The Matter of Dalgatto: A Tale of Ezekiel Tanner

by David M. Pitchford

—Caribe Coast, New World Southern Continent near Cumaná

Boots blurred into focus. Crocskin. Kneehigh. Tribal soled with an English cut. Very strange. A heap of canvas was tossed within his narrow field of vision. The sun angled west enough now to turn the foam crimson, as though the tide were of blood.

“Aye, Lord,” Ezekiel Tanner gasped. He hung on a cross made from the mainmast of a wrecked skiff, over a dune and face down. Pain had long ago given way to bone-deep lethargy. Crabs scurried over his riven flesh, clipping away at the scores where he had been scourged.

Something dropped atop the canvas bundle. Zeke squinted the long, thin thing into focus. A bell-hilted rapier, sheathed and coiled with a familiar belt. The bell hilt had been reworked, but he knew the rapier as the one from the Jaguar-tooth-huaca, a holy place far in the interior of the savage southern continent of the New World. How had it come . . .

“I knew the man belongin’ ta tha’ sliver o’ fine steel,” grated a familiar voice. “Cut ‘im down, Jon Luden.”

~*~

Later in a tavern dubbed the Drab Easterly, down the coast a far way, Ezekiel Tanner chuckled a bit madly over a chowder of scallops and crab. He looked up suddenly to his rescuer.

“What brings ye back ta these waters, James Garr?” he asked.

“Commerce,” replied the other. “Same as always.”

“A’course.” Zeke plunged his spoon in for another bite.

“Ye’ve not spoken since ye’re grace-sayin’,” Garr prompted. “How’d ye come to be christified on such a fine beach?”

“Cap’n name o’ Dalgatto,” Zeke answered shortly. His eyes bled weariness, and yet his iron will kept his back straight.

“Gatto? The one they call the Rollin’ Caiman?” Garr’s gaze narrowed. “Bad man ta cross.”

“It’s him what chose ta cross the wrong man,” Zeke said coldly.

“And your Lord’s aright with vengeance?” Garr’s smile twisted, but his clever green eyes belied the mockery.

“Aright?” Zeke looked him in the eye for the first time since being cut loose. “It is His vengeance what I seek, Cap’n, and none my own—though I grant ye I’ll nay be dimmed by the task.”

“What befell ye, Tanner?” Jon Luden asked, eyes pained with his friend’s pain.

“When we came fro’ killin’ tha’ fell son o’ Perdition, I took my share to buy the tribes back from slavers,” Zeke said, sipping at a tankard of watered wine. “Bought well nigh a thousand over a season. It seemed the righter course. But then I killed a man for beatin’ a native girl near ta death. They put a bounty on me. So I made north and went whalin’ two years . . .”

He trailed off as a number of tavern patrons fell into frenzied fighting. Tanner kept his head down. Garr had been friend enough to furnish him another shirt and lend him a modest slouch hat, but he was in no mood to be recognized if any of Dalgatto’s pirates remained ashore. He watched, vexed, as Jon Luden, cursing fiercely, rose and sprang on a man about Zeke’s height. Tanner stayed seated, too weak from his travails to be good in a scrap.

“Here, friend,” Jon Luden handed Zeke a bundle of black cloth. “Beseems a thief to return ‘is spoils when he’s rightly called fer theft o’ such.”

Zeke grinned, thanking Providence and the Lord. Luden had returned to him his old black coat. The one the Jesuits gave Zeke when he departed their seminary. The one he had sewn to cover the sheath of a slight sword and conceal a flat-handled gauche. Both weapons remained in the coat, though the pockets were all empty. Even his Bible and Book of Common Prayers were gone.

“I thank ye, Jon Luden, and ask the Almighty His blessin’ upon ye,” Zeke’s eyes filled with tears. Not because he was consumed with gratitude, which he was, but because his body, mind, and spirit were overwhelmed with the events of the last three days.

The fight broke up as six guardsmen tossed the drunken miscreants from the Drab Easterly. Zeke watched, recognizing two of the guardsmen and biting back on his own anger. When they were gone, he continued his tale.

“As I was sayin’. After two seasons, the Lord called me back to find Kaibo. Dunno what fer. So I caught a series of vessels back to dear ol’ Tortuga. Some slaves somehow got freed from Dalgatto’s merchant marine—he brings Afrikars here and takes the more robust tribals from here up to the English plantations on the upper continent on ‘is way back fer more blacks—”

“So you had what to do with this?” Garr asked.

“Only the Lord’s will, Cap’n,” Zeke avoided his eyes. “And so ‘twas that Gatto brought me here to Cumaná. He and six of his dogs crucified me as you found. Thanks be to God they had no nails!”

“They flogged you?” Luden asked.

“Sayin’ a man who frees slaves should be treated like one,” Zeke said, nodding.

“So what is it you did that your Lord seen fit ta ‘umble ya this time?” asked Garr.

“Pride, as always,” Zeke grinned wearily.

“We’re out tomorrow’s tide, Ezekiel Tanner,” Garr growled. “Bein’ as we’re brothers in the faith as ‘t were, I’ll see tha’ ye have means. But that’s the end of it.”

“Lord bless ye, James Princeton Garr,” Zeke said in a low voice. “Ye’ll need it same as me. And I thank ye for doin’ as the Lord asks.”

“Weren’t the Lord’s doin’,” Garr told him. “I overheard a fisherman say he’d seen Christ ‘imself in the sunset on the beach. Thought it a good omen. I wanted the truth of it, and there ye be. Strange circumstance, I’ll grant ye, but no intervention by the Almighty.”

They saw him safely to a room in Delilah’s Cottage, a brothel too unlikely for anyone to seek the evangelist. Madame Delilah, a dark-skinned woman of the islands, owed Garr too many favors to ask questions.

“See that he’s well enough before he finds more adventure,” Garr told her. “I’ll vouch—”

“Ye’ve no need, James,” she said, arching an eyebrow. “I’ve known the evangelist since I was a child.”

“Child?” Garr gazed at her. “You were but barely a woman when I stole you from that dastard in Haiti.”

“He missioned there four summers before you came from England,” Delilah purred. “The first white man I ever took a shine to—oh, don’t be gettin’ jealous on me, dear. He was a true priest at the time. A Jesuit through and through.”

“And now?” Garr seated himself, intrigued.

“He’s much more handsome with character these days,” she teased, acting obtuse from habit.

“What is he now?” Garr growled. “He’s no Jesuit. I think not even Catholic—seems unbeholden to the Pope, the Vatican, or the Church at large. Though I suspect he gave a king’s fortune ta the Reductions before he gave the rest to buyin’ slaves what were just recaptured and resold.”

“He came back Anglican after a few years back in Wales,” Delilah told him. “Carries a crucifix and calls himself a man of God, but doesn’t much speak of the Church—any church. Why matters a mere priest to James Princeton Garr?”

“We shared a hard road,” Garr muttered, pulling her into his lap. “I’ll not go preachin’, but I suspect the man’s touched by something good as Providence.”

“A man who lives his faith has its power to see ‘im through,” she said, running elegant cocoa fingers through Garr’s newly washed chestnut hair. “You have commerce—”

“And Zeke Tanner has his Lord,” Garr said, tossing his favorite madame onto the down bed and forgetting all else in the musk of her primordial appeal.

~*~

“Advance no further,” the Spaniard ordered, holding out a long flintlock pistol.

“No good that’ll do ye,” Zeke said calmly, gazing into the eyes of the man in charge of the Cumaná Customs office. “The Almighty ‘n me struck a deal, see—”

“I’ve been champion of this province—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Zeke said, advancing. “The Almighty done said I’m ta die by th’ sword.”

The Spaniard took careful aim and squeezed the trigger. Zeke watched his eyes and his hand. The man’s hand was steady, eyes filled with confidence. The moment the hammer and lock connected, Zeke swirled his long black coat dramatically, drawing slightsword and gauche in the same movement. By the time the smoke cleared, the point of his gauche was beading with the drop of blood he drew from the Spaniard’s throat.

“I told ye,” Zeke Tanner hissed. “Now. On to business. I want to know what scripts was given Dalgatto.”

“Dalgatto?” The officer looked him defiantly in the eye. “I know no—”

Zeke put the slightsword blade against the man’s skull behind his left ear. “Lie again and the Lord shall ha’ me take yer ear for the sin.”

“I was at both Confession and Mass just this afternoon,” replied the Spanish captain.

“Dalgatto,” hissed Tanner.

Another Spaniard broke though the door, leveled a flintlock rifle, and fired. Zeke dropped as though hit. Before the soldier understood the feint, Zeke sprang over the intervening desk and knocked him unconscious.

“What said you about dying by the sword?” asked the captain from behind the desk, his own rapier drawn.

“A thrill it’d be to duel ye fair,” Zeke said, grinning with earnest mirth. “But I hear yon guard and must be about my Lord’s work.”

He fell on the captain with the speed of a jungle cat. One parry and a weak thrust is all the captain could manage before Zeke disarmed him and pushed him to the wall, this time with the point of his gauche pressed below the captain’s belt. “Give me the nearest port at which ta find ‘im!”

—Port of Prince Customs Office

“Lord preserve ye if ye be found a liar,” Ezekiel Tanner told the Port of Prince merchant. “I’ll be back to punish any who stand in His way.”

“Wait!” The merchant’s eyes were full of inner conflict, but fear of Zeke Tanner was fresher in his mind than that of Arsenio Dalgatto. “He’ll be stoppin’ by way of Virginia before crossin’ over.”

“Virginia?” Tanner nodded, knowing little about the New World’s northern continent.

“He’ll be takin’ on sotweed and unloadin’ what slaves he took here—less than a half-load,” replied the merchant, a fat man with ungainly wattles under his chin but redeemed somewhat by kindly loam eyes.

“Th’ Lord bless ye, Rawlins,” Zeke bowed. “By way of Ezekiel Tanner. Should ye engage in commerce wi’ good Cap’n James Garr, tell ‘im I said ‘twas a blessing I gave ye. Fer as ye reap, so shall ye sow.”

—St. James Rectory, Jamestown, Virginia Colony

“The Lord bless and keep ye, Father,” Zeke hissed, his blade to the Cardinal’s throat. “I thought not to meet ye again beneath th’ sun.”

“Unhand me,” Cardinal Ribissi Sandradinni said calmly. “Our Lord works in mysterious ways, brother—even amongst the Jesuit order and its outcasts.”

“Not outcast,” Zeke said quietly, releasing the portly priest. “I left as my faith demands.”

“Mother Church—even your own beloved Church of England—has cast you into outer darkness, Ezekiel Cameron Tanner. What brings you to harass me in this the midst of my exile amongst red-skinned heathens, Puritans, Pilgrims, and other roustabout savages?”

“Come, Bissi,” Zeke jammed his gauche back in its sheath and embraced the red-clad Cardinal. “Mother Church may ha’ turned me ta the outer darkness, but I hold the Lord Himself counts me of His flock.”

“Even our glorious Saviour needs a black sheep in His unblemished flocks,” Ribissi said mournfully. “Though I say it not from the Collar, I tell you, old friend, I do hold hope and faith that . . . I pray for you daily, brother.”

“Be that as it is, Bissi,” Zeke smiled grimly. “I come . . . with a mission. Perhaps a man of no means might find mercy?”

“What mercy seek you?” Ribissi Sandradinni moved to a small cabinet to remove a magnum of brandy and two fine crystal glasses, pouring one for himself and a lesser portion for his friend.

“This is mercy itself,” Zeke said reverently, sipping the fine brandy with great pleasure. “And what grace that such an esteemed clergyman as your Lordship should bless a crusty beggar—”

“Yes, Brother Tanner,” Ribissi turned his nose up, then stuck it in his brandy snifter to block out the perfidious stench of his friend. “You smell of bilge water.”

“In truth,” Zeke smiled. “For I’ve just come from a slaveship in the bay—”

“Tell me no details!” Ribissi commanded in his most authoritarian voice, hand raised.

“Naught ta tell, Bissi,” he shrugged. “Obvious as the nose on yer face what I come fer.”

“Rose water?” Ribissi raised an owlish eyebrow.

“Oh, any old water’ll do,” Zeke smiled. “Long as it’s fresh and hot and followed with clean clothes. I can do tha’ fer myself—”

“Remain unseen,” Ribissi scowled. “Rumors abound even here that Zeke Tanner is worth a fortune to certain authorities—and other, less officious, manner of men.”

“I bear gifts,” Zeke said.

“Gifts?” Ribissi looked him over critically, noting the shadows under his eyes, sunken cheeks, and general pallor. “You look to have crawled from a plague wagon.”

“Seemed unseemly to offer such treasures before receiving charity,” Tanner said, tossing a pouch to the Cardinal. “The gem should be cut six ways and sent abroad, never to be reunited. The lesser stones should go a long way to support local widows and orphans.”

~*~

“What brings you here, Brother Tanner?” Ribissi asked the next evening over brandy. Zeke had rested after his bath. Freshly bathed, beard clean and groomed well, hair pulled back, he looked a different man. His clothes were clean, but otherwise unremarkable. Ribissi was amazed how clean the black missionary’s coat had been scrubbed.

“A certain slaver hereabouts has found wrath in the Lord’s eyes,” Zeke told him, sipping the brandy with polite attention. Where he had seemed a skulking fiend the previous night, he presented now as a cultured gentleman. He knew himself to be both, as surely as he was both sinner and saint.

“Bad business threatening slavers in the Virginia Colony, Brother Tanner,” Ribissi said in friendly threat. “It’s half the commerce . . . Speaking of which, I had a strange encounter with a merchant marine name of Garr. Said he was acquainted with you.”

“How did that chance to come about?”

“He came to offer a remarkable ruby to the diocese,” Ribissi mused. “One of precisely the size of that emerald you gave me last evening.”

“That, my dear friend . . .” Zeke flashed a smile and wink before growing somber. “The Lord wills it. Those stones were best sent far from each other. Tis a tale I cannot yet relate, but one I promise you in the fullness of time, Bissi.”

“Well enough.”

“Apart from that—including that, actually,” Zeke stood and began to pace. “I assure you the treasures were gainly got, and without action nor intent reprehensible to the Lord—or even the Church and her tender conscience.”

“What have you come for, Ezekiel Cameron Tanner?” Ribissi retained his seat, intent gaze fixed on the haunted eyes of his guest. He had never known fear from this man. Not as a youth in the Amazonia jungles. Not as a hellion evangelist in the Reductions. Not as a dissident returning from the Holy Land. But what he thought at first was the shadow of fear he now discerned as horror recalled.

“I’ve set myself against certain slavers,” Tanner replied. “Not the ignorant man doing what he can to feed the Empire and his own, but the profit-mongers whose crimes go deeper—”

“Who is it, Brother Tanner?” Ribissi had no love of slavers, but he was also of the opinion that they were offering the heathen savages a better life—a Christian life. Salvation was worth far more than freedom.

“Arsenio Dalgatto,” Zeke said coldly, eyes full of an emotion too primordial to label plain hate. His voice resonated with a conflict as old as mankind, deep as the jungle, dark as Africa herself. Ribissi shivered with a sudden chill.

“It comforts me to know that your enemy is no friend of the Church,” Ribissi mused, inwardly praying his thanks. “Dalgatto is not one to have friends, actually. He’s a Portuguese captain working for Spain. At least that is what I am given to know. I believe his ship, the Ocean Fox, sails for Venice in three days. He even now loads several tons of sotweed and staples enough to make the voyage. It may be he has a berth or two to rent, if not commission for an officer to replace one mysteriously killed in the tropic islands.”

“He knows yer face too well,” Garr broke in, striding through a curtain separating the antechamber beyond.

Zeke shot to his feet, hands on his blades. He relaxed, recognizing the other. “Garr? What brings ye—”

“Just got in with a cargo of tropical birds and crocskins,” Garr smiled, shaking Zeke’s hand. “Overheard a familiar name and followed the echoes here.”

“Good ta see ye, Garr,” Zeke told him. “But I’ve a mission of my own.”

“Not on yer own, you don’t,” Garr said lightly, accepting a snifter of brandy from the Cardinal. “Seems a crewman o’ mine got ‘is fool neck in a bind, and Captain James Princeton Garr leaves no man behind.”

“What crewman?” Zeke challenged. “You and I parted wi’ the understanding we were square.”

“Kaibo,” Garr shrugged. Zeke saw the fire in his eyes now, deep and lethal like the waters Garr preferred. “One o’ the freedmen I hired confirmed Kaibo’s passage on the Ocean Fox.”

“Perhaps, gentlemen,” Ribissi hefted himself to his feet, “you were better served speaking over wine at Lady Swan, one of only a few establishments I can conscionably endorse here in Jamestown.”

~*~

Four days later, Jon Luden delivered a note to inform Zeke Tanner of the scheduled departure of the Ocean Fox.

Leaving no word of his intentions, Tanner slipped through alleys and shadows to find Garr.

“We can’t confront him in the port,” Garr said without preamble. “We have to chase him down in the open sea.”

“Sooner is better,” Tanner said, shrugging.

“Dalgatto is your mission, Zeke,” Garr told him sternly. “My crew and I are there only to retrieve friend Kaibo and take our due recompense for the trouble of it.”

“So be it, Cap’n Garr,” Tanner assented. “The Lord and I shall take care of the Rolling Caiman.”

—Two days voyage east of the New World, Atlantic Ocean

“I’m here for you, Dalgatto!” Zeke Tanner growled across the Ocean Fox’s burning deck. Arsenio Dalgatto scowled at him, black eyes full of hatred older than mankind.

“From my master to yer Lord!” he barked, Hell-deep scorn in his voice. He lifted a long pistol from where it hung on a lanyard beneath his shoulder. Zeke stepped toward him, rapier in his hand. Dalgatto fired. Pain seared into Tanner’s chest. He gasped, but strode despite the pain and shock to meet the man he now considered his mortal foe.

“Lo! I shall bring thee victory!” Zeke howled scripture, lunging to cross blades with the slaver.

“We are many!” Dalgatto shrieked in a strange voice, as though a horde of locusts cried out in unison. Zeke could see now the hatred and rage within the slaver’s eyes, a hatred begun before was uttered the words of Origin: let there be light. That demonic hatred that had caused the heavenly rebellion.

“Though I rush through the shadow of death!”

Zeke flicked his rapier past the slash of his enemy’s cutlass, slicing into the forearm, piercing the veins inside the crux of his elbow. Dashing right, he realized suddenly that his left arm would not raise, that he could not ward off blows with the stout blade of his gauche. He rolled into his lunge, feeling cold steel tear through his thigh.

“Ye are but a louse on a great blue whale, son,” grated Dalgatto, chasing Zeke over the deck with wide, hateful arcs of his cutlass. Then, he called aside, “Put those flames out!” The flames died.

Ezekiel Tanner’s faith never wavered. He felt the pain in his chest from the musket blast—the first time in fifty he had taken such a wound. Left arm numb, he held his place on the deck and awaited the captain of the Ocean Fox, knowing him now for what he was—demon-possessed.

Dalgatto pursued him leisurely, secure in the knowledge that Ezekiel Tanner was no threat. He delighted in seeing a man’s fear and doubt in his dying face. But he saw none of this now; where he thought to see it, he saw resolved faith and dangerous cunning. It held him a moment too long.

Tanner watched, ignoring the sucking noise his chest made as he breathed. The Lord had sent him here; the Lord would see him through. “The Lord helps them who help themselves,” he said into the demoniac malice of Dalgatto’s glare. He leapt, feinted, and spun low to kick the man’s legs out from under him. Silver flashed. Dalgatto screamed. Tanner sang out in hymn.

Tanner struggled to his feet. “Another time,” he promised Dalgatto, who lay pinned to the deck with his own long dagger. Quoting one of the Psalms in a bubbling wheeze, Tanner made his way over the side with a gang of freed slaves back to Garr’s new ship, Delilah’s Pearl.

© 2008 David M. Pitchford
Original fiction debuting at Residential Aliens
Discuss this story at ResAliens Forum at SFReader.com.
(Note: Story illustration found at Spirit of Albion.)

David M. Pitchford is a poet, novelist, editor, and teller of tales. He currently lives in Illinois with his poet-wife Siobhan, with whom he recently released the sonnet collection After the Vows: Poems Between Lovers. He blogs at Fringe Monkey (r)Evolution.

Venus Theotókos

This story is no longer available to read online.

Look for a new collection of stories by John Farrell

coming soon at Farrell Media.

Venus Theotókos by John Farrell

originally debuted at Residential Aliens in 2008.

A Place for the Children

by Dan Devine

Will awoke, remembering the sound of a truck horn, deep and low and so loud that he could feel it rattling the bones in his chest. There was something important about that sound, or the events that came right after, but he couldn’t think of what.

Then he opened his eyes and gasped in wonder, the notion completely forgotten. For Will found himself in the home of a giant. It was as if he had climbed Jack’s beanstalk to the clouds and snuck in beneath the door. A fireplace towered to his left, the stonework a sheer cliff that stretched upwards from the yawning cavern of its unlit depths. Its mantle hung several stories above him.

Before him spread a sea of plush white carpet. It reached almost to his shoulders and brushed against him, tickling, as he pushed himself forward. Colossal chairs and tables loomed around him, and in the distance he could see miles of flowered wallpaper running along the horizon.

There were other children here, chasing each other through the carpet and laughing, and everywhere there were toys. Balls and bats, cars and trucks, figurines and dolls—all made for a person of his size. They littered the ground so thickly that Will had to take care with each step not to trip over something. Even his room at home had never been this messy.

Bending down to inspect a few, he found that many of the playthings seemed old-fashioned. There were no TVs or Playstations here, only yo-yos and jacks. Many of the toys were strange ones that he didn’t recognize. Here and there among the carpet stood life-sized toy soldiers keeping guard over its fibers. Most were painted in bright red and blue and were vaguely familiar in style, like something that kids would play with in old movies.

One of the soldiers that Will passed was unlike anything he’d ever seen before. Its face was painted white with splotches of bright colors, but instead of the friendly face of a clown, it had the sinister smile and the rosy cheeks of the joker from a deck of playing cards. It wore a uniform of red like all of the others, but in the place of one arm it had a broad white knife with grooves along one side. It looked a lot like the knife you’d find in a set of plasticware. Will shivered and looked away.

A few boys came sprinting by, one stopped to grab his arm. “Come and play with us!” he urged, smiling cheerfully. Will fell into step behind them.

They led him beneath the shade of a massive coffee table, twenty feet high. Will saw that several colored strands of mismatched yarn had been woven together to form thick, fluffy ropes that hung down from the tabletop. Glancing upwards he wondered how any of the children would have ever found the courage to make the first climb up the table’s knobby legs unaided.

“Hey new kid, you gonna play or what?” shouted one of the larger boys. He was a bit older than Will, probably nine or ten.

They had apparently done their best to create a playing field here. The attempts to flatten the carpeting had failed, though it retained a partially bent-to-the-side look that differentiated it from the remainder of the rug; and the heaps of toys that formed a ring around it implied that they’d taken the time to try and clear the ground so that one could run without obstructions. At each end of the field there were two large piles of toys that marked the boundaries of a goal.

Two groups of kids stood opposite each other at the middle of the playground. All of them were looking at Will. He noted that most of the players were boys, though a few of the tallest girls were taking part as well and many more sat around the perimeter playing with dolls or chatting while no doubt occasionally looking up when things sounded exciting.

Will jogged over to join the team of the boy who had called to him. He saw that the boy was holding a football. He supposed that made sense, it’d be hard to kick a soccer ball through the carpeting. Most of the children gave him welcoming smiles but the big boy just nodded, all business.

“Can you catch?” he asked.

Will shrugged, having never really played football before.

“Guess we’ll find out,” said the boy, shaking his head doubtfully.

Will wasn’t big for his age, though the majority of the boys here were about the same size, but he was very fast and this soon had John, the quarterback, acting much friendlier. Even Noah, the quickest child on the other team, seemed to be having trouble covering him; and Will was also fast enough to get in the way of several passes when he was playing defense.

Will soon found himself having a blast. He caught two touchdowns and would have had more if he hadn’t dropped some balls that he should have caught. He was rapidly making friends among his teammates, as young boys do, and only regretted that he was too out of breath to ask them many questions about how they had come to be here.

The game was just nearing its end when a great clamor erupted from above—children screaming, blowing horns, and stamping their feet. Will froze and looked up at the underside of the table above, wondering at the cause of the commotion, but most of the children burst into motion at once. They rushed towards the crude ropes that hung down from the tabletop and began scrambling up them in a panic.

Only Will and a few of the other kids remained where they were, staring about themselves dumbly. John whacked him on the back and to get his attention. “Come on, new kid!” he shouted brusquely. “The soldiers are waking up!”

Will roused himself and followed the older boy, though he likely wouldn’t have been able to make the long climb up the rope without John repeatedly tugging him up by the collar. It was only when he had reached the top, and had a bird’s eye view of the scene below, that he really understood what John had been saying.

All over the household, the toy soldiers were coming alive. They marched stiffly across the carpet on their jointless legs, splitting up to patrol the entirety of the room. He saw more moving across shelves and bookcases in the distance.

Will heard a shout from directly below him and he realized that some of the children were still trapped down on the carpet. No doubt new kids like him, they had been slow to recognize the need to flee and now they were having difficulty making the climb and kept slipping back down the soft ropes onto the ground. Older boys and girls quickly slid down the ropes to rescue some but not many were willing to take the risk as the soldiers grew near.

“John, what will happen?” asked Will, terrified.

“They still have a chance,” he replied, pointing towards the ropes of yarn which had not been retracted. “The soldiers haven’t found a way to climb up to the table yet, they can’t bend their arms enough to use the ropes so some of them make it up here to safety. Otherwise, they need to start hiding. If they keep their heads down there and don’t overreact they’ll be all right. It’ll be a long night of running and they might get hurt some, but they’ll be okay.”

As he said this, one of the soldiers reached the edge of the playing field. Seeing the children who remained there, it raised the hand that held a bugle to its mouth and blew a haunting tune. Upon hearing this, the other soldiers changed direction and doubled their speed, hurrying to the quarry. By far the fastest of them was the joker-faced soldier that Will had noticed earlier. John pointed to it as it approached.

“The Scarecrow seems to be their leader,” he said. “I know he doesn’t look like a Scarecrow but Amy, one of the younger girls, called him that once early on and the name stuck.”

“What will they do?” Will found himself whispering. John only nodded silently towards the scene unfolding below.

The Scarecrow and his troops had surrounded a young boy. He couldn’t have been more than three. He looked up at the much taller soldiers and shook, bawling in terror. The Scarecrow’s bladed arm swept up and the thing lunged forward far faster than Will would have believed it could move. The knife was broad and round and did not appear sharp at all, but it cut into the boy as if he offered little resistance.

Will heard the child scream in pain and buried his head in his hands so that he would not have to watch. “No!” he shouted, but John shook him and forced him to look again. Surprisingly, Will saw that there was no blood, and though the child had been stabbed through the chest and collapsed, he was now rising to his feet.

The boy’s confusion had stopped his tears for the moment but the Scarecrow showed no compassion and swiftly struck again. The boy howled even louder this time.

“Why would you watch them do this?” cried Will.

“To be ready to warn them,” replied John.

A momentary gap appeared in the shuffling line of soldiers, and seeing it the young boy dove through and ran for freedom. It took a moment for his captors to clumsily reverse direction on their stilted legs and it seemed as if he would make his escape.

Will cheered but was amazed to find himself drowned out by those around him shouting in alarm. Belatedly, he realized that the soldiers were moving much slower than they had moments ago, as if they did not want to catch the boy and sought only to drive him onwards.

“Turn back! Turn back!” John and the others were yelling at the top of their lungs. “We can’t go into the fireplace!”

But either the distance was too great for the boy to hear or he was simply deaf with fear, for he smiled as he fled straight towards it. Reaching his goal, the boy dropped through the metal grating below him, perhaps hoping to hide in the ashes beneath.

Instead the fireplace roared into life for a brief instant and Will thought he could see a shape moving in its flames. A deep laugh echoed through the room, cutting off the young boy’s screams and making Will’s hair stand on end.

“Come to me, my children!” boomed the thing in the fire, its voice echoed off of the walls. “End your torment, for you will all be mine in the fullness of time!” The laughter came once more and then the flames disappeared. The soldiers resumed their patrols.

A few more children managed to climb their way to safety with strength born of fear. Others remained on the ground but constantly on the run, and all managed to avoid capture until the time, several hours later, when the soldiers returned to their starting points and froze into place. The crowd of children on top the table broke up and began heading to their ramshackle beds and homes made of paper and scraps to catch some sleep.

“And this happens every night?” Will demanded of John.

John nodded, then grabbed Will by the shoulders and stared directly into his eyes. “The important thing to realize is that you cannot die here,” he said. “No matter how much they hurt you, pain is all that they can cause. Do not let them lure you towards the Exits—there are more than just the fireplace and we will teach you about them, but there is no coming back from whatever lies on the other side.”

“But why?” asked Will, to him it seemed the only important question but he knew that he wasn’t expressing it well enough. He tried again. “But why are any of us here?”

John looked at him for a long moment and finally just shrugged. He pointed over to a book that lay open, taking up a large portion of the coffee table. Then the older boy mumbled something about seeing him later and stumbled off to bed.

Will approached the book and at first he took it to be a Bible, but as his eyes scanned the words he found instead that it was some sort of theological textbook. It seemed like something that they would make you read at religious school. Most of the words were too complex for him to understand, but one passage in particular had been underlined to draw your attention to it.

These are the words that were highlighted: “Such infants as quit the body without being baptized will be involved in the mildest condemnation of all.”

Will studied the words for a moment, trying to puzzle out their meaning, then shook his head and headed off to find the makings of a comfy bed. Then he remembered the sound of the truck horn, deep and low—and the impact…

Will stopped and reflected on all that had just happened in this giant’s house. Despite the frightening experience it seemed there must be something hopeful about this place, what with all the playthings and new friends he’d made. He never really got discouraged about things before, and he would not do so now. If there were Dangerous Exits, then surely there were Exits to a Better Place as well—and perhaps all everyone had been waiting for was for him to find them. After all, this house had clearly been built for someone far greater than its toys.

© 2008 Dan Devine
Original fiction debuting at Residential Aliens.

Dan Devine is a scientist by day and an aspiring science fiction author by night, though he'll write anything that pops into his head. For a short time he served as editor of Fools Motley Internet Magazine, but he recently decided to shut it down and focus on improving his own writing. He has since had stories published in Dark Fire, Afterburn SF, and Flash Tales Magazines. For more of Dan's stories, visit here.

Also, read Dan's two-part spiritual coming-of-age adventure published by ResAliens.
The Pride of the Tribe, Part 1
The Pride of the Tribe, Part 2

Detour

by Kimberly C. Lundstrom

The first time it happened, I told Jim I'd just taken my eyes off the road for a moment. I blamed it on the migraine, the sudden pain, the dizziness. I didn't mention the man at all.

Truth be told, I hadn't had my eyes on the road, so to speak, for a while.

#
I was sitting in traffic on the way home from work. The back way took a little longer and there had been a lot of accidents on the old highway, but the view was better. And anyway, the screech and grind of the freeway always made me a little crazy.

I stared out at the shoulder of the road, at one of the last little woodlands in the once rural area, pressed on all sides by voracious development. The road curved sharply there, and part of the guardrail was torn away by some recent accident. I could see into a steep little gully where tires had ripped the blanket of soft grasses.

As I inched forward, the branches of a large bush swung aside, releasing a shower of yellow leaves that fluttered and spun to the ground. Through that golden curtain stepped a man in a black frock coat and high starched collar, dark hair spilling from beneath a tall hat. I blinked, and looked again. He stopped and leaned against the trunk of a large black willow tree, leveling his gaze directly at me. The pale lips formed words I couldn't hear.

Then I felt the migraine coming on—lights dancing at the edge of my vision, the strange, chemical taste in my mouth. I winced at the sharp pain above my right eye, and closed both eyes—just for a moment—against the first wave of nausea.

#
The neighbors had found Daddy in his pajamas, crumpled in a heap on the bathroom floor. His second heart attack, the doctors had said, with no one there to call the ambulance and make him go to the hospital this time.

He had only been alone a few months. He'd been so strong when Mama was sick, especially at the end. He was always strong—a great oak of a man, spreading his arms like protective branches over and around his family. Maybe sense of purpose was what kept him so strong. But then he was alone, with no one to shelter, no one to provide for. And where was I when he needed me for once? Halfway across the country. And too late, too late.

#
I must have let up on the brake.

My eyes opened as my bumper hit another with a sickening crunch, and my seatbelt tightened its stern embrace. The car ahead of me turned into a watery blur as tears filled my eyes.

"Hey lady, you okay in there?" A man was knocking on my window.

I rolled it down and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little shaken, I guess." I looked out at his crumpled bumper. "Sorry about your car."

#
I wouldn't have told Jim about the accident, but I couldn't hide the damage to the car.

"Anna, you've got to pay more attention," he said. "Pull over if you feel a migraine coming on. What were you thinking?"

#
That night I couldn't sleep, so I got up and walked around the house. I hadn't been sleeping well most of the time, but I found the quiet of an early autumn night calming, cricket chirps and moonbeams sneaking through the open windows. And I could leave Jim alone to dream away in peace.

Down the hall I passed our extra bedroom, the "guestroom" Jim called it, though we rarely ever had guests stay there anymore. My parents had been our most frequent visitors before they died; his family almost never came.

The boxes we brought home from Missouri were still sitting there near the closet,
patiently waiting, guarding the memories and the emotions; quiet, avoiding a scene. I stepped into the room and knelt beside the nearest box, just able to make out Daddy's careful, T-square lettering: ANNA. And the tears started again. I knew it was silly and irrational. I never used to be so emotional.

Jim was great at first, so supportive. He would listen and console, or hold me in silence. Now he seemed tired of it all, wanted me to just get over it and move on. But how could I get over losing my family? How could I fill up the emptiness?

Mama always said blood is thicker than water.

"What are you doing?"

I jumped and looked up at Jim standing in the doorway.

"I couldn't sleep."

"I know." His voice was flat, and I couldn't see his face well enough to read his expression.

He sighed. "Why are you torturing yourself with this? You're making yourself sick with it—you never got those headaches before. It's been over a year. You can't bring your folks back. You have to let them go now."

"You don't understand." I choked out the words through shameful, childish, heaving sobs. "I don't want to be alone."

"Alone?" Jim flicked on the light. "Alone? Who's been here with you all these months, taking care of you, holding your hand through this walking coma you're in?" His voice softened. "Anna, you're not alone."

As my eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness, I opened my mouth, but I didn't know what to say.

Jim stared down at me, and the softness went out of his face. "You really could've gotten hurt today, you know. What if you hadn't been stopped when you let your mind wander? Did you even have a migraine?"

"You don't know what it's like!" I could hear the whine in my voice, but now I didn't care. "Your parents are still alive and well. You're not an…an…orphan!"

"Oh, for God's sake. You're 30 years old. You're not an orphan." He knelt down next to me. "Everyone's parents die. It's part of life. We have to go on. And anyway, you'll see them in heaven, right? That's what you believe, isn't it?"

He was patronizing me. I looked away. I didn't know what I believed anymore.

#
The second time the stranger beckoned, I heard and tried to obey.

Since my little accident, I meant to be more careful. I kept my eyes on the road, for the most part, and tried to keep my mind from wandering outside the yellow lines.

But one afternoon as traffic crawled to a halt, I found myself again at the curve by the gully and the dark willow.

Above the roar of idling engines came a whisper like wind in the leaves: Come.

My stereo wasn't on, and anyway, that sound didn't come from any radio speaker. It rose in intensity until it filled my ears and my mind. I looked to the willow.

The man appeared much as he had before—the same antique clothes and haunted look. But now he was speaking clearly, directly to me. Come. As he lifted a white, long-fingered hand, his mouth dropped open, releasing an infinite, empty vowel, deep and resonant as the chime of an old-fashioned grandfather clock.

I pulled the car to the shoulder, set my brake and turned on my hazard lights. Bright starbursts exploded around my eyes. The chemical taste crawled up my throat. I let my eyelids slide closed.

When I awoke the man was gone, and so was most of the traffic. It was dark. My phone chirped its cheery version of Tchaikovsky's Waltz of the Flowers.

"Hello?" I murmured.

"Where the hell are you?" It was Jim. "It's eight o'clock! I've been trying to call. You didn't answer your phone, and you didn't answer at work either." He sounded frantic.

"You're the one who told me to pull over if I got a migraine. I got one. I pulled over. I guess I fell asleep."

"You fell asleep? What the... What am I supposed to think? You could've had another accident, a worse one, for all I knew."

"Yeah, well, I didn't. What do you care?" I knew that was unfair. I was crying again.

I heard Jim take a deep breath. "I'm worried about you. Just come home, okay?"

#
Tonight there was no traffic. I had stayed late at work, and called Jim so he wouldn't be worried, or whatever. Sometimes it helped to focus on the ultimately meaningless crises of the workplace: a chasing after the wind.

The air had turned cool, with a little bite that made me catch my breath. I had all the windows rolled down.

It didn't matter, I told myself; nothing really mattered. Life was all just a chasing after the wind. So what was the point, again? I could fly down this highway, and it wouldn't make any difference if I ever got home. I would never truly get home again. I was so tired.

I saw the curve up ahead, heard him calling me: Come. Come and rest.

I pressed down on the accelerator, tried to put all of my weight onto it, all of myself. The car leapt forward, and the wind whipped and ruffled my hair, just like in the sports car ads: Feel the unrivaled power and performance. I laughed and tilted my head back into the wind.

And now I was flying; I was free. The wind rushed in cold. And now the inevitable falling, falling, and an ear-shattering crash. Shock waves pulsed up through my body. There was a white explosion, and all was light and silence.

#
"Come." The man was standing at the open car door. His coat shimmered and shifted from black to brown to red when he moved. The effect made me a little dizzy. He took my hand and pulled me, my face scudding against the bulging airbag, out into the still and misty wood.

I looked up at him—he was remarkably tall—and stammered, "Am I dead?"

"No." He sighed, then as if remembering himself, smiled. "Look." He pointed back toward the car. I didn't remember walking away, but there we were, about fifteen feet from it. "There. You're resting just fine."

I looked, and sure enough, I saw myself, still in the car, sprawled across the airbag—I could smell its ripe, new plastic scent. The willow seemed to have withstood the impact, but the front end of my car was twisted around it in what looked to be a permanent tangle.

I must have been dreaming. I got knocked out, and now I was dreaming. But was that blood trickling from the corner of my mouth?

The man took my hand and pulled me away from the car.

My thoughts were vague, and cloudlike they drifted past before I could catch them. "Where am I?"

He stopped and stared down at me. His eyes were smooth shards of obsidian shining out of his face. A smile spread slowly across his face. "Anna, you're home," he said. "Congratulations. You've finally taken the step you wanted to take for so long."

"What step?" I asked. There was a metallic taste in my mouth.

He frowned and wrapped both of my hands in his long, bony fingers. "Don't be coy. You've heard me calling you since you were young: Come away, come away with me from the dreary world. Come away and rest."

I closed my eyes and saw myself at sixteen, writing morose poetry by candlelight. I opened my eyes again. "Who are you?"

"A friend," he smiled. "A friend who understands you."

He led me through dense undergrowth and further into the twilit wood. All was silence and mist. The colors of the leaves, and of his coat, swirled and swam before my eyes.

We came to a clearing and stopped. I saw a small meadow of golden grasses standing still and quiet in the deepening dusk. Rough-hewn chairs, carved from great tree stumps encircled the clearing.

"Have a seat." He pushed me gently into one of the chairs and leaned over me. He reached out, a forefinger under my chin. The sharp point of his fingernail brushed against my flesh, shaking almost imperceptibly. I stared up into the great blackness of his eyes.

He slid the nail up and over my chin, until his finger came to rest in a shushing sign over my lips. "You'll be mine," he whispered. "No, no, hush." He traced my upper lip with the nail. "No one loves you, you know. No one but me."

"That's not true." My lip quivered. "That's not true."

"Oh, but you know it is. It's always been that way, hasn't it? The other kids, the other girls, the other women—no one understood. Your parents didn't understand you either; they thought you were going through a phase. But that wasn't a phase, was it? That was you. But you figured out how to pretend it was all right, so they would love you." I looked up at him.

"But they're gone now, aren't they?" His eyes glistened. "And now you've chosen to come to me." He stood. "Wait for me a while. And remember, I'm here for you. I always will be." He turned, and strode away.

I opened my mouth to cry out after him.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

I jumped and looked toward the voice. A woman sat in the chair to my right, stringy hair the color of mud, falling into a haggard face. She sighed and said, "He'll be back soon enough."

"Don't worry," another woman sneered at me from the chair on my left. She looked like June Cleaver—coiffed blonde hair and a flattering dress, with a nipped-in waist and full skirt—but there was a heavy, knotted rope where a double strand of pearls should have been. "By the look of you, it won't be long anyway." Her laughter hung in the air like the proverbial other shoe, waiting to drop.

"What do you mean?" I looked from one pale face to the other.

"Honestly," said the blonde, rolling her eyes. "Look." She pointed through the trees toward where I left my ruined car. "You're bleeding to death. Right over there. Right now. Don't look so shocked. I saw you; you revved the engine and drove your own self right into the tree. And now he's waiting for you." She smirked. "Waiting for you to die."

"Oh, God," The car and my body—was it just my body now? It seemed so far away. "Please help me!"

The blonde snorted. "God? God took my babies, took them one by one. Two before they could even be born, one afterwards. I don't know which was worse. And the ladies all said it was 'God's will'." Her mouth twisted with the parody of a solicitous female voice. "Merciful, my ass."

"Miriam, stop. Let her be," said the woman on my right. She turned toward me. Her right eye was purple-red and swollen shut. "We're cut off here. I'm sorry," she said.

"Cut off?"

"Cast out." She looked down at the ground.

"What?"

"There, there," cooed Miriam. "Are we scaring you?"

The other one gave her a sharp look, and said to me, "I'm Dolores. What's your name?"

"Anna."

"Anna." She took my hand. I saw her, but not as she was, sitting beside me. She was in a kitchen, offering a plate of food to a man whose face I couldn't see. He slapped her. The plate shattered on a wooden floor. He punched her in the face. She fell into a corner. Now she was in a bathroom crying, fumbling with a bottle of pills. Bourbon, bright and golden brown, sloshed in a bottle, slid down her throat. She was weeping, gasping, retching, choking.

With a sharp breath, I pulled back my hand.

"I'm sorry about your folks," she said.

"I'm, I'm sorry about—"

"Yeah, well." She gave a weak smile, a smile of shame. "I couldn't take it no more. Didn't know what to do."

"Isn't this precious. A little female bonding over suicide and tea, how lovely." I had forgotten about Miriam. "She doesn't deserve your sympathy, Dolores. Killing herself over losing mommy and daddy? Boo hoo. C'mon, Anna, grow up. Oh, sorry." With a dramatic flourish, she placed her fingertips over her pursed lips. "Too late for that, since you're as good as dead."

"Are you dead?" I asked.

Miriam's eyes flashed. "Of course, you stupid bitch! We're all dead here, suicides just like you, only you won't let go. You're going to make him angry, teasing him like this. Dolores, talk some sense into her!"

Dolores said nothing. She was looking past both of us, to the center of the clearing. The black-eyed man had returned. He approached with deliberate, flowing steps, and looked at each of us in turn. His eyes slid over me, oily, indefinite and eternal.

Again he brushed my face with his fingernail. "Who felt your pain and called out to you? Your parents gone, you feeling all alone, and what does that sorry excuse for a husband say? 'Get over it!' As if such exquisite pain could be cast aside like an ill-fitting coat." He gripped my chin and leaned in so close I could smell his hot breath, the scent of rotting flowers and dying hope. "Surrender to the pain, Anna." He released my face, wiped my tears with his fingertips. His eyes continued to bore into me as he rose, licking his fingers with a quick black tongue, a rapturous expression on his face. He turned to Miriam.

Beckoned by the white hand, she stood and stepped toward him. He traced the ugly mark made by the rope around her neck, then tilted her chin toward him. With a jerk the nail punctured the flesh. Miriam was hooked like a fish, and rose off her flailing feet to face the fisherman. She writhed there as he stared hungrily into her face. He smiled, releasing her, and she collapsed into a heap on the ground. There was no blood.

He was moving toward others now. I saw them, wandering out of the woods—dozens of people. Some sat in the chairs, others crowded between and behind them. There were men, women, teenagers, even a child or two. Many looked angry, almost feral. Some sat, their heads bowed or held in their hands. Some were grumbling and cursing. A few screamed or shouted aloud. One was actually gnashing his teeth. He glared and lurched forward at my curious gaze, and I looked away.

"We're nothing but our own misery here," Dolores whispered. "Nothing but misery. He feeds on it: sadness and fear, and bitterness and grief."

"Forever?" My head felt heavy, and I laid it in my hands, as if in a cradle, as if Mama was holding me safe. But Mama wasn't there. In fact, she'd have been ashamed of me, for throwing my life away like this. I could see her in my mind, shaking her head. "It was a mistake," I whispered.

Dolores put her cold arms around me. "There's still hope. You're alive, and he can't kill you himself. Has to wait for you to die on your own."

"Some hope. I'm bleeding to death." I waved in the direction of my car, without looking up. I thought of Jim that night in the guestroom, giving me that exasperated look. I just wanted to be back there saying, "I know. I'm sorry. I love you, too." My arm felt like it was encased in concrete, hard to lift. "Can't stop it. I'm gonna die."

Dolores lifted my chin and looked me in the eye. "Listen, honey, you ain't supposed to be here. I never seen anyone last like you. Now you either got a strong urge to live, despite all, or you got a higher calling, if you know what I mean." She looked down at Miriam, still crumpled on the ground, then across the clearing to the tormentor, now slaking his miserable thirst on another. Her jaw hardened. "Come on." She hauled me onto my feet, wrapping my arm over her shoulder. "Lean on me."

"Where're we going?" I was having trouble standing. My knees wanted to buckle, and there was a buzzing in my head.

"To your car." A strong arm stretched across my back and supported me. "Can you walk?"

My head was full of ball bearings, rolling back and forth, round and round. My vision was all treetops and slate sky.

"Now, you gotta keep your head steady and focus, okay?" I felt Dolores's hand at the back of my neck. "I'll go with you, far as I can."

"Why are you doing this?" I'm not sure if I spoke the words, or only thought them. She didn't answer. We staggered forward, me leaning heavily on Dolores's bony shoulder, until we came to the edge of the wood. My car came into view several yards—an eternity—away.

"You have to go on yourself now, Anna. I can't go past here." She smiled. "Now you keep your head up and focus on getting yourself to that car. And when you get there, make sure you put the flashers on, okay?"

There was a terrible crashing in the woods behind us. "Anna!" My name sounded as if it were being ripped from his throat.

"Dolores, he's coming!"

"I know, honey. Just keep going and don't turn around."

I started to turn away.

"Anna?" She squeezed my arm, hard. "Remember me?"

I looked into her eyes, full of old pain, and older love. "I will, Dolores, I promise." I bit my lip.

"Go!" She released me.

I staggered back a couple of steps, then turned to run.

#
"Anna? Anna? Oh, thank God." Jim's face was close to mine, his eyes wide. "Thank God your hazard lights were on. The paramedics said you wouldn't have lasted through the night."

"Dolores?" My voice was a barely audible croak.

"Who?" Jim wrinkled his forehead. He looked beautiful. "Baby, don't try to talk, okay? Just rest." He smoothed my hair, kissed my cheek. I was home.

© 2008 Kimberly C. Lundstrom
Original Fiction Debuting at Residential Aliens

Kimberly C. Lundstrom lives in the Pacific Northwest, where she enjoys reading, writing, and disappearing into the mist. Her short fiction has appeared in the anthology, Becoming Fire: Spiritual Writing from Rising Generations.

Homicidal Maniacs Running With Scissors

by Fraser Sherman

“Did he really think he could get away with it?” With his foot on Paul Simmons’ corpse, Harry Caine scowled at Simmons’ widow. “He broke the rules, he paid the price.”

“Get away with what?” Still incredulous, Marla Simmons stared at the body. “All I asked him to do was bring me the scissors and be careful! Then he laughed and said if he could blow off sixteen parking tickets, he could certainly run with scissors—and he did! And then he fell—”

She began to cry, staring down at the open scissors, which had thrust through Simmons’ eyes and into his brain.

“Your husband was a fool,” Dan Parker said curtly, adjusting his tie as he stood beside Caine. “Some things you can’t get away with: Failure to clean up your room, running with scissors, traffic violations—”

“Can’t get away with them any more, my partner means,” Caine said. “Not while we’re on the job.”

Marla stared at the two men in shock. “Is that some kind of sick cop joke?”

“It’s not a joke, it’s the law of the universe,” Parker said.

“And I didn’t say we were cops,” Caine added. “I told you we represented justice.”

“What the hell?” Marla’s expression hovered between bafflement and rage. “I thought you were detectives, you damn—”

“What kind of a lady uses profanity?” Parker frowned. “Maybe your mouth should be washed out with soap. A lot of soap.”

“She’s grieving, Dan.” Caine laid his hand on his partner’s arm. “We’ll overlook it this time, ma’am, but be warned: God marks every sparrow, especially the badly behaved sparrows. Watch the potty mouth.”

Before Maria’s eyes, the two men vanished.

~*~

With the tips of their wings brushing the buildings on either side, Parker and Caine soared invisibly through the city. “This is the life, Dan. All those years, watching sin run rampant in our society, and now we finally get to strike back.”

“The world is a cesspool, but we’re flushing out the filth.” A dozen yards below them, a skinhead shoved an old woman to the pavement then snatched her purse. “Throwing that jerk down on his scissors was pure poetic justice.”

“The Lord told us to take delight in serving him, remember?” A young man tossed a candy wrapper to the pavement; Parker swooped down and shoved him in front of an oncoming truck. “But sometimes people make me too mad to be creative.”

“Like that vermin having dinner down there?” Caine pointed through the window of a five-star restaurant.

“The one who’s using the salad fork for his steak?” Beneath them, a smirking man steered a frightened fifteen-year-old towards his car, his hand around her breast. “Crass, but we’ve seen worse.”

“His girlfriend just walked back to the table from the bathroom and he didn’t stand up.” Caine gave a low snarl. “Makes you wonder why the Lord doesn’t send down thunderbolts on a daily basis.”

“Why bother when He has us?” Parker flexed his muscles. “If the bozo’s legs broke and he couldn’t stand at all, I think that would teach him nobody’s above good manners.”

Seconds later, the man in question fell screaming, clutching at his legs. Caine smiled as his friend flew back out through the restaurant wall.

“I don’t know what our old pastor was talking about, Dan” Parker said, flying ahead. “Every time we tried to straighten out the congregation, he’d blah-blah-blah about how it was God’s place to judge. Not ours.”

“Oh, if he could get a load of us winnowing the tares now,” Caine said with a laugh. “I always knew we loved God more than he did!” He paused and stared around. “Sometimes I can almost feel Him watching…or maybe it’s Michael or Gabriel. Either way, they must be pretty impressed.”

“You sure? They never say anything about the great job we’re doing.”

“We’re not in this for praise, partner, we’re in this for duty, remember?” Caine clapped his friend on the back. “So how about hitting a frat party next? Probably plenty of sluts getting publicly drunk there.”

“Whatever happened to ladylike behavior, eh?” Parker sighed. “I say the first one we see having sex drunk—particularly if she does it while she’s unconscious—we negate her birth control. That’ll teach her!”

In a window to their left, a woman picked up a crowbar as her husband settled in front of ESPN. “I always knew sin was running rampant, but I never imagined how badly until we got this job.” A proud smile formed on Parker’s lips. “If more Christians were truly willing to serve God and confront evil the way we do—”

“It’s easy to punish murderers and rapists,” Caine said. “But cracking down on the little sins that lead to the big ones, that takes faith! Faith to know that no matter how harsh it seems, we’re doing God’s will and He is just.”

“And so are we,” Parker said, clasping his friend by the shoulder. “Like you said, if people overlook the little niceties, pretty soon it’s Sodom and Gomorra all over again.”

“Not on our watch.” Clenching his fists, Caine plummeted towards a teen who’d just farted in public. “I hope He’s watching us right now!”

~*~

“I am,” Lucifer said, smirking at the image of Caine and Parker in the pool of lava he used for scrying. “And you’ve made me so happy, boys. Not to mention richer by a few dozen souls, right?”

“I can’t believe I was dumb enough to take the bet.” Beelzebub groaned, turned away from the crystal and tossed a vial of writhing mortal souls in front of Lucifer. “When you said you could turn those pious prigs into monsters without using Lust, Wrath or Avarice—”

“How could you overlook Pride? Look what it did to us, after all.” The Prince of Hell smirked and stretched. “When I told them I was God, and how much I liked their looking down on everyone else, they swallowed it hook, line and sinker. And when I shifted the goal posts on what ‘sins’ deserved punishing, they didn’t hesitate. Being holier than thou was just too much fun.

“Now, would you like to see what I can do with Envy?”

© 2006 Fraser Sherman
This story originally posted at Anotherealm in 2006.
Reprinted with permission from the author.

A Florida reporter by day, Fraser Sherman writes fiction for a break from covering city council meetings. His stories have appeared in Realms of Fantasy, Tales of the Talisman, AllegoryEzine and Byzarium. He's the author of the film reference books Cyborgs, Santa Claus and Satan and The Wizard of Oz Catalog. You can find out more at Fraser's Myspace.

The Last Night

The Last Night
by Matt Shaner

I found out in a phone call.

“They’re tearing it down, the old church,” my father said. “They lost all their money.”

I had no real emotional connection with the building since it was years from my last visit. My parents were married there. I was baptized there. The place held standing in the community for more then a century.

So it was more out of sentiment than obligation that I made a mental note of the date for demolition and decided to drive by on the night before to wish it one last goodbye.

~*~

The building sat on a hilltop in town, presenting a gray exterior and a series of stained glass windows. The windows were pockmarked with cardboard placeholders covering the broken panes. The scenes were incomplete; their original beauty damaged to no recognition.

The night was an exit between winter and spring. The air held the first wisps of faint and distant summer. Bugs danced around the streetlight. I left my coat in the car and stood in front of the church.

The bell tower extended a lit white cross into the sky. Two sets of doors were at the corner. I walked around the exterior and was making my way back to the car when I heard something crash. I had seen no obvious signs of forced entry on my walk and was about to open my car door when the sound cut the night air once again.

The banging infuriated me. The building was victim enough. It’s once regal frame decimated by kids looking for a good time. Items were stolen and the organ damaged. I decided to put a stop to things if I could. I turned on my cell phone and made sure it was within easy reach. Almost in response, another crash broke through the night even louder.

It took a few minutes to find the entry; they’d broken into a lower side entrance. The glass door ran spider web cracks across its entire surface. The lower pane of the door fell out completely and I reached under to engage the lock. The door opened at a slight pressure and I went inside.

The hallways were lit with dim orange security bulbs. I knew, from childhood, of a back stairwell that led to the sanctuary. Hearing more noise, I stepped up the wooden stairs cringing at the creaks. I finally made it to the doorway and could see candlelight flickering inside. I inched the door open, with a desire to see my foes before my attack. The sight made me lose breath.

The sanctuary was lit with hundreds of candles, all in place of the electric lights. Bodies were in the pews—some solid and some vaporous. They were dressed in period clothes spanning the time of the church’s existence. They all held their heads in solemn concentration. I jumped at a pounding noise from the pulpit. The door opened of its own accord and, to my surprise, no one looked back at me.

The altar and pulpit were lit with torch size candles. A row of wooden seats behind the pulpit was filled with men in pastoral garb. The pulpit itself was occupied with a large man, slamming his fist down. He spoke, still not noticing me in the back. I felt as if I was seeing a part of history until I caught his phrases.

“We cannot submit to this abomination! We cannot allow this place to be torn from its home. We, the pure of heart, cannot lose the battle!” The specters watched and some nodded their approval. I walked slowly around the back of the pews. The candle flames danced with the wind of the dead. The voice of the preacher rose to a crescendo and another preacher came to his side. He sat the man down.

“Everyone, please, consider our options.” I recognized the face. It was the man who baptized me, Pastor Davis. He died two months back.

A man in the pews stood up. “What can we do? What can we possibly do?”

“I’ve called for help,” the pastor replied and raised his hand. He looked in my direction with empty eyes. I realized they were only sockets. He was blind at the end of his life and the malady followed him into the grave. The figures in the pews all turned, showing me their ghastly faces. The older ones were no more then skeletons. The younger ones were in various states of decomposition. The building had called back its dead to come to its protection.

I realized that the preachers up front corresponded to the portraits in the hall downstairs, picturing each church leader throughout our history. Their flock had also called them back. It made sense at a level but no level near sanity.

Before my mind gave out and I ran for my life, the doors on the other side of the sanctuary flew open with a crash. The glass shattered and the pieces littered the ground. Lit by the candles, the shards reflected small bits of fire. A figure walked in and the attention of the people shifted.

It looked like a man, wearing black from head to toe. His face was strikingly handsome; his outfit impeccable. His shoes reflected the candlelight. He smiled.

“You should be thanking me,” he said. His voice rolled over the room and kissed my ear. It sounded seductive and I could not place his tone. He owned no accent.

“Leave this ground!” The first pastor spoke from his position by the pulpit. He yelled through his skeleton mouth.

“I’ve kept these seats full over the years. I’ve built this place.” He was in the center of the group now, waving his hands to the sky. I caught a slight grimace from his face. His features moved as liquid.

“Faith has built this place.” It was another pastor, rising to the fight.

“They listen to me,” he pointed to those in the pews. They instinctively pulled away. “And they run to you for comfort. We have a good thing going. You know my influence. I’m here to make you an offer.”

“Never!” the first pastor said.

“Do you want this building to fall? Do you all want to be homeless? Do you want to wander forever? It’s simple, give it to me. I’ll save you if you give it to me. I could use this place in many ways.” Conversation broke out throughout the room. The evil thing locked its gaze onto me.

“What is your business, human?” His eyes bored into mine. I found no strength to speak. He started to walk towards me. “Do you want to join them?” My legs went weak. His eyes went red. I saw the reflection of fire, a great fire, inside his being. He stopped before he reached me and turned to face the others. My eyes cleared with the break of his hold.

The pastors were surrounding him, their spirits glowing with the combined energy of their faith. The congregants joined the clergy. A bright energy pulse lit up the altar. The organ pipes shined and a chorus of voices rose from the void of space. The demon bellowed a scream that cracked the windows. I saw its true form for a second until the light energy moved to encompass it. The horror of reality caused me to faint dead away.

~*~

A diesel engine woke me up. The windows shattered glass down onto me and I cringed as the teeth of a demolition machine bit into the nearest wall. I looked down and realized I could see through me. Then I noticed that the spirits were filing forlornly out the exit door. Pastor Davis stopped. He walked to me and reached out a hand.

“Come my child. Our time here is complete.” I tried to fight and flail. I tried to yell but my voice faded to a whisper. I gave up and followed. We walked through the doors as the building fell.

“You’ve done an excellent job, giving them reason to fight. We needed new life.” He put his arm around my shoulder and smiled.

The sun ushered us to a different plane that turned our sorrow into victory. We started the search for a new home, as a community; and I realized the structure only supported us. Our intangible faith gave us a bond that transcended time and space.

I smiled at Pastor Davis as we faded away into the morning light.

© 2007 by Matt Shaner
Original fiction debuting at Residential Aliens.

Matt Shaner is a writer from outside of Philadelphia. He spends his days at a financial company where he faces enough horror and absurdity to inspire his nightly journeys into the land of fiction. His influences range from H.P. Lovecraft to Bret Ellis, Clive Barker, and Chuck Palahniuk. He has five short stories published in online outlets and is in the process of shopping a novella and two full length novels for publication.

A Time to Reap

A Time to Reap
by John Schuler

“Almost ready!”

The woman returned to the living room carrying an armload of hat boxes, which she carefully arranged on two suitcases that looked about ready to burst. I thought I could hear stitches popping, one by one, although it might have been my imagination. At any rate, I was determined to maintain a healthy distance from her luggage.

She flashed a quick, nervous smile before bustling off again toward the back of the house.

This is getting out of hand. “Really, this isn’t necessary,” I said.

“Just a few more things,” came a shout from the bedroom, followed by the noise of a minor avalanche that must have come from one of the closets. A few minutes later she emerged dragging yet another large, wheeled suitcase with her right hand; in her left were a couple of empty nylon duffel bags.

Enough of this. I stood between her and the dining room, blocking her path back into the rest of the house. She turned, a mildly puzzled look on her face.

“Who do you think I am?”

The woman hesitated, glanced over her shoulder, and headed towards the foyer. “I better get the umbrella. Yes, I mustn’t forget that.”

I placed my hand on her shoulder, she shrank at the touch. Gently, I turned her to face me.

“Who am I?”

The woman blinked several times. “You’re from the airport?”

“No.”

“Why, there you are!” She bent down and snapped her fingers, “Here Socks, here kitty kitty, say hello to our nice visitor.” But Socks ignored her, and he wasn’t about to leave the safe haven beneath his couch.

“Long black robe, scythe, horrific visage of fleshless bone...ring a bell?”

“You’re here to take me to Heaven, right? To be with my husband George?”

“Yes, to be with George. Let’s go.”

“Wait a minute, just a minute.” She took an empty duffel and gave me a wide berth on her way to the dining room, “What was it I could take, again?”

“Only what is most dear to your heart.”

She was rifling through a china cabinet, “And, that other thing...what was that?”

“You may keep only that which has eternal value.”

“Like?” she held up piece of china, it had a picture of Elvis holding a microphone.

“Don’t be silly.”

She surveyed the room, “Ah ha! I know,” she produced a small statue of the Virgin Mary from a drawer and showed it to me, beaming with approval.

“Uh, no.”

“Shoot. Well, give me a minute, I know I’ve got things of eternal value around here somewhere.”

I would have rolled my eyes, but instead started browsing the magazines on her coffee table. Cat Fancy, TV Guide, Seashell Collector Monthly.

“You know, George would love it if I could bring him his television.” She said, “Look at that screen! Is there room on your broomstick for that?”

My mandible almost unhinged and clattered across the floor.

“Ma’am, I don't ride a broomstick.”

“I figured something selfless... He loved that thing, loved to watch his games.”

The very large plastic box dominated half the living room wall and was certainly the most contemporary thing in the house. An enormous flat screen gig, it cost a moderate fortune. The remote sitting on top of the unit was so worn, many of the functions couldn’t be identified. Yep, I remember George. 'How many channels will we get up there?'

By the time I turned back to the woman, she was standing near a curio shelf at just such an angle I couldn’t quite make out what she was doing. She was still in shock, so I decided I better investigate. As I approached, she spun around, clutching an object tightly to her chest.

“How about this!” and as if to ward off a vampire, she thrust a crucifix in my face.

Aw, man...this is awkward. We both just stood there, the woman was shielding her face with her left arm. Slowly, she spread her fingers and peeked at me through squinted eyes.

“No.”

She sighed, and put the crucifix back in its place. She started wringing her hands; her eyes cast glistening sparks as they darted from one object to the next, piercing the room, searching for a source of hope. She finally spotted the Bible.

“Oooh, yes!” Her face brightened.

“It belonged to my grandmother.” She removed it from the shelf; from amidst a collection of books, which judging by the various titles, seem to have been selected purely on the basis of the rich, antique appearance of their covers.

“Lots of family history in here. Is this what I’m supposed to take?”

“You can’t take it. Not the physical book, anyway.”

“Oh.”

“Have you ever read it?”

“Of course. I’m a child of God...look here,” she cleared a spot on the coffee table. “This is the Hershel family tree, and here is a picture of the church where my mother went as a child. Look, they had an outhouse, isn’t that quaint?” Her brow furrowed as she unfolded a tattered piece of paper she didn’t recognize. “Oh, this is maw-maw Betty’s birth certificate!”

“No, no, no,” I shook my head, “Have you read it?”

“What do you mean?” She was nonplussed, “It’s a Bible. You’re not supposed to read it - it’s supposed to be read to you. On Sundays, if you can make it.”

I let the weakness of her reply linger in the air while she picked nervously at the worn edges of the book. At length, I said, “Turn to Philippians 3:8”

She closed the book, “Why?”

“Indeed, I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ.”

“Well, I certainly wasn’t asking for a sermon - and you’re the last person I would expect to give me one. I mean really, with what you do for a living?”

“Shall we just go, then?”

“Wait, tell me again, slowly. What can I take?”

“It’s not really about what you can take. It’s what you will take, or rather what you’ve been storing up, so you needn’t worry about packing. It will be waiting for you.”

“And I get to keep all of it, right?”

“Forever.”

“Only the things most dear to my heart,” she mused. “Things of eternal value.” She was silent for a moment. “I still don't understand. Why the distinction?”

“Oh some petty, whimsical preference of The Almighty, no doubt.” I patted her on the shoulder, “Be sure to ask about it when you stand before Him.”

She cast a furtive glance at the book in her lap, then to the mountain of objects heaped in the middle of the room.

“I’ll let you in on a little secret, might give you some clarity.” I leaned close to her ear and whispered, “The only man-made objects in Heaven are the scars of Christ.”

“What?” She said not with astonishment, but a sort of startled irritation; not as one who had received an epiphany, but as a obstinate child being told, once again, to put away her toys before bedtime.

“'All things as rubbish - filth, manure.' Why would Paul say such a thing?” I asked.

“But I’ve felt that way about Jesus. Plenty of times.”

“Then my next question should be easy.” I cuffed her on the back, amused. “What if you could only choose one item?” I gestured toward her diversions, her escape, her lifelong investment.

“Hmm, only one?” she scrutinized the pile in front of her. “But, all these things are dear to me. There are handmade quilts in there, stuff that’s been passed down for generations. It’s not an easy question at all. How long do I have to decide?”

“A long time usually, but who ever knows? Why don't you just take it all, I’m sure your collection of matchbooks will be a big hit.”

She scuttled to the edge of the couch and regarded me with suspicion. “Are you the Devil?”

I chuckled, and started inching closer. “No, no. Why would you think that?”

“You frighten me.”

“Of course I do.” I was now within inches of her face. “But the God of gods, the King of Glory, the Ancient of Days...doesn’t?”

Her lips began to tremble. “Please, don't send me there.”

“Where?”

I settled back into overstuffed cushions, “I don't send anybody anywhere.”

We waited, and for several minutes neither spoke. The woman was idly thumbing pages.

“There was this verse...” she began.

“First John 2:6?”

“I think it was in Corinthians.” She opened the book.

And I gently reached over, and closed it.

She began to weep.

“Hey, there. What’s wrong?” I handed her a box of tissue from the coffee table. “You’re His child, right?”

“I...” her lips kept moving but no sound escaped.

“Jesus will be there. He who died for the sins of the whole world, aren’t you looking forward to that? You can show him your figurine collection, music boxes, the very nice hats.”

The woman clutched at my robes and pulled me close, searching the depths beneath my cowl for some measure of assurance, a presumed hope of alliance. “W-Will you h-hide me?”

“Where?”

The woman turned and buried her face in the arm of the sofa. I sat with her, counting the books on her living room shelves, until she finally quit sobbing and began in due course, to regain her composure.

“I must look a mess,” she said, adjusting her hair. She took a tissue and blew her nose; took a few more and started dabbing her eyes.

Before long she was her old self again. “Well, no god of mine would condemn an innocent person.” She said, “Lets go get this straightened out, shall we?”

“So, you’re ready to go?”

“Yes. My god is a god of love.”

“That’s right.” I leapt from the couch. We’re off to see the teddy bear god!

“Never mind His glory, honor, justice, righteousness, jealousy and oh, yeah, wrathfulness toward sin—”

“Huh?”

“—all He wants is for you to be happy, above all else, right?”

“Exactly,” she stood and dusted off her blouse, “I have rights. This is America.”

“God bless the USA!”

“Help me with my things.”

“Certainly.”

I took her by the arm, led her across the room and wiped the palm of her hand across the front of that really big television, leaving a rude trail through the dust on the screen. She pulled away, wrinkled her nose and wiped the hand on her pants leg.

“What was that for?” She asked, gazing at the faint gray smudges on the tips of her fingers.

“What you hold is of equal value, and it packs smaller.”

© 2007 John Schuler
Original fiction debuting at Residential Aliens.

John wrote this story for his writer's group to critique and somehow ResAliens got a hold of it and wanted to publish it pretty much as it was originally written.

Comment on this story at Aliens Pub.