by Al K. Line
"Sorry, no choice."
"No way, buster."
"Up to you," I said, nonchalantly.
"You wouldn't, would you?"
"I have to."
"But I know you won't."
"I already am. I'm breaking you in two, then you'll be no more. Dead."
"But I am you, you are me. I can read your mind, can see that you're doing this so I will save the day. That you're banking on this risk of annihilation to wake me up and force me to draw on magic from somewhere to save us both."
"That's right. So you're aware I'm doing this, right now, and will go through with it if you don't do something? And anyway, what if I'd been killed for real?"
"Course I'm aware. I'm a bloody smart stick. The smartest."
"Then get to it, because you've got about a millisecond before you're broken clean in two. I already heard the splintering of your physical being, so if you don't stop it right now you're a goner, mate."
"Damn, but you're mean."
"Hey, it's this or I get killed and you spend the rest of your days hanging around with Mabel. How's that sound?"
"She has boobs," said Wand, clearly considering a lifetime spent maybe tucked down her bra or something equally unlikely and certainly less than arousing.
Wand clearly made up his mind, as pain flared in my hands until I was certain he was melting them and leaving me with the new nickname, Mr. Stumpy.
Time returned to something approaching normal in a sudden whoosh of violent eruptions.
As the gun went off, Wand stiffened, the result being that it felt like I was trying to break an iron bar over my knee as he hardened himself, repairing the damage already done as the sigils flared.
"Where's my fucking finger?" I screamed.
"Had to get the magic from somewhere, smartass," said Wand, sounding smug.
Have I mentioned I hate smug? And that I also enjoy my fingers? I use them for pointing, and other stuff.
Nobody Listens
Have you ever watched with magic-infused sight as a bullet speeds towards your face?
Neither have I, as they move really fucking fast. I imagined it though, pictured the bullet coming right at me, and it wasn't fun.
As Wand erupted into life, the sigils flaring, the power thrumming through my hand, the air alive with unknowable forces, I willed something, anything, to protect me from getting punctured yet again. My luck was definitely running out, some would say it already had, but no way was I going out for the final time like this.
What felt like a train smashing into my skull—a bullet train, haha—sent me reeling backward, cracking my head on a pillow of bricks. As my vision cleared and the pain engulfed me, I understood that I hadn't died, but wasn't so sure it was worth the cost. My vision was clouded, but returned to clarity as the shield protecting my face faded along with Wand's help.
It was enough though, and Mabel would pay for her cockiness. I leaned forward and grabbed for the gun, getting a hand on the barrel. It burned my flesh so badly that I could smell myself cooking, and my grip was less than it should have been thanks to the missing fingertip. But I yanked, and Mabel's trigger finger broke with a satisfying crunch as I twisted the gun.
She screamed and I wasted no time. Hell, she hadn't even used magic yet and she'd already bested me multiple times.
I crawled over the brick, my body protesting as wounds tore wider, new ones were added to my already ravaged knees, and I even scraped my shins, which always seems to hurt the worst. My finger throbbed, and my head pounded like the worst hangover I'd ever had. I scrambled faster as Mabel backed away, muttering under her breath, the air taking on a strange hue as magic gathered. Searching frantically, I cursed myself for being an idiot and grabbed a brick with my left hand. Without hesitation, I slammed it into her gun hand, breaking the rest of her fingers, stopping her forming her spell with one fell swoop. She screamed again and I swung wildly, but with all the force I could muster, and smashed the brick into her temple.
It split in two and fell. Mabel fell right along with it, out cold.
My world was one of pain and noise as I became aware of my surroundings. Women were moaning and screaming, so the witches obviously hadn't all died. I scooted manically, failing miserably to avoid the witches' blood that dripped slowly now, a slick sea of thick dark tar across the floor. Selma was sitting in the middle of it, slumped against the cupboards, still out cold. I checked her for a pulse. She was alive, so I shook her until she woke up.
"You okay?" I asked, knowing it was a stupid question.
"I'm so sorry. What have I done?"
"It's not your fault. But I told you this was a bad idea."
"I'm sorry." Selma moved, wincing with the pain, but she didn't cry out, didn't complain. Her face was a mess. A massive gaping cut ran from her eye down to her lip, a huge bruise on her head the size of an egg looked ready to pop.
"These things happen," I grunted, and cried out as I got to my feet using the table for support. Guess she was braver than me.
"I have to check on Vicky."
Selma nodded and I moved away.
Getting back into the artifact room was a lesson in pain, but I endured, even though every nerve was alight. Vicky was stirring, but she was a mess too. Battered, bruised, lumpy in all the wrong places, groggy, and not really with it at all.
"I told you to wait in the car," I said softly.
"I don't like missing out," she said with a weak smile before her eyes rolled up and she lost consciousness.
"Idiot," I whispered, before I scooped her up and carried her through the hole in the wall into the hallway, leaving the hurt women there to manage themselves, my priority Vicky.
Outside, I sat her against the wall and dropped the bag from my shoulders, fumbled about inside, and pulled out the wrong item repeatedly until I found what I wanted.
"Take this," I ordered.
Vicky took it without even looking, then her eyes widened as she realized what I'd given her.
"Yes, it's the Teleron, so be bloody careful. Think about home, very carefully, and absolutely nowhere the children could possibly be, or you might end up fused to them and that won't be pretty. Then turn this." I showed her what to do then nodded.
"But I can't leave you here," she protested.
"You can, and you will. You have to get home, sort the girls out in the morning, and get yourself fixed. I'll be back later in the day, but this mess needs to be cleaned up. Somehow. Got it?"
"No, Arthur, I can't."
"Vicky, you will do as you are told for once. Look at this place, the mess we're in. We should never have agreed to help. This is our fault, and now we have to get on with life. So go home, and do not," I warned, "let the girls see the Teleron or know about it. Understand?"
"I understand."
"Good, now go."
Vicky hesitated. I could tell she wasn't going to use it.
"If you don't use that thing right this second, I will never, ever, take you on a job with me again. If I can't rely on you to do as I ask when it's life or death then that's it. We're done."
She knew I meant it.
She mouthed a silent, "Sorry," then closed her eyes, stuck out her tongue to the side as she concentrated, then twisted the dial and was gone.
Right, now I just needed to figure out what to do.
I walked back to the house, knowing there was no good resolution to this.
Busy Boy
At the front door, I changed my mind and made a detour, heading over to the extensive workshops and sheds. Inside a large tool shed, the place musty and dark, full of spiders and other nasties, I hunted about until I found what I wanted.
Heavy pick in hand, spade slung over my shoulder, I wandered around to the back and found a suitable spot in a clearing where the grass was short but it was nice and sheltered from the wind and I had light from the windows.
I began to dig.
The first contact with the earth felt like the last, the ground so hard and h
eavy I regretted my decision instantly, but I ignored my screaming muscles, the pain in my knees, the bleeding gashes and the utter agony of my already torn hands as they gripped the cold wooden handle of the pick.
Over and over, I used as much force as I could muster to dig, the going easier the deeper I dug and the further away I got from the frozen topsoil. I'm no gardener, but it was nice to see the worms going about their business, oblivious to the goings-on of the idiot humans above ground. They were content with their lot, lived a life without care or concern, merely knew what they had to do and got on with it without complaint.
Like an automated scarecrow, I swung, ripping through tufts of grass, tearing at the earth then scooping it out with the shovel. My back was on fire, the muscles straining against such unusual activity. I'd be bloody sore after this, but it wouldn't matter. I had so many injuries that tired muscles were the least of my concerns. So I continued, digging throughout the night, never stopping, forcing my body to keep working, calling on mental and physical reserves I by rights shouldn't have.
So much death, why was there always so much death? And how could I stop it? I couldn't. I was as much a part of the problem as everyone else. This was the way we were, how we acted, our solution to all our woes.
I paused to wipe the sweat from my brow and rested on the handle of the pick.
Faery dust fell into the holes and my faery godmother stood beside me looking resplendent in a bright red, and very tight, sparkly dress.
"I'm here. Sorry about the delay," said Sasha as she searched for enemies to destroy.
"You're too late, it's over," I said, not believing it for one minute, but wishing with all my remaining energy that it was.
"Sorry, my love. I mistimed my assistance. But you are alive, and well?"
"I'm alive, but not well. Have you ever dug a large hole?"
Sasha arched a perfect eyebrow as she held out her hands and showed me her delicate fingers and perfect nails. "I am a faery, I do not dig in the dirt."
"Didn't think so. You should try it some time, it's good for the soul."
"My soul is perfectly fine, thank you very much."
"Just a suggestion. Hey, let me ask you something."
"Anything. And please, call me if you need me, I will come to your aid."
"I did call you, and you didn't come. I'm not blaming you, I don't expect you to get me out of the trouble I cause, but yeah, I called."
"Please forgive me, Arthur, I am not myself at the moment. I can't seem to get things to flow properly. It's always a problem for the fae when they come to the human realm."
"I know. Don't sweat it. Now, this question. How well do you know Death?"
Sasha shifted almost imperceptibly, but I noted the change in her body language. "Not very well. We have met, have spoken on occasion. He is a strange fellow."
"And he's okay with this extra life thing?"
"He accepts it. It's not how it usually works, as you know, but he makes exceptions." Sasha shifted her gaze from me to stare at the house.
"And what's this about a contract?"
"Oh, nothing for you to concern yourself with. A mere detail."
"Death said I had one, that there was a contract. Who made it? I never signed any contract."
"Such things don't always require a physical signature. A verbal agreement is enough. The quill will sign on your behalf if you are in agreement."
"In agreement for what?"
"Now, are you sure you don't need my help here? I am very busy." Sasha was already halfway to leaving. The faery dust gathered, her dress shimmered, her body vibrated, and my head was dizzy with her loveliness.
"Er, no, I'm good."
"Goodbye, Arthur."
It wasn't until later that I realized she hadn't answered my question.
I returned to my work, fought through the pain barrier only to come up hard against another, then another. But I didn't stop, I kept on swinging that pick and digging with the spade until I was empty inside.
Empty of the hurt, empty of the sadness, empty of the cruelty I harbored. Empty of everything.
I was the pick, and the pick was me. A machine built for one purpose only. To dig.
At some point I must have become aware that night had turned to day, and that there were others standing on the crisp grass watching me. I didn't even acknowledge their presence for I was so far down the rabbit hole now, no longer a man, just a pick with a fleshy attachment.
Through the dawn then the early morning, I continued, until finally my work was done.
I crawled out of a hole, surprised I even could, and without glancing at my audience I returned to the kitchen and untied the women still secured to the table.
One by one, I dragged them out into the open air and dropped them into their final resting place. By body three I was struggling hard, and I think maybe I began to cry. A whole life lived and this was what it came down to. Some guy dragging you across the grass and dumping you in a grave he'd dug to try to bring about his own selfish salvation.
I slipped and fell and I don't think I could have got up on my own. Arms reached out and helped me to my feet, and then we pulled the bodies together, all three of us. Nobody said a word.
Back we went for the next, this time carrying the body, the going easier with help. Then the next, and the next, and so it went until all the witches that had wanted to do something, anything, to keep the peace were buried.
They deserved this at least. For wanting no more death, for trying to find a way to solve a problem way beyond their means, for standing up for what they thought was right. They deserved more but this was all I could give them.
I picked up the shovel and I buried them, shoveled the dirt over their faces, watched the worms fall on the open wounds at their necks, watched lumps of soil block the gaping holes where their life had bled out.
I buried them all, and then I was done.
Standing there, panting, sweating, exhausted, I didn't say a prayer, didn't give them any last words. They were dead, already gone. What would be the point?
"Why is there one hole left?" asked Mabel, studying me with steely resolve.
"Because I assumed one of us would be going in it soon enough," I said as I turned to face her. Unafraid, not even concerned if I'm truthful, part of me wishing for the cold embrace of a final death, a way out of all of this, to be forever apart from the madness.
"But this is over now, isn't it?" asked Selma, looking truly terrible, unsteady on her feet, face ashen, ready to collapse.
"Ask her," I said, turning back to Mabel.
"Oh, it's far from over." Mabel sneered at me, and I honestly didn't care.
In fact, I cared so little, was so empty, that I lost consciousness and fell.
A Well-Deserved Rest
There is something immensely satisfying about waking up six feet down in a hole you dug with your own ravaged hands. As I lay in a freezing pit, watching the sun traveling low and lazy across a crisp, clear sky, I thanked it for the generosity of the warmth I felt as it devoured the shadows in my resting place and flooded the narrow space with light.
It was doubtful I would ever walk on the surface of the earth again, and that sense of finality gave its own kind of happiness. My body ached, not only from magical shenanigans, but from true, honest labor. I had dug ten burial plots and then given the witches the peace they undoubtedly deserved. The ones who had sided with Mabel would have to make their own arrangements, and they weren't all dead anyway. I wondered absentmindedly what had happened to the witch who had betrayed Selma and her buddies, she of the flowing skirt, but she was probably somewhere amid the rubble, not my concern.
My arms were locked, not only stuck behind my head because of the narrow hole I had fallen into, but because my muscles had seized up. My back so tired, my shoulders and arms so spent that they were locked solid with a cramp that had passed from being pure pain to a dull and distant ache I paid no mind to.
"What you doing?" asked Vicky
as she peered down at me, blocking the sun.
"Just having a rest," I said, somehow not surprised to see her.
"You want to get out, or are you staying put?"
I had to think about that one. It was an important question and one I had no ready answer to. Should I stay, wait for the worms to eat me? Where were Mabel and Selma? Why hadn't she finished me off? I'd been uncertain what she would do, unsure if she'd kill me and keep at it until I was truly dead, maybe bury me alive and get the same result, or just dismiss me and let me be on my way. Which seemed doubtful as I was there to stop her. Whatever had happened, I was still alive, and Vicky was here, which rather annoyingly returned me to the present and the concerns we all have about the immediate future.
"Help me out," I said, mind made up.
"Wait here." Vicky disappeared and the sun shone down on me once more. It was nice.
Several minutes later I was disturbed from my slumber by the rattling of a small metal ladder being lowered. I reluctantly got to my feet, both surprised and pleased to find my bag still on my back, and once my arms began to work, I made the short climb feeling like it would last a lifetime. Vicky helped me off the ladder and I somehow remained standing.
"What happened?" she asked, indicating the graves and then looking me up and down.
"You were here, remember? Everything went to shit, you blew up the wall, Mabel killed Selma's buddies, I got beaten and killed repeatedly, then you left and I dug graves."
"Where's Mabel? Is Selma alive?"
"I don't know the answer to either of those questions. How did you know where I was?"
"I didn't. I used the Teleron and jumped to the front, then ran around to the back so nobody would see me. I haven't been inside. Do you think we can still get the cauldron?"
"Don't worry about that now. We need to find Mabel and Selma, see what the score is."
"What do you mean? She's insane."
"That's what I thought, but maybe not. This life gets twisted, so do the people living it. Mabel killed people she'd trusted, probably for decades. She thought they were traitors, that they wanted her killed, so she acted first. I'm not defending her, far from it, she is clearly off her rocker, but insane? No. Just determined, or she was. Now I'm not so sure."
