The Society of Misfit Stories Presents: Volume Two
By Aaron Vlek, Dawn Vogel, Calvin Demmer and
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About this ebook
The Society of Misfit Stories Presents this eclectic collection of exceptional novelettes and novellas from some of the most unique voices in the speculative genres. This diverse anthology offers readers an enticing assortment of high fantasy, alien adventure, paranormal investigations, haunts both real and imagined, and more.
In Volume II:
Last Chances by Michael Gardner
The Good Seed by Tom Howard
The Last Hunt by Claire Salcedo
Justice is Blind by Dawn Vogel
Indigo Alyeska by Rhonda Eikamp
Rolling Reality by Margret A. Treiber
Up In Smoke by Milo James Fowler
The Case of the Yuletide Bride by Aaron Vlek
Fire in the Woods by T.R. North
Red Sun Rising by Mike Adamson
The Municipality of Lost Souls by Jeannie Wycherley
Zombie Island by Derek Muk
Forbidden Fruit by Calvin Demmer
The Thousand-Year Colony by Russell Hemmell
The Mail Order Bride by Nidhi Singh
A Whisper in Scales by E. K. Wagner
The Soul in the Machine by Daniel Kilkelly
Three Times a Ronin Shouts by S.H. Mansouri
A Portrait of Life by Fred McGavran
Emily in the Wall by Neil Davies
The Borrowscale Defection by Susanne Dutton
Blood and Sand: A Cult Love Story by Larry Griffin
Metal Skin by Francis J Burns
Down in the Clockwork City by Mark William Chase
Let Them Eat Cake by Aaron Moskalik
The Abbot's Garden by Stewart C Baker
The Man that Moved the Mountain by Nestor Delfino
A Totem's Tale by Beeman
Post-Modem Alchemy by Michael Andre-Driussi
A Christmas Tree by Rhema Sayers
Unseen by Jacob Adams
Unwelcome Guests by Shannon Lawrence
Single Combat by David W. Landrum
The Resurrection of Hasan II by Hamad Al-Rayes
The Worst of Times by Elana Gomel
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The Society of Misfit Stories Presents - Aaron Vlek
Last Chances
By Michael Gardner
THREE DAYS, FOUR HOURS and seven minutes after Peter Razor was murdered, he awoke on a cold metal table. Peter inhaled deeply, like he had just surfaced from a deep ocean dive. The scent of formaldehyde permeated the air.
Why am I so numb? Peter thought, as he forced his eyes open. Blinking helped him overcome his initial blurriness. He found himself staring at a white ceiling. He tried to sit up but he could not. His body was stiff and rigid, and something pinned his right arm to the table. He forced his head to turn, one creak at a time, and he spied two large syringes in his right arm pumping an amber fluid into his naked body. A pump whirred quietly nearby. Jesus, he thought, I’m being embalmed. Why?
But then he remembered. The memory ignited in his decaying head like a flash from a camera. He had been tied to a chair. He was beaten. He was gone.
Now he was back. Strangely, Peter wondered why before how. He had to get out of here.
Peter worked his legs from side to side, forcing movement into the contracted muscles in his mid-section. He built up a rocking motion until, eventually, his hips slid over the side of the table and pulled his heavy body to the ground with a thud. No pain. Nothing but numbness. Peter lay face down. The slushing sound was new. He rocked from side to side until momentum helped him roll onto his back. The embalming tubes had torn from his arm in the fall and now they spurted liquid over the floor.
Peter strained his stomach muscles, pushed with his stiff arms and forced his body to rise to a sitting position. Something cracked loudly, and he wondered whether he had busted a rib. Now he could see the rest of himself. It was not pretty. Large, rough stitches held white flesh together from his pelvis to his chest. Similar stitches ran down his left leg. His stomach was blue and black, and his legs and chest had multiple cuts. He had been really worked over but, at the moment, he could not recall by who or why. He kept getting flashes of the beating, but the man administering it was fuzzy. Maybe he had brain damage. Peter chuckled – a deep, throaty gurgle. Of course, he had friggin brain damage. It, like him, was dead.
He reached up to the embalming table and pulled himself slowly to his feet. Nothing moved with fluidity. Every muscle jarred and resisted the will of his mind. Once erect, Peter spied a closet across the room. So he put his full weight on his legs and tried his first, stuttering step. His left leg snapped just below the knee and he crashed to the ground without pain.
He surveyed the damage. Hmm, he thought, as he looked at the bone poking through the torn stitches. At least that explained the wound in his leg. He looked for something to make a splint. Under the table, Peter found a tool that looked like a long metal rod. He grabbed it and ripped one of the tubes gushing embalming fluid from its pump. He attempted to tie the rod to his broken leg, but the tube was too thick and the knot would not hold. He threw the tube away in disgust.
No pain. He looked at the dull, white bone poking from his leg. He gave the wound an exploratory jab with his index finger. Nothing. No pain at all. Just a feathery sensation that interrupted the numbness as his finger entered his skin. He took the rod and slid it up into the wound, next to the bone. Peter barely registered the tingle in his knee as he applied force to drive the rod through the cartilage. He pushed again and felt the rod move up past his knee and into his thigh with a slick squelch. Peter pushed the rod higher and higher until he was left holding only an inch of metal. With a little force, he was able to push the exposed bone back into the cut, which he followed with the remaining inch of the rod. With his index finger and thumb now inside his leg, he pulled the rod back down, until it was evenly distributed through his calf and thigh.
He rose to his feet again, heavily favoring his right leg. But, once standing, a little weight on the left convinced him the rod would hold, even if his knee would no longer bend. He let go of the table and slowly limped to the closet. The door opened with a groan. I’m in luck, he thought. Inside was a black suit. Peter dressed as quickly as he could.
It was too big, but it would do for now. So, what next? He was ready to leave, but he had no idea where he was going. Should he go home? Or maybe to Anita’s? Another memory flared in his brain.
He sat on Anita’s bed, tying his shoes as she lay next to him, naked, running a hand along his back.
Don’t go,
she purred.
But he did go. And then he was taken. And tied to a chair. And beaten.
Anita’s,
he growled aloud. Shit, his voice was not his voice. It sounded like gravel in a blender. But he had his destination. He would return to Anita’s. He liked the idea. He liked it a lot. It seemed like fate wanted him to return to Anita’s. He left then, at a slow shuffle, as best as his cold, stiff body could manage.
IT WAS DARK OUTSIDE when he opened the door of the funeral home. He sensed, rather than felt, the fresh cool breeze on his cheeks. He was struck by an ache in his stomach as he realised that his life was gone. All of those things he had taken for granted were gone and he suddenly missed them deeply. Eating pasta, smelling the night air, running his finger down the nape of Anita’s neck. Gone.
He quickly surveyed his surrounds. The funeral home was nestled amongst a neat garden and trees, with wide open lawns surrounding it. He recognized his location as the Mornington Park Cemetery on the edge of town. It was a good half hour walk to Anita’s house in Beulah Street, ironically near the more central Gunnedah Cemetery. Peter chuckled at the thought. A dead man escapes one cemetery for another.
Peter headed down Bando Street towards the golf course. Street lamps created small parcels of brightness amongst the darkness every fifty yards. Peter zigzagged, keeping to the dark. No one was out, but he did not want to take chances. Only God knew what he looked like – or smelt like. The odd dog barked maddeningly at him from behind fences as he staggered along.
Walking through the golf course he recalled how he used to play semi regularly with his mates Jonno and Rodge. They’d always hire a cart, take a half carton and play progressively worse as the empties piled up. It was fun. Good fun. Gone.
He stumbled through the perimeter fence and out onto the road. Only a street to go. An early morning jogger stopped when she spied him. She crossed the road. Peter had no idea if she was simply avoiding a strange man in the early morning or whether she sensed what he was. Either way, he kept his distance. He shuffled down Westerweller Street and then turned right into Beulah. It was only now, standing outside Anita’s neat weatherboard home, that he wondered what the hell he was going to say. He limped up the gravel driveway, the stones crunching under his feet. He mounted the two steps and then knocked at Anita’s door and waited.
There was a faint ‘pad, pad, pad’ of footsteps behind the door before the handle moved with a creak. Peter took a deep breath. He knew she would freak out. The door swung open and there was Anita. Beautiful as ever – rich olive complexion, blue eyes, dark hair and luscious, sultry lips.
Hi,
Peter rasped.
Anita raised a shaking hand to her mouth and gasped.
Oh, shit. Peter, what did they do to you? Your face ...
Anita trailed off. Peter was confused. She did not seem surprised. Did she know he had died?
You’d better come in,
Anita said. I’m guessing you’re wondering why I called you back from the dead.
PETER SAT IN A DEEP chair, across from a large three-seater couch. In between there was a small walnut coffee table. Anita was in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil. The metronomic ticking of a clock from down the hall broke the silence. The sound was comforting and familiar.
The kettle whistled and then was quiet. Peter heard shuffling in the kitchen and the chinking of a spoon in a cup, then Anita emerged from the far side of the room with her tea in hand.
Are you sure I can’t get you anything?
Anita asked, as she walked to the coffee table and placed her tea on it.
No,
Peter responded, something rattling in his throat. The idea of eating or drinking repulsed him.
Anita sat down lightly on the edge of the three-seater. She picked up her tea, raised it to her beautiful mouth and blew gently. Then, without sipping, she placed the cup back on the table.
Peter could wait no longer.
I don’t get it. How did you do this?
he said, motioning to his body. And why. Why am I here?
he asked, the question that had burned in his broken mind when he first awoke.
I’m sorry, Peter. I did not know who else to turn to. So I called you here for a somewhat selfish task. But maybe I should begin with the how. I probably never mentioned this before, but my Grandmother was koori. She knew the old ways and taught me as much as she could before she passed. I won’t burden you with the details, but I used what she showed me to reach into the Dreaming and bring you back.
Peter cleared his throat. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Anita picked up the tea once again and breathed in the steam. She exhaled loudly, pushing a small cloud of mist in front of Peter’s eyes in which he could, for a split second, see flashes of his life. His birth, his graduation, his death. Then the mist dissipated. Peter blinked hard.
What do you need a dead man for?
Peter asked.
Anita placed the tea back on the table and when she looked up again, her eyes were moist.
John’s been taken. I think by the men that took you. I see now that they must have been after him all along. I think they spotted you coming out of my house four days ago and mistook you for him. Now, having realized their mistake, they came back for him.
You want me to track down your boyfriend?
Peter asked, incredulous. He chuckled, sounding like a creaking door.
I can’t lose you both,
Anita whispered. What I have with John will never live up to what I wanted with you. But he loves me at least. And life with him will be ... nice. I need him back. I’ve searched in the Dreaming and he’s not there. So there’s still a chance to get him back safely.
Two tears ran silently down Anita’s cheeks and Peter’s heart broke. He knew how much she cared for him, more than he ever could for her. Death gave him a clarity he never had in life. In life, he could justify using her with a variety of selfish reasons. Now, all he saw was the truth. He owed this girl.
Anita sniffed loudly and shook her head gently.
There’s something I never told you about John,
she said, her voice once again business like, he’s a dealer. Not in a big way, but he’s involved in drugs nonetheless. And I think he pissed the wrong people off. I saw him a few days before he was taken, talking to a bikie. He never said, but I think the bikies were his supplier. And now he’s gone.
Another memory gained clarity and assaulted Peter. It was his beating. His death. But this time, the image of his assailant was clear. He was a tall man with a grey goatee and a shaved head. He was wearing a black jacket, covered in patches. And on the back were three words written in red.
The Hell Hounds,
Peter whispered.
Yes, that’s them. Is that who took you?
Anita asked, leaning forward in her chair.
Yeah, I think it was.
See, I knew it. I’m right. John’s been gone for two days. Will you find him for me? Please?
Peter pushed himself to his feet, where he wobbled unsteadily. He looked down at Anita. Ok,
Peter rasped. I’ll look into this, for you.
Anita stifled a sob. Oh, thank you. Thank you so much.
She rose from her chair and closed the distance between herself and Peter in two steps. Then she hugged him. Peter responded and embraced her stiffly. He could barely feel her. And he could hardly smell her. He’d lost her too.
Hang on a minute,
Anita said, pulling back from the embrace. She turned quickly and trotted from the lounge and disappeared down her hallway. When she returned, she was holding a mobile phone, a pair of sunglasses and a long black jacket.
You can’t go out in public with your face like that. It’s so swollen I can’t even see your left eye. And that jacket looks ridiculous.
Thanks,
Peter said as he removed the oversized suit jacket and put on, what he presumed, was John’s coat. It fit nicely.
Please, call me when you can and let me know how things are going.
Peter accepted the phone and placed it in the inside pocket of the jacket. Then he put on the sunglasses.
I’ll talk to you soon,
Peter said.
Anita walked him to the door. Peter did not look back as he left Anita’s house. He could not. All he could see in her now was hope, sadness and pain. He needed to concentrate. He wanted to make her feel better. And who knew, if he found the bastards that killed him, he might have the opportunity to do something that would make him feel better as well.
AN ORANGE GLOW EMERGED on the horizon and expanded, forcing back the last remnants of night. Soon the sun would rise into the sky and warm all of the world except Peter, who hobbled over the train lines and towards the main street of town.
The first cars emerged from houses as the street lamps shut off. Peter shuffled as quickly as he could, trying to avoid the miners he knew would soon begin congregating around the bakery before heading west to work.
Peter limped across the near empty main street. He was momentarily bathed in a green glow from the only traffic lights in town. Then he stumbled past the bank and up to his old gym. He stopped for a moment to survey the aged bricks painted white, the dusty windows and the locked doors. ‘Razor’s Gym. Boxing, kick boxing, mixed martial arts and self-defence,’ was written across the walls in faded red paint. God it was a shit hole, he thought, his broken blue lips breaking into a smile.
For a moment, he could smell the sweat, blood and old leather again.
Peter was back in the ring, sparring with some strung out white kid while a couple of his students watched on. Out of the corner of his eye he spied Anita entering the gym. What’s she doing here, he thought. Momentarily distracted, the kid landed a lucky blow on Peter’s chin.
For fuh’s sake,
Peter muttered through his mouth guard. A flash of anger ignited in his belly. He rushed the surprised kid and launched a flurry of punches and kicks until a left uppercut laid him out. He felt guilty. He wanted to apologise but instead, he spat his mouthguard onto the canvas and said: keep your guard up.
He turned in Anita’s direction and with a quick flick of his head, he motioned to his office out back. He stepped out of the ring, grabbed a towel and left his students to aid the kid on the canvas.
Inside the plywood walls of his office, Anita was waiting for him wearing a simple, white dress. Her lips were moist and red.
I thought we agreed you wouldn’t come here during the day,
he said.
I’m sorry. I didn’t know who else I could talk to. But ... I think I need your help,
she said softy. He looked at her carefully and saw that she was distressed. Something was wrong, her boss maybe? Or John? He pushed the questions aside.
If we’re seen together in public, people will ask questions. Questions lead to accusations. Accusations lead to trouble. I don’t want trouble, ok?
I know. But I needed to talk to you.
And it couldn’t wait?
he asked. We’re catching up this weekend.
He watched her open her mouth and then close it, then she lowered her eyes.
I guess.
Ok, good. Well, I need to get back to it. You’ll slip out the back?
She nodded but didn’t look up. He leant over, pecked her on the cheek, and then he left his office.
The memory faded. The scents were gone. He was back standing outside the closed gym. He wondered now what she had wanted that day. Was that the point at which she had discovered that John was selling drugs? Or was it something else? Why had he never asked her? Because he was a selfish prick, he thought. She had never sought his help again while he was alive.
Peter moved on. Not far now. The Hell Hounds’ headquarters was an old shed down by the river in the flood zone. Peter was only a couple of blocks away. He kept moving, forcing his tight, rigid body to walk.
By the time he reached the Hell Hounds the day was bright. Peter stood across the road from the shed, his back to the river. There were no bikes. Strange really. Peter did not know if this was good or bad luck. He hobbled across the road and banged loudly on a large roller door, which appeared to be the main entrance. Nothing. The tin in the shed creaked under the heat of the rising sun. Peter hit the door again. ‘Clang, clang, clang’. He listened carefully and picked up the faint sound of someone coughing.
‘Clang, clang, CLANG.’
Righto,
a high-pitched voice yelled, muffled by the door. I’m coming, I’m coming.
Behind the door there was a thud, then a whir of chains and the door began to rise. Standing there, in a pair of white jocks, was a skinny kid, nineteen at best, with a couple of black tattooed bands around his biceps. A prospect, Peter thought, scanning him up and down. Probably has the shit job of guarding the headquarters until he achieves full membership.
Who the ...
the kid trailed off as he caught sight of Peter. He wrinkled his nose like he was trying to dislodge an unpleasant scent.
Ah, what ... what do you want?
I’m looking for John Cormann. Do you know him?
Peter rasped.
Ah, you’ve got the wrong place. No John Cormann here. Now you, ah, need to go, mate.
The kid started to pull on the chain and lower the door. Peter stepped forward and caught hold of the chain and held it firm.
You know him or not?
The kid recoiled from Peter.
No,
he whispered. The kid cleared his throat and regathered himself. Look, you have to get going now,
he said with more authority. You’re on private property and ...
Which one of your members has a bald head and a grey goatee? A big, mean bastard.
Peter noticed the quiver in the kid’s lips before he looked away.
Don’t know anyone by that description. Look, I’m calling my brothers so if you’re smart, you should go now.
The kid released the chain, turned and walked quickly back into the shed. Peter shuffled after him. The place was a dump. The cement floor was covered in dirt and alcohol stains. Empty bottles were strewn across the floor. A few old couches, that looked like they could have come from the dump, where scattered around the vast room. Posters of naked women and a dart board hung on the wall next to a wooden bar. The kid had reached the bar and was raising a phone to his ear.
Yep, we’ve got trouble here,
he was saying as Peter reached the bar, snatched the phone handset from him and smacked him hard across the jaw with it. The poor bastard stumbled against the bar, before sliding to the floor, his eyes widening in horror. Peter slammed the phone back in its cradle.
I asked you a question, kid,
he demanded, his voice sounding like an angle grinder on metal.
I, ah, I ... ah.
Peter raised his hand again.
NO. No don’t. You want Ape. Big guy with a grey goatee.
Where is this Ape?
He’s gone with Red. They had to get away for some reason. Avoid the heat or something.
Where?
Peter demanded.
No one tells me any ...
Guess,
Peter interrupted.
Ah, well, we have a house in Moree. Ah, 26 Adelaide Street. Yeah, that would be it.
Peter nodded.
I’ll need to borrow your bike then,
he said.
The kid’s face contracted like he was about to protest, but then he rose and edged behind the bar, keeping his eyes on Peter. He rummaged about under the bar and withdrew a key.
Out the back,
he whispered.
Peter left. He felt no need to warn the kid about what would happen if this proved to be a poor lead.
PETER DID NOT KNOW bikes very well so he had no idea what type of Harley the kid owned, but it looked damn impressive. All black and chrome. He wheeled it out onto the road and threw his right leg over. It started with a roar.
Shit, he thought, as he tried to put the bike into gear. The rod in his left leg made it difficult to raise his foot sufficiently to control the gear shifter. However, with an ungainly lean to the right, he managed to get going.
He roared away from the biker shed to the west of town. He motored past the earthy scent of dirt and cattle shit at the saleyards and soon was cruising through the bush, the river not far from the road to his right. The warbles of magpies filled the air as he whistled along.
He rode through the small town of Boggabri, where he barely noticed the decaying weatherboard houses and decrepit shops before speeding on. To his right, a railway snaked parallel to the road. He passed straw coloured grain silos at Baan Baa, but he barely slowed. The country opened up into wide plains, with hills and scrub off in the distance. Quickly through the town of Narrabri then out into cotton country, with rows of immature plants rising from farrowed dirt, surrounded by deep trenches holding irrigation water. In between some of the cotton farms was ripening wheat.
It was a bit over three hours before he slowed down to enter Moree, but it felt like minutes since he had left town. Time did not bother him like it once had.
He eased into the main street. On first glance, the town looked fresh and rejuvenated. New paving and trees lined the streets. But a second look and Peter noticed these touches did not cover up the neglect and abuse of the town. Empty shops dotted the street as did broken windows patched up by tape. It was like someone was trying to pretend there was no disharmony here. But Peter felt it. The town had an edge, like a fight brewing.
Suddenly, he realised he had no idea where Adelaide Street was. He pulled the bike over to the side of the road and cut the engine. A drone remained in his ears. A deep, earthy resonance that warmed his heart. Was it memory of the engine, or something else? He did not know. But it was comforting. He pulled the phone from his jacket and dialled the only number in it.
Hello,
Anita answered.
Hi,
Peter growled. I’ve got a lead. Two bikers went missing after they offed me and I’m thinking they may have John with them. I’ve tracked them to Moree, but can you do me a favour and find out where Adelaide Street is in this town? I’ve just arrived, and I don’t have a clue where I’m going.
Anita’s chuckling reverberated from the phone speaker. Peter furrowed his brow.
You could have looked it up, you know. That phone has Google Maps.
Oh,
Peter said.
You never liked technology, did you?
Suddenly, Peter remembered sitting in a new Corolla with Anita as she showed him the rear parking camera. She was beaming as she explained the feature. I don’t get it,
Peter had said, confused, what’s wrong with just turning and looking?
Peter recalled Anita laughing loudly as he had initially become annoyed. But she’d kissed him then. Peter remembered the look on Anita’s face when she pulled away. He had known then, hadn’t he, how she felt. The way she had looked at him. The way she seemed to cherish his every quirk.
You listening?
Anita asked, breaking his reverie. You’re not far. Just need to backtrack a couple of minutes to the Gwydir Highway, then Morton Street. Follow that and it becomes Adelaide.
Ok, thanks. Got it.
And Peter, thanks again for this.
Peter opened his mouth to respond but she was already gone. He started the bike again and pushed off.
26 ADELAIDE STREET WAS a dump on the edge of town. A shoddy corrugated iron fence surrounded a front yard filled with weeds and junk. The house was badly in need of paint. Two Harleys were parked under the carport.
Peter removed his black coat and hung it over the handlebars of the kid’s bike. The sun was high in the sky and while Peter could barely smell, he could tell from his boated skin that he was starting to cook. He knew his body must be emitting the scent of rot and filth. The soothing drone still reverberated through his head. It felt like the hum was calling him to something. He turned away from the house and the town and stared out west across the plains. He’d never been further west then Moree, he thought wistfully. He shook his head and turned back to the house.
Peter dismounted the bike awkwardly, then dragged his stiff left leg forward and began to hobble across the road towards the house.
He limped through the open gate and along a weed strewn gravel path, up to the bikes and towards the side of the house. Red dust clung to the peeling boards. Peter edged to a dusty window and peered inside, but it was dark and hard to make out the contents of the house. Peter stumbled past the bikes, around the back of the house and up onto a rotting deck. Blinds were pulled across glass sliding doors.
Peter placed a grey hand on the door handle. Shit, he thought as he noticed his hand, he was falling apart. He tried the door. It slid open gently. He pulled the blinds aside with a rattle. Why was it so freakin dark? he thought. He squinted hard. As his eyes adjusted, a lounge room materialised with a large couch and television in the corner.
Peter stepped inside. He heard a creak to his left. He turned and saw movement. Someone was rushing at him. Of course, the kid would call ahead. Stupid, he admonished himself.
Peter stepped back and raised his left hand in defence, but he had been caught by surprise and the large bald man crashed into him and drove him backwards against a wall, where it made a large ‘crack’. It was Ape, Peter thought. Even with his head buried under Peter’s armpit, he recognised the jacket hugging the burly physique.
Ape pulled his right arm back and buried his fist into Peter’s gut with a grunt. Peter felt a tingle. Peter drove his right elbow into the back of Ape’s head. The man stumbled, stepped back and then rose to his full height.
Peter’s old reflexes took over. He pushed off the wall and raised his hands, left in front of right. Ape eyed him with hatred. He lurched forward again but Peter stepped forward and grabbed Ape behind his neck with both hands in a clinch. Ape clutched at Peter’s arms. Peter wrenched Ape right, then left, dropped his weight onto his right leg and then leaned back to launch a left knee into Ape’s chin. His left leg rose about a foot from the ground before it locked at the knee and stalled mid-flight. Peter had forgotten about the rod in his leg. It did not bend and the blow did not connect.
In that moment, Ape wrenched his head from Peter’s clinch, ducked his head again and drove into Peter’s hips, tackling him to the ground. On top of Peter now, Ape launched a flurry of punches at Peter’s head and chest, which Peter deflected as best he could with his hands. But enough blows got through. It was disorienting. It was blurry and dark and red.
Ape, get out of the way,
a strange voice yelled.
Then Ape was gone. Peter jerked to a sitting position. In the gloom, Peter saw Ape scrambling backwards on all fours towards a tall skinny guy with red hair who was levelling a sawn-off 410 shotgun at him.
BAM.
The flair of light blinded Peter for a moment but then his eyes adjusted again. He rose to his feet and looked down. His white shirt was ruined by a large tear that framed a hole of burnt white-grey flesh blotted with black shot. Amber embalming fluid leaked from the wound in his chest. It tingled.
You’ve ruined my shirt,
he growled.
Oh, shit. Oh, shit,
the skinny redhead said, the gun shaking in his hand.
Ape stepped back, then forward, then stopped uncertainly.
Hey, isn’t that ...
Ape let his sentence trail off.
What the hell are you?
the redhead whispered.
Peter did not give them a chance to regather their wits. He stepped towards Ape and threw a right elbow at his temple, dropping him instantly. He walked towards the redhead, roughly snatched the shot gun from his hand, and then brained him with the butt of the gun.
PETER SAT ON A RICKETY kitchen chair, facing Ape, who was tied to another poorly made chair from the same set. His head lulled uncomfortably on his chest. His arms were pulled tightly behind his back. On the couch, the other biker wheezed and gurgled. Peter knew he had hit him too hard. There was a large depression under his left eye where his cheek had caved in.
Peter slapped Ape, who stirred. He raised his head slowly and sniffed hard, then harder. Then he coughed and gagged.
Peter’s skin was becoming slimy – he could only imagine what he smelt like in this hot house.
Ape opened his eyes.
You with me?
Peter growled.
Wha ... what happened ... oh ...
Do I need to slap you again?
No, no.
Do you remember me?
Peter asked.
Ape swallowed hard. He was beginning to shiver. Peter did not know if it was the concussion or fear.
Yeah. Yep, I remember. We killed you but it was an accident, honestly.
Peter laughed without mirth. He remembered when this situation was reversed. When it was him tied to the chair. He remembered it all now.
Peter could not move. Ape and the skinny redhead were laughing as they hit him. They did not bother asking questions or speaking to him. They just laughed and threw punch after punch as Peter groaned. Peter kicked out hard with his left leg and connected solidly with Ape’s balls.
You son of a bitch,
Ape gasped, as he dropped to the ground. The redhead stopped punching for a second, then he looked from Ape to Peter. The redhead stepped forward and threw his entire weight behind a blow to Peter’s eye. The world disappeared in pain and white light. Once the light dispersed, Peter saw Ape standing again. He grabbed Peter’s left leg. He turned and stepped over it and pulled that leg tight up under his crutch. Then, Ape jumped in the air, raised his legs and dropped his full weight onto Peter’s leg, which snapped. Peter screamed and screamed.
You sound like a stuck pig,
Ape said, as he stood again. Then he and the redhead unleashed blow after blow until it all went black.
I have some questions. Answer them honestly and I’ll let you live,
Peter said.
Ape was breathing loudly through his mouth. He swallowed and licked his lips.
Ok,
he whispered, then began his throaty breathing again.
What have you done with John Cormann?
Ape’s mouth fell open, then he chuckled nervously.
There’s nothing funny here!
Peter roared. Now, answer my question!
Sorry, sorry,
Ape replied. It’s just, I don’t get it. Why would we do anything to John?
What do you mean? You took him like you took me, didn’t you?
Of course we didn’t.
Peter was confused. What was going on here? Anita had assured him that John had been taken a couple of days after Peter turned up dead. But if not by these two, then by who?
I don’t understand. Didn’t you mistake me for John?
Peter asked.
No. John’s our boss.
What?
He ordered us to take you out. Painfully.
Peter swallowed. What was this? Was he lying? But he knew he wasn’t. Ape sat there, wide eyed, waiting for Peter to digest the information.
You screwed his missus,
Ape added.
Peter rose to his feet and walked behind Ape. Ape craned his neck to try and follow him. Peter walked back in front of Ape.
Then where did he go? Anita hasn’t seen him in two days.
He went to do a cook. But he should have returned by now. Don’t ask me why he didn’t go back.
He left voluntarily? He’s not in trouble?
Why would John be in trouble?
Ape asked, confused. John inflicts trouble – he doesn’t receive it.
Peter stood staring at Ape. He wanted to rip that goatee from his ugly bald head. He wanted to cave his skull in with the butt of the 410. He wanted to piss on his corpse. But he restrained himself. He needed to unload this hatred elsewhere. He narrowed his eyes and leaned in close.
Where is he?
he said through gritted teeth.
Ape swallowed hard.
It’s a property back near Gunnedah on the Wean Road. It’s called ‘Cerberus’.
Peter picked the shotgun up from the floor, took a handful of shells from the coffee table and walked from the house.
Hey, hey,
Ape called after him. Aren’t you going to let me go? I need to get Red to the hospital.
Peter did not respond. He left the house, put his coat back on and hid the 410 and the shells inside a large pocket. Then he mounted the Harley, turned it over and roared off towards home. He suddenly did not care so much about Anita’s pain. All he could think about was killing John Cormann.
HE BOUNCED ALONG THE rough driveway that dissected parched, grey paddocks. A few poor looking sheep chewed the last remnants of dead grass. Crows lined a fence and cawed as he roared past.
He drew closer to the large federation house at the end of the drive. He bumped over a cattle grid and then killed the engine, coasting to a stop on the only greenery in sight – a lawn competing fiercely with clover and bindies. A cracked cement path split the lawn and ran up to a veranda with paint peeling from the boards. As soon as Peter stopped, hundreds of flies landed on his body and began to eat and fornicate. He swished at them with bloated, grey hands, but they dispersed only momentarily before landing again.
Peter slid off the back of the bike. It was strangely silent now. No birds. No drone. He took two steps from the bike and onto the cement path when the front door swung open. John Cormann walked out onto the veranda and raised a double barrel shotgun.
Oi, you’re on private property here, mate. If you don’t have a good reason for being here, you need to turn that bike around, got it?
"Peter continued to limp towards John.
I won’t be doing that,
Peter rasped. His voice had deteriorated to the point where it sounded like a dog growling.
Mate, I warned you,
John said, stepping forward into the sunlight and training the gun on Peter. You turn now or I’m well within my rights to kill you.
Sorry, John. You’ve tried that already and it didn’t work the first time.
The shotgun waivered.
Who ... who are you?
John stammered. Is that? No. No it ...
Peter withdrew the 410 from his jacket as John dropped his gun with a clatter.
We killed you. You’re dead. You’re ...
Still am,
Peter interrupted. He raised the 410 with his right hand, but he could not squeeze his bloated index finger into the trigger guard. Damn it,
he said.
John finally moved. He turned and ran back into the house, slamming the heavy door behind him. Peter threw the gun away angrily and then hobbled up the steps onto the veranda and to the front door where he pounded it with his right hand.
Thwack.
When he pulled his hand away, there was a slimy grey, red stain on the door. He was decaying.
We can talk about this, man,
John said through the door. He sounded close, Peter thought. Like he had only had the energy to scramble inside and then slump behind the door.
What’s to talk about? You found out I banged your girl so you had me killed. You think I’m going to forgive you that? You know Anita actually thought you were in danger. She sent me here to help you,
Peter chuckled. Isn’t that a laugh?
Peter slammed his shoulder into the door and it shook in its frame but did not budge.
You gotta understand,
John stammered.
No, I understand. You’re a two-bit drug dealer who punched above your weight and happened to snag a prize you didn’t deserve. And you treated her like shit, took her for granted and she looked for something better. Me, damn it. And then you suddenly got possessive, right? And you reacted to this new found feeling of possession in the same way you would if someone had stolen your stash. So you offed me and then you moved on, cause you didn’t really care anyway, right?
No, that’s not right.
Peter slammed into the door again. The frame cracked. Peter smiled.
Of course it is. Why else would you disappear?
Peter rasped, as he shouldered the door again.
Because I love her, damnit!
John screamed.
Peter pulled back from the door with a start. Soft sobs emanated from behind the door.
You left her because you love her?
Peter whispered.
Don’t you get it?
John asked, I love that girl more than anything and when I found out about you I just snapped. I wanted to rip your spine from your body and club you with it. I organised the hit. I admit it. After that, I thought everything would go back to normal. But it didn’t. The next time I saw Anita everything was different. I’m not proud of this, but I felt the same damn urge to hurt her. I knew then that I couldn’t trust myself around her. I left because I’m afraid I’ll hurt her. I left her because I love her.
Peter sighed. Next to the door was an old weathered stump. Peter sat down heavily. And put his head in his hands.
Another memory assaulted him.
He was in year twelve, at his formal, standing outside with Jen Greyson sharing a smoke. Inside, his girlfriend of two years was dancing with her friends. Jen had smiled, dropped the smoke and kissed him. He was shocked. The thought of kissing Jen had not entered his head.
He had pulled back, holding Jen at arm’s length. Then he had looked her up and down and noticed her tight dress, her ample breasts, and the curve of her hips. For a brief moment, he thought of walking away. But he didn’t. He leant in and, this time, he kissed her, running his hands up and down her back.
After, he’d walked back inside and danced with his girlfriend as if nothing had happened.
Was that the point? The point at which he had given up caring for the women who loved him. Because now, looking at his life from the outside, he could see that he had repeated that behaviour over and over. Always taking what wasn’t his. Never caring. Satisfying his urges and then moving on.
I’m a real shit, aren’t I?
Peter sighed.
John chuckled from behind the door. He sniffed loudly.
It all made sense to Peter now. There was nothing in his life to be proud of and no one to blame for his mistakes. Would he stain his legacy further? Would he take the one last request of the girl he had hurt the most and then turn it on its head? Would he kill the person she had asked him to save? He knew he couldn’t.
So, what now?
John asked.
Well, I don’t really know. Anita wants you back home, but ...
I can’t,
John whispered.
Yeah, I got that. Jesus. There’s no happy ending here, is there?
Peter stood again and pulled his phone from his jacket. He dialled.
Peter, have you found something?
Anita’s voice asked expectantly.
Sorry, Anita. The trail’s gone cold and I’m falling apart. I can’t help you any further.
Anita burst into tears. But I need to know he’s ok. Peter, please.
Peter’s heart broke again.
Look, he’s all right. I found the bikers that took him and he wasn’t with them. He escaped. But he must have had to clear out.
Thank, God. But you have to find him, Peter. Please,
Anita implored.
I can’t. I’m done. Goodbye, Anita. I hope you find someone you deserve.
Peter hung up the phone as Anita began protesting. He dropped the phone on the deck. It rang again momentarily before he brought his foot down on it. The door opened. John emerged. He was pasty and sweating.
Thank you,
John whispered.
I could still kill him, thought Peter, as he looked into the man’s pale blue eyes. I could snap that neck like a twig.
Peter extended his hand.
John took it, wincing as he squeezed the moist, puffy appendage. They shook once and let go.
John sniffed hard.
You know you smell like shit, right?
John said.
Peter burst out laughing and soon John joined him. When they stopped, Peter asked:
So, what’s next for you?
I’m doing one last cook and then I’m taking my product to Newcastle. A couple of the Hell Hounds will set me up with the Newcastle branch. And you?
Peter looked out over the paddocks. He sensed a deep vibration in the earth. It spoke to him.
Me, I think I’ll head North-West. I’ve never seen the Australian desert. I think it’s calling me.
Oh, ok,
John said, furrowing his brow.
Peter turned then and hobbled down the veranda steps and to his bike. He slid back on and kicked it over. He looked up at John, who raised his hand and waved. Peter nodded, turned the throttle and spun the bike around in a cloud of dust and stones and then roared off towards the road. The desert was again humming loudly in his ears, calling him home.
The daughter of a farmer attempts to rescue
her brother from a mysterious individual known as The Collector, who seeks out gifted children and takes them from their families. But the rescue mission takes an unexpected turn when highwaymen decide the boy may have value to them as well.
The Good Seed
By Tom Howard
THE GIRL SAW THE MAN when she looked up from the basket of early peas she was shelling on the front porch. Her little brother, barely a toddler, sat at her feet eating more peas than he opened. An old man on a slow-moving horse came down the dusty road toward the farmhouse.
Strangers passed through the valley occasionally, but Vivieux didn’t recognize the man or his horse. Cliven,
she said, go tell Mama someone’s coming.
The child, shading his eyes to see the stranger better, bounded to his feet and shouted, Mama! Mama!
as he went inside.
The man rode the old mare down the hillside toward the farmhouse, giving every appearance of being an exhausted traveler. His clothes were worn and faded, and his bow hung unstrung at his back.
Ho, the house!
he called. Vivieux’s family farm, not large compared to some in the valley, had enough chicken coops, barns, pigpens, and corrals to reveal a large family lived there. The stranger stopped and remained on his horse.
Her mother came out of the house, wiping her hands on her apron and looking warily at their unexpected company.
Hello, Lady of the Hearth,
the man called. How do you fare today?
Better than you traveling in this hot sun, sir,
said the large woman. The trough is over by the barn, and Vivieux will bring you a cold cup of water to sip here on the stoop. Where are you from and where are you bound, sir?
Vivieux stood and gathered Cliven in her arms before heading to the well. She lowered the bucket and balanced her little brother on her hip while keeping an eye on the stranger.
The man climbed slowly off the horse, keeping his smile and empty hands in plain sight. My name is Amido, ma’am. I’m from Highland, and if this is the Bray farm, I’ve reached my destination.
Highland?
her mother repeated, wiping her red hands on her voluminous apron. Isn’t that where—
Her eyes opened wide, and she set her mouth in a firm line. Well, I guess you better see to your horse. My husband and sons are working the fields and won’t be home until dusk.
Vivieux and the toddler returned with a filled wooden bucket, and her mother scooped Amido a drink.
Perhaps it would be better if you stayed out here,
she told him. With your horse.
But if he’s from—
Vivieux began, but her mother motioned her inside.
She stood at the doorway, Cliven still on her hip, and listened.
Do you know which one?
her mother asked Amido.
No. I am only the Collector. I carry a letter from the High Counselor to be opened by you and your husband.
He walked back to his horse. Thank you for your hospitality.
Near dusk, her mother sent her out to tell Amido to wash up and come inside for dinner. The men had not returned yet, but as the sun sank behind the distant mountains, she knew they would be home soon. She had a million questions for the Collector, but she held her tongue as she watched him splash his face with water from the trough.
She knew the conclave elders had sent Amido – what child didn’t know stories of the Collectors – but her heart was heavy thinking of what this man would do to her family. She imagined some parents were pleased to see him. Some probably cursed and tried to shoot him.
Surprisingly, her mother put Amido at the visitor’s place of honor at the foot of the table. She didn’t converse with him. Instead, she loaded the table with enough food for a dozen people. The preparation of so much food wasn’t because of him; she prepared a farewell dinner for one of her children. She hoped she’d be selected, but suspected she knew who Amido had come for.
She avoided looking at the man as she set the table. Even Cliven carried wooden bowls to the large table without dropping them. Wonderful smells of cooked venison and roasted vegetables filled the farmhouse, and she heard the old man’s stomach growl.
She tried to recollect the bedtime stories she’d heard. Collectors appeared in the night and took children. They traveled far and wide in the little kingdom looking for special children who disappeared behind Highland’s walls, never to be heard from again. If she wasn’t chosen, her own future likely held multiple pregnancies, producing farm hands for her husband until her hips became as wide as her mother’s.
Vivieux saw Amido staring at her as she helped carry food to the table. His weathered face displayed several scars, one running along his jawline. In some of the stories, bounty hunters kidnapped Collectors like Amido and the Chosen Ones they escorted. Unscrupulous men sought to ransom the collected children or enslave them for their own purposes.
When the half dozen Bray men came in from the fields, they looked surprised to see a stranger at their table, but one young man drew the Collector’s attention. From the worried looks that passed between her mother and father, they also knew which of their children had been born special. The mother introduced Amido to each of her sons and mentioned he had come from the Highland conclave.
Wickum, the likely subject for collection, stared at their guest. Tall and thin, he’d seen fifteen summers. The young man was friendly and happy, and her heart sank at the thought of him leaving. Sensitive and kind, Wickum had always needed his older sister to look out for him.
Her father’s face held a dark expression. He and his grown sons knew why Amido sat at their table and gave quick, worried glances at Wickum. They told him about the farm and asked him for news from Highland. Amido explained he spent most of his time in his small home in Highland or on the trail. He knew little about what occurred within the conclave’s walls, but he did have news about other towns he’d passed on his way there. He told them of the king’s new daughter, a lovely girl with flaming red hair like the queen. Crops were good, except for some flooding along the White River. Reports of wolf packs from the mainland had turned out to be thieves who left a few mutilated sheep carcasses to fool the sheep herders.
As the meal progressed, she wanted to scream at the Collector to get out, to leave her family alone. She couldn’t believe her parents would consider giving up one of their children.
Soon, the painful dinner concluded, and she helped her mother clear the plates. Her five older brothers found evening chores to attend to, and Vivieux and the toddler joined Wickum and his parents at the table.
Would you like Tracory to join us?
asked Mother Bray after she finished her kitchen chores and sat with the others. He’s only a year older than Wickum.
I don’t think that will be necessary,
he replied. He withdrew a roll of parchment and handed it to the father.
Mother Bray took a kerchief from one of her many pockets and dabbed her eyes.
Vivieux’s father, a big, gentle man, took the parchment and slowly unrolled it. Sitting nearby, she saw the white parchment contained a single name and nothing else. There were no platitudes or explanations, no appreciation for the family’s sacrifice.
Her father addressed his children. Occasionally a special child is born. That child goes to live in the king’s castle and to protect us all. As adults, he or she stands with others who are special and protect us from the horrible monsters on the mainland.
Am I one of those, Papa?
asked Wickum. Could I be a great wizard?
Not a wizard,
Amido corrected, A guardian angel. Powerful, incorruptible, and good. You’d become a holy person.
Yes,
said Father Bray, looking at Vivieux and her younger brother, almost asleep on her lap. It is as we suspected, our own good Wickum has been chosen.
Tears trickled down his face. We are very proud of you, son.
Wickum looked troubled. If this is such an honor, why are you both crying?
Because, my son,
said his mother, when one is chosen to enter the conclave, they never return. They live as long as ancient dragons and never want for anything. Is that true, Traveler Amido?
I do not know,
said Amido. I am just a Collector.
Will my boy be safe?
asked Father Bray. The journey to Highland is long.
He reached over with his big hand and covered his son’s long slender fingers. Should I send my other sons with you?
There is no need, sir. Escorting is what a Collector does. I will protect him with my life.
When must you leave?
Mother Bray asked, blowing her nose and giving her son a brave smile.
Tomorrow morning at sunrise. It would be helpful if you pack him some extra clothing and perhaps some food. He will be provided with everything he needs when we reach Highland, but in the meantime, supplies would be welcome.
Vivieux jumped up so quickly poor Cliven almost fell on the floor. You can’t allow this,
she shouted. He can’t go!
Her father’s face grew red. Take your little brother to bed. We are honored that Wickum has been chosen.
His voice broke in the middle.
It’s okay,
said Wickum, placing his hand on her arm. I want to help.
Like one of the livestock,
she muttered, but seeing the fire in her father’s eyes, she gathered up Cliven.
Amido stood. I’ll leave you to say our good-byes while I perform a patrol around the farm.
SHE WAITED FOR HIM at the barn.
Good evening.
He sat on an empty milk bucket and rubbed his legs.
She hung her lantern from a hook near the door. They need Wickum here on the farm. He’s the best of us with the animals. The sick ones feel better when he takes care of them. All of us feel better when he’s around. Please don’t take him. Take me instead.
Amido smiled sadly. You mustn’t give up your future with a farm boy from the next valley. The conclave needs Wickum for the very qualities you treasure. Someday you will understand why I came for him. Without his sacrifice, we would all perish.
She started to cry. Please, couldn’t you go to the next name on the list?
Amido waited for her to wipe her tears. There are no other names on the list. Fewer children are chosen every year. That’s why you must stay here and produce a dozen healthy offspring, all as amazing as Wickum. Now go back inside and enjoy your last evening with him. He would not like you trading your life for his, although he’d likely do the same for you had your name been chosen. Be happy for him. He will have a long, joyful life.
Amido took down the lantern and handed it to her. Without another word, he climbed the ladder to the loft and pulled it up after him.
THE NEXT MORNING, AMIDO sat on his mare, looking rested and ready for the trip. Vivieux had spent a sleepless night thinking of ways to prevent Wickum’s leaving, the only result her gritty and puffy eyes. Her parents had donated one of their nags so Wickum would not have to walk to Highland. Everyone said their good-byes, Cliven not sure why everyone was crying but whole-heartily joining in. Mother Bray packed too much food, but Amido did not refuse it. He did politely but firmly decline when Father Bray offered to provide Wickum with a weapon.
Her brother appeared torn between leaving his family and embarking on an adventure. He gave Vivieux a brave smile and asked Amido a running string of questions as they rode away.
Vivieux could almost feel Wickum being torn from her. She heard her mother crying softly behind her.
MAMA! MAMA!
SHOUTED Cliven from the front porch. Her brothers had not worked the fields the day Wickum left, spending the time doing small chores around the house. Vivieux’s father repaired harnesses in the barn, not speaking to anyone or coming in for lunch or a cold dinner.
What is it, Cliven?
asked Vivieux, putting away the food from supper. Her mother remained in her room.
Cliven grabbed her skirt and pointed at two large men coming down the dusty road. Their horses were large, and they stopped a safe distance from the house.
Papa!
Vivieux called, and her father came out of the barn.
Hello, strangers,
he called. Where are you bound for?
We’ve a message for Amido,
said the larger man, a dark-haired man with an eye patch. From Highland. Is he here?
No longer,
said her father. He had taken his collection and gone.
How long ago?
asked the tall, thin man. Perhaps we can catch up with them on the trail.
Not long,
said Vivieux, moving down the steps with Cliven still intertwined in her skirts. I’m surprised you didn’t pass them on the trail.
The hairs on the back of her neck stirred. Something about these men frightened her.
Her father didn’t correct her. He also didn’t invite them to spend the night. Perhaps he also felt something wasn’t right about these men.
If you hurry, you might catch them before they make camp,
she continued, aware her brothers were slowly making their way to the front of the house. They took the main road going north.
Really?
asked the one-eyed man. We came in on the main road. It’s odd we didn’t see them.
They must have taken one of the hunting trails,
said her father, placing his right hand on the hilt of his sword at his waist.
Thank you for your time,
said the other man. We’ll be on our way.
The Brays watched as the two men rode off, taking the trail they’d come in on.
What are you up to, girl?
asked her father. You know Wickum went south on the river road.
They’re not from Highland,
said Vivieux. They are bounty hunters, and they’re after Wickum.
She turned to reenter the house, taking Cliven with her. Thank heavens she already had her saddlebags packed.
TIRED AND SADDLE SORE, she crept through the stand of willows. In the darkness, she’d lost the bounty hunters’ trail, but her connection with Wickum grew stronger with each step. It felt as if broken strings from her mother’s loom were being retied. She’d left her horse at the bottom of the hill.
She managed to hide herself behind a large tree overlooking the campsite where Amido and Wickum had stopped for the night. The bounty hunters must