with a deadening dart, and Barrett should have been on his way back to a nice juicy payday, no complications needed along the way. But now he looked off into the distance and through the darkness of the night, through the thickness of the trees, he did indeed see what looked like the glow of a town.

  He brought the horse to a stop, and dug around inside his trench coat for the map he had been using these past few weeks. Just one glance confirmed what he already knew—there wasn’t supposed to be a town this far out in the countryside, miles away from anything. Still, what those damn fool mapmakers back at the Agency thought they knew about the world, and what was actually true were two very different things. He wanted to call them up and tear them a new set of orifices. But there was no mobile phone signal out here, so even that simple pleasure was denied him.

  The thought made him focus further on the distant town.

  Could they get a signal out here? he wondered. Whoever lived in this odd town, that did not seem to be on the map? Could people reach them? And if they could, how come?

  It was enough to make him curious.

  So he dismounted the horse and undid the rope around Gary the Torso’s waist, letting his prisoner drop to the ground.

  “Bastard,” the prisoner said once again. “When we get back to the Agency I’m going to complain about you.”

  Barrett reached inside his trench coat again, this time coming out with a knife. “You might not make it back to the Agency yet, pal.”

  Then he turned back to the horse, letting his words sink in.

  When he turned back, he had the length of rope in his hands. Within minutes he had Gary the Torso tied to a tree and was eager to leave him there and do some investigating.

  But Gary the Torso was suddenly sweating, a scared look on his face.

  “Barrett,” he said. “Hey, Barrett. Don’t leave me alone out here, man.”

  “You won’t be alone.” Barrett smiled, nodded towards the horse. “He’ll be with you.”

  This seemed to make the prisoner sweat even more.

  Barrett took a second to look the animal over—the sharp teeth, the dark eyes. The sense it gave was that this was not just any horse. It made him feel something a bit like ownership. But not quite.

  “Yeah,” he said, swinging his eyes back to Gary the Torso. “My friend here will look after you.”

  Then he walked off into the woods and towards the town.

  * * *

  Barrett wasn’t really expecting much. Sure, he supposed, a place out in the wilds like this was strange. But in his job, he’d seen a lot stranger.

  Then he saw the watchtower and his perspective changed.

  Barrett squinted up at it, wishing he still had his binoculars. But Gary the Torso had used magic to smash them over his head during their struggle a few days ago, so he had to rely on his eyes. Which, given the darkness of the night and the fact he’d not slept for in a while, weren’t too helpful.

  Still, though…

  He was pretty sure he saw a sentry up there.

  His curiosity grew, making him wonder: Why did a place in the middle of nowhere have a watchtower and a sentry looking out over it?

  * * *

  “So what was it?”

  Barrett untied his prisoner, let the man drop roughly to the floor. “Nothing,” he said. Then he wandered over to his dark steed, ran a hand along its flank, caressed it lovingly.

  “Come get your rope back on,” he commanded the other man. “Move it. We’ve got a long journey ahead of us.”

  Outrage flashed across Gary the Torso’s face. “What the hell are you talking about?” he said. “I can’t levitate! You took my magic, remember?”

  “So shuffle.”

  “Man, your manners are the pits,” Gary the Torso said, looking up from the ground at him. “When I get back, I’m still making that complaint.”

  That comment finally wore the last of Barrett’s limited patience.

  “Yeah,” he said, “about that,” and he pulled his knife back out.

  * * *

  “Yeah, Chief, it was the weirdest thing,” Barrett was saying a few days later. “Guy just bit off his own tongue.”

  Agency Chief Walker bent down and checked the mouth of the bound, heavily tranquilized Gary the Torso. “Looks more like it was severed to me.”

  “He was almost choking on bits that were only partially torn, sir,” Barrett replied. “Had to cut those out for his own protection.”

  “Quite.” Walker drew himself back to his full height. “Good work, John.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Barrett said, while thinking, let’s see the bastard make a complaint with no tongue.

  The pair left the cells and wandered down the hallways of the Furthest Reach Detective Agency towards the Chief’s office. Once there the older man sank into the seat behind his table and said, “Let me just sort out your fees, John. Anything interesting to report from your travels?”

  Barrett
thought of the strange town. “No, sir.”

  Walker rooted around in a drawer until he found the Agency checkbook and then began to write it out. “What you planning on doing now?”

  “Probably take some downtime, sir,” he replied. Though this, of course, was a lie. Downtime didn’t pay the debts, and between hookers, gambling, and boozing Barrett was always running up plenty of those.

  This thought prompted him to ask, “Anyone been around here looking for me?”

  “No,” the Chief replied. “Should there have been?”

  The question seemed friendly enough. But beneath the words, Barrett detected suspicion. He cursed himself for having asked the question, knowing that the Chief liked to run a nice, simple organization here, did not want people’s personal lives interfering in any way. So he brought the conversation back around to work, saying, “Old cases, old foes.” And smiled, meeting the Chief’s eyes. “You never know.”

  Apparently satisfied with this explanation, Walker went to hand over Barrett’s check. But then paused as a third party entered the room.

  * * *

  Linda, the Chief’s wife.

  Barrett made his apologies and left them to it—after pocketing his check for bringing in Gary the Torso, of course. But he didn’t go far, and when she exited the room and headed for the canteen, he dropped into step beside her.

  “My fair lady,” he said. “Care to get a room with me somewhere tonight?” He pulled the check out of his pocket, waved it around. “I got me some money to spend.”

  “You disgust me, Barrett,” she replied, face suggesting that she meant every word.

  “Disgust just turns me on, baby.”

  She looked over at him. “You know, my husband would stop giving you work if he knew you were harassing me like this.”

  He grinned. “Sweetheart, please—me and Walker go way back. I saved his ass in that Wild Weird Witch case. Think he’s going to believe I would do the dirty on him?”

  “He might.”

  “You’re dreaming,” he replied. “Besides, I’m the best hunter he’s got.”

  She nodded, almost involuntarily, and he knew she saw the truth in these words.

  Still she was defiant, saying, “Clever guy, aren’t you?” Then she paused in the doorway of the canteen. “But what if I was wearing a wire and had recorded everything you just said?”

  “You’re not that clever,” he told her, smiling at her back as she headed into the canteen.

  Then, just as he put the check back inside his pocket, a hand fell on his shoulder.

  * * *

  “Should be an easy one,” Fingers was saying a short while later. “We know exactly where he is, just a case of going in there and getting him.”

  “So why do you need me?” Barrett asked.

  Fingers shrugged. “Travelling alone sucks.”

  “Right.”

  “One condition, though.”

  “Yeah?” This amused Barrett. “What is it?”

  “We go by car,” Fingers said. “I don’t want you taking that…thing.” And he pointed to the stable in which Barrett’s horse was tied up.

  “You don’t like my ride?”

  “Nope.” Fingers shivered. “Thing gives me the creeps.”

  Barrett smiled. “That’s not all he does.”

  * * *

  Fingers’ car was a piece of shit, which meant he’d probably not scored any good fees lately. It further explained why he’d come to him for help—Barrett’s reputation was well-established among the other hunters at the Furthest Reach Agency.

  “How’d you know where this guy is, anyway?” Barrett asked, getting into the passenger seat of the vehicle.

  Fingers sat down at the wheel. “Got word from a source of mine.”

  “Oh yeah? Anyone I know?”

  “I doubt it.” Fingers held something out to him. “Here.”

  Barrett took the file containing all the information on their prey. He read it as his colleague started up the car.

  Seemed their prey’s name was William Blackstone—a pretty fitting name, Barrett thought, for one versed in the dark arts. And he was indeed versed in them; the guy was wanted for Human Sacrifice and Illicit Worship Rituals. But, like Gary the Torso, he was only a Level Two, so Barrett wasn’t too worried about the job.

  But he began to change his mind when they reached their destination.

  It had once been a dusty desert town—remote but warm and welcoming. Now, as Fingers pulled the car to a stop and they both stepped out, they saw things had changed considerably.

  On each house hung a dead body. All nailed to the walls through hands, heads, and feet. And they were all singing. Chanting. Repeating the words, “Praise William, worship His name.”

  Barrett checked his arsenal, reaching deep inside the huge, deep pockets of his trusty trench coat. Then he and Fingers headed towards the nearest hanging body—an obese woman with too much makeup on her dead face.

  “Ma’am,” Barrett said, greeting her.

  She hissed back at him.

  They all did, the dead bodies, straining at the walls to get at the two hunters.

  Technically, this case belonged to Fingers; Barrett was just there as back-up, plus, of course, a split of the fee. But he was in the mood to hurt somebody, so he said to the hanging woman, “Care to point us in the direction of the great and mighty William?”

  She hissed again. Snarled.

  “I’m guessing she doesn’t count as fully human anymore,” Barrett told Fingers, pulling something from within his coat. “Which means it’s perfectly acceptable to do this.”

  He flung the vial from his hands. Saw the glass shatter against the dead woman’s face. Heard the sizzle and smelt the burn as the holy water burnt away what was left of her skin.

  “The church!” she screamed, sounding a lot more human now. “He’s waiting in the church!”

  “Much obliged, ma’am,” Barrett said, grinning up at her. Then he looked back to Fingers. “Your show,” he said. “After you.”

  * * *

  There was a throne inside the church. It was made of human skin, and a figure—sort of—sat on it.

  At the figure’s feet lay a disturbing sight: a skeleton that still possessed a human face, the rest of its skin removed via methods arcane and now making up, Barrett guessed, the bulk of the throne.

  When he saw the mostly skinless body, Fingers gasped and said, “Paulo!”

  So, Barrett thought, this is the “source.”

  The figure on the throne, meanwhile, had no face and no hands—at least none that could be seen. The rest of his body was encased in a dark cloak, and he spoke with a deep croak. “My dear hunters,” William Blackstone said, “I’ve been waiting.”

  “We’re taking you in,” Fingers said, walking up the aisle towards the figure. “Dead or alive, up to you.”

  “Too late.” And here, Barrett was sure that Blackstone’s invisible eyes turned to him. “Can’t you see I’ve already broken bread with Death?”

  Barrett started following Fingers, heading towards their prey and not liking what the guy might be about to say.

  “Yes,” Blackstone went on, “come for me. Take me in. I might be able to tell you all some interesting facts about—”

  That was when a shot rang out, cutting off the man’s words.

  Blackstone fell from his throne, tripping over Paulo’s skeleton and landing loudly on his back.

  Fingers gasped, then looked down and saw a gleaming silver bullet in the nothingness where the man’s face should have been.

  Behind him, Barrett lowered his gun. “Go call the Agency for a clean-up crew,” he said. “I’ll watch the body.”

  “But why did you…he was coming quietly…”

  “Call the Agency,” he repeated, putting a hand on his colleague’s arm. “Now.”

  Fingers did as he was told, running back to his car to grab his phone.

  Then it was just Barrett and the body. He looked down at
it for a few seconds, waiting, wondering. But nothing happened.

  This one was dead.

  * * *

  He accepted a thirty percent share of the fee on William Blackstone—less than he would have usually taken, to be sure, but he thought it best to keep Fingers sweet. The guy was still sore about what he saw as an unjustifiable killing.

  Barrett could have explained it in some way, but he decided it would be better to let his reputation do the job for him. He was known for being a dirty and uncompromising hunter—that should be enough to answer any questions about his conduct. And anyway, since the warrant on Blackstone had said dead or alive, what the hell was Fingers complaining about? Barrett didn’t know. Or care.

  The “dead or alive” clause was an interesting one, though—since, these days, death was not at all assured. Death came and went as he pleased, letting some people live until they were two hundred, leaving some—like Gary the Torso—in a state that once, many years ago, would have always led to death. You saw it all the time—men and women shuffling around with wounds that should have killed them, massive gaping things, leaking pus and blood everywhere. In fact, the only time death was completely reliable now was when it came to violent death, specifically murder. And there was always plenty of that when Barrett was around. Still, though…

  Blackstone’s words had him worried.

  Many people—like Barrett himself, and certainly like Chief Walker—were quite happy with the way things were in this strange new world. But many weren’t, and some of them weren’t the sort of people you wanted on your tail. So if Barrett’s part in helping create this situation ever became public knowledge, he knew he’d spend the rest of his life watching his back. Even more than he did now. And he didn’t want that.