Black Treacle Magazine (February 2013, Issue 1) (4 page)

“Spotted your
horse outside, Marshal,” the boy finally told him, his breath still
ragged. “Pastor Hallard sent me to find you, thought you might be
here getting your eats.”

Jake eyed the
boy, chewing the meat thoughtfully. “An’ what does the pastor want
in such a hurry, son?” he asked.

“Says you’re
to come over to our fields soon as you can--we’re out by the dip,
you know?”

Jake nodded.
He knew where the Robinson ranch was. It was only five minutes on
horseback, but the boy’s journey here on foot must have taken the
best part of a half hour, running all the way on his stumpy legs.
He leaned forward, ruffling the boy’s hair good-naturedly as he got
up and headed for the doors. He pulled the brim of his Stetson low,
hoping to cover the bandage he wore there, his spurs jangling with
each step. Behind him, the Robinson kid climbed onto the stool
which Jake had vacated, and began picking at the remains of the
meal he had left.

* * *

At the
Robinson farm, Jake located Pastor Hallard in one of the fields
near the ranch, talking with Geoff Robinson, the farm’s owner. Both
of them looked concerned as Jake approached on horseback, and they
looked up at his arrival.

“Heard you
wanted to see me, Father, Mister Robinson,” Jake said, touching two
fingers to the brim of his hat in salutation after getting down
from his horse. “What seems to be on your mind?”

Pastor Hallard
held out a hand to Jake. Resting in the palm of his hand was a
tiny, shrivelled potato, barely the size of his thumb. “We’ve got a
potential riot on our hands here, I reckon, Jake.”

Jake looked at
the pathetic vegetable, failing to comprehend. “What makes you say
that, Father?”

“The crops
haven’t taken,” Hallard explained, looking to Robinson for
reassurance. “We’re going to run short this season. And I mean
real
short, Jake, y’follow?”

Jake glanced
at Robinson, then back to Hallard. “You think we’re going to have
some hungry people on our hands? We’ll pull through ‘till next
season.”

Robinson shook
his head, muttering in disappointment. “The soil’s unworkable,
Marshal. I don’t think there’s going to be a ‘next season’.”

“Then why
didn’t you say something sooner, Geoff?” Jake asked.

Robinson
looked at him, and Jake saw the despair in his eyes. “A week ago
everything was looking fine. Then something happened. I don’t know
how or why, but suddenly the crop spoiled. Corrupted.”

“What do you
think did this?” Jake asked. “Best guess it for me.”

Robinson
looked at the ground between his feet, his words quiet, as though
he was ashamed. “I think
evil
did it, Marshal. That’s when I
called in the minister here, hoping he could...” he broke off, not
sure how to put what he had expected into words.

Jake looked
across at the field. All around he could see the leaves of the
potato plants, rotted, sick and drooping. The plants in the
neighbouring fields looked similarly unhealthy when he looked
across to them. “And what do you say to this, Pastor Hallard?” he
asked.

In response,
the Pastor let out a long, slow breath. “Hard to say,” he began,
but his words were cut off.

Echoing from
across the dip, the sound of a gunshot split the air. Jake was
already by his horse, pulling his compact binoculars from a
saddlebag when the report of a second shot reached their ears. He
scanned the horizon through the binoculars, sweeping the prairie
past the dip that marked the end of the Robinson smallholding.

“There, out by
the west fence--there’s a party of them,” Jake told his audience as
he hastened back to his horse. “I’m going to need you to follow me,
Pastor, as fast as you can.”

With that,
Jake spurred his horse to action, galloping for the west fence.

* * *

A crowd of
locals had gathered at the west fence, where several of the farmers
had surrounded a demon they had spotted crossing the fields there.
The fence hummed quietly as power surged through it. Every hundred
or so paces, a sign had been placed on the chain-links of the
fence, exclaiming that it was electrified.
Do not cross
, the
signs read--
demon territory
.

The demon that
the mob had swooped upon was already wounded. It was of average
height, not much more than five feet tall, but it was particularly
bloated. It struggled to avoid the blows of the mob, its corpulent
frame moving aside gracelessly as the more daring members of the
crowd swung tools at it--spades and sledge hammers. Others tossed
rocks at the demon or threw coins as they circled closer, many of
which met their mark, slapping against the demon’s thick skin,
occasionally piercing the crimson surface. A cut beneath one of its
eyes bled, acid trickling down its cheek like a tear.

At the head of
the mob, a burly farmer called Kane thrust a pitchfork at the
creature. “I dunno how you got over the fence,” Kane shouted at the
creature, his face red with anger, “but you ain’t gettin’ back to
your foul brethren now.”

Another
farmhand, Bateman, added, “We’re gonna break your filthy, devil
neck!” swinging a branch like a club, keeping the fat creature at
bay.

The crowd
moved closer, swarming on the creature and holding it down as it
struggled. Kane raised his pitchfork high and, with a swift jab,
prodded the tines of the fork into the creature’s body. The demon
howled as the metal penetrated its thick skin, burning where the
iron of the fork entered it.

At the edge of
the crowd, now dismounted, Jake was pushing people aside urgently,
struggling to make his voice heard over the baying of the crowd,
the pained shrieks of the demon. “Get away from that creature,” he
demanded. “Let me through, let me through.”

Eventually,
Jake reached the centre of the crowd, but he could see immediately
that he was too late. Pulling his pitchfork from the creature’s
mangled face, Kane stepped aside to let the marshal see their
handiwork. He smiled at Jake, proud of the work he had done here.
“Showed it pretty good, huh?” he asked, grinning.

Jake took a
half step back, swung his right fist at the farmer. The blow
connected with Kane’s jaw in a heavy thump, knocking the farmer off
his feet. Dazed and bewildered, Kane looked up from the dusty
ground, a question in his eyes.

“You stay
down,” Jake told him firmly. Feeling nauseous, Jake took the final
steps to where the body of the corpulent demon lay. He could see
the pained expression on its face, mouth forever trapped in silent
scream, yellow eyes open and staring into nothingness. The scarlet
body was spattered with traces of the creature’s acidic blood,
still smouldering wisps of mist into the air above it. Jake
crouched beside the corpse, examining it closely.

Bateman, the
farmhand, stepped forward, holding the remnants of the branch he
had used as a club. The branch was now just a stump, broken in two
with the force of the blows he had inflicted with it. “Why are you
bellyaching, Jake?” he asked quietly. “You’re meant to be
protecting Paradise for us good folks... stopping the demons
getting through the fence. Seems to me we gone done your work for
you here with this one. Should be thanking us, I’d say.”

Jake’s grey
eyes flicked up, taking in the crowd before settling on Bateman.
“You idiots,” he told them. “You ignorant fools.”

Pushing his
way through the crowd, Pastor Hallard made his way to Jake’s side
as the marshal continued. “The locals can’t break through this
fence. You’ve been blind all this time to what’s been going on
right in front of you.”

Jake reached
down, lifting the left hand of the naked demon. On the hand,
something twinkled, catching the light: A gold band resting on one
of the fingers, almost overwhelmed by the folds of puffy, red skin.
“This isn’t a demon,” Jake told the crowd, removing his Stetson and
placing it on the ground beside him, revealing the sweat-stained
bandage he wore there. “It’s Heather,” and his voice cracked as he
said it.

Pastor Hallard
leaned down, looking Jake in the eyes. “Your wife?” he asked,
cautiously.

Jake nodded.
“Took me a while to figure out where all these devils were comin’
from. But you’ve seen it yourself. The crops, the soil--it’s
tainted.”

The pastor
looked at the wedding band on the demon’s hand, glanced back to
Jake in sudden realisation.

“All the while
we thought we had tamed Hell,” Jake told him, a resigned smile
lifting the corners of his mouth, “but really it was taming us.
Guess it’s true what they say--the Devil always gets the last
laugh.”

“How long have
you known?” Hallard asked him quietly.

Jake put a
hand to his head, picking at the bandage there and unwinding it
from his forehead. Beneath the bandage, equidistant on his
forehead, two small lumps could be seen, the skin angry around
them. Bone had split through the skin, and despite Jake’s best
efforts to file them down, it was clear what the lumps were: horns,
growing through his flesh. The pastor felt his throat constrict,
and he instinctively took a step backwards. “I’ve suspected for
quite a while,” Jake assured him.

END

Rik Hoskin
is a comic book writer
and science fiction novelist based in London, England. He currently
writes Star Wars and Disney comic strips. He also writes novels
under the pen name of
James
Axler
. As Axler, he's been the lead writer
on the
Outlanders
science fiction series since 2008, and has also contributed
several books to the popular post-apocalyptic
Deathlands
series published by Gold
Eagle/Harlequin Books.

He has four novels as
James
Axler
due out this year, and has also
contributed a short story to the forthcoming Spider
anthology,
Extreme
Prejudice
, that's due in June from
Moonstone Publishing. Details of his book work can be found
here:
http://www.fantasticfiction.co.uk/h/rik-hoskin/

F.J.
Bergmann

If the good
dreams were about soaring down the bright sky, borne on a warm
breeze, the bad ones were the opposite: a cold, dark hole like a
mouth gaping from above to devour him, just as he slipped into
sleep. He’d had nightmares about the tunnel as long as he could
remember. But the sun had been veiled in clouds for days, each
morning the air was chillier, and now his house had collapsed again
under the weight of cold rain. He crouched, shivering, just inside
the tunnel’s vast, tubular length, watching leaf fragments swirl
past in the gushing water. He had never dared to explore beyond the
area visible from the entrance. If he could find the courage to go
up, would the tunnel take him to the light above the clouds?

He packed
carefully, knowing he might not come back. Luckily, hunting had
been unusually good just before the rain started; he had a
substantial assortment of nourishing meals already wrapped. He
started up the tunnel, clinging to the wet surface arching over the
ceaseless torrent. As he strode onward, carefully placing each
footstep, the entrance slowly dwindled to a small patch of light
reflecting in the waters beneath.

A series of
corrugated ripples in the tunnel wall gave him a secure anchorage
to pause for a rest and a brief snack, salty and rich with
concentrated proteins under its brittle husk. He shifted his load
of provisions and continued on. Beyond the ridges, the tunnel
turned sharply straight up--and now he was in total darkness that
smelled dankly of algae. He told himself, to no avail, that it was
no different than the innumerable moonless nights he’d spent hiding
from invisible enemies. He tried to encourage himself by humming
lively tunes, but the sound echoed unpleasantly, its dying
reverberations suggesting an infinite distance in the dark. Even
his timid footsteps set off a mutter of pursuing whispers.

He did not
know how much time had passed when he noticed a change in the
stream coursing down the side of the tunnel. While outside, he had
been vaguely aware that the volume of water pouring out increased
as the rain became heavier, but he had not considered the hazard
the vertical cascade would represent. He heard the muffled booming
of thunder and the patter of raindrops, rapidly rising to a steady
roar. He clung desperately to the wall, but a rush of water swept
him down into a tumbling ocean.

* * *

He regained
consciousness hours later, huddled in a sodden wad of sticks and
dead vegetation. The sun had come out, although the air was crisp;
the grasses arching over him were already nearly dry. He shivered,
only partly with cold: suppose a larger hunter had come along while
he lay there, mindless? Of course, there was no trace of his
provisions. He sighed and set about acquiring more, as rapidly as
possible.

* * *

It took him
two days to prepare for the second attempt. He realized that he had
been foolish to wait for rain to goad him to venture into the
tunnel. He would start as soon as he could, and hope that the rain
would hold off. He was getting hungry and careless; doubtless other
predators would be taking bigger risks as well.

The ridges
connecting the sloping entrance to the vertical, where he had
rested on the previous voyage, loomed above him sooner than he
expected; this time, the brighter glow outside penetrated further
into the dark tube, lighting his way. He made his way up to the top
of the last ledge; he thought to stop for sustenance again, and was
just about to unwrap one of the smaller food bundles, when one of
the ridges twitched. Horizontally striped, black against
crepuscular blue, his eyes followed it halfway around the tunnel to
where the stripes curved upward and widened, almost invisible in
the darkening gloom of the vertical section. They marked the
striated turquoise body of a gigantic lizard. Its deceptively
vacant eyes were watching him intently.