Booze, Bounties, and Beasts
A short story prompted by https://ironage.media/prompt/the-infestation.html
Bert had the bounty dead to rights. With the gun trained on his head, Bert, still winded from the chase, exhaled, "I said, hands in the air, knees on the ground!" The bounty, facing into the baffling mountain swamp, continued to ignore Bert, but he didn't move.
It had been a long day. Bert saw the dispatch fax come in from a friend up north, and after a couple months without a collar, he knew he had to crawl out of his trailer, littered with empty beer cans and reeking of the same. Fifty G's. It was big. The biggest bounty he was sober enough to entertain and right in his backyard. Near enough any way.
The perp was Angus Pollack. Escaped an upstate New York Asylum. Killed a 300 lb 6 ft 5 inch former linebacker orderly with his bare hands. Allegedly. 140 pounds of pure nutjob gristle. They caught him the year before, surrounded by body parts. The victims, mostly women, were never identified. None of the evidence at the scene tied him to the bodies, but everyone knew the mute brain case did it. Without proof, though, the best the limp-wristed Yankee judge could do is lock him in the loony bin. Idiots. The cops should have shot him on sight. Bert spat when he finished reading the telegram.
After the escape, Pollack had stolen a black van and got as far as Tennessee where he crashed it into a gas station. After the fire died down, the license plate, miraculously legible, matched that of the stolen van registered in New York.
Tennessee. The hollers. Bert's country. It was fate. Bert was out of money and booze, and the Almighty saw fit to drop this human sack of cash on his doorstep. Praise Jesus.
Bert had checked out the gas station first, what was left of it, anyway. The cops were still keeping the locals back. Several customers and the attendant were killed when the station went kaboom. No body was in the van, though. They should have found a charred skeleton, at the least.
"Well, if it ain't Bert Thompson. Sorry, Elsbert, you'll have to go up to the Quik Stop for your hooch today," said Sheriff Carney, way too loud. He was trying to embarrass him in front of the gaping slackjaws. At the least, the volume spiked Bert's throbbing headache.
"Sorry, Francis. I'm here on business." This was an old game. Both men hated their names.
Bristling, the Sheriff reduced his volume but increased his ire. "Ain't no business for you privateers here, either."
"Come on, Frank. I know you guys can't find the perp. Let me help. It worked out last time, right?"
They were not friends, but they went back. Shared a drink and girlfriend or two back in high school. Played on the football team.
The previous year, after a month of failure from the Sheriff's department, Bert had collared Isaiah Jefferson after he brained the chain gang guard and took off into the hills. That victory was still raw for the Sheriff. The old bastards at the Hill's Billy still joked about it. The Sheriff ground his teeth.
"Alright," he exhaled as he lifted the police tape to let Bert through.
"Goddammit, Bert. You stink!" The Sheriff brought his hand to his nose, nauseated. It was some combination of beer, booze, vomit, and body odor. He had forgot to bathe - again. Whenever his bitch ex-wife called asking for money, he crawled into a bottle without expecting to be sober enough to care about soap. When had she called? Two weeks ago? Three? As a retort formed in his groggy brain, he chuckled to himself.
"Your mother didn't mind it, Frank."
The Sheriff lowered his volume. "I'm not doing this today. We've got a pile of good folks with closed casket funerals getting scheduled, and the Yankee loon that did it is not here for me to shoot." The Sheriff let out a hint of his impotent frustration and genuine concern for the people that voted for him.
Bert needed the money, and he was not sure he could restrain his percolating stomach for another five minutes. "Sorry…lead the way."
As they walked over, the Sheriff reported, "The van had crashed into the inner pump, going fifty or sixty. Tanks exploded right after impact. The folks inside didn't have a chance."
Bert eyed the charred husk of a boxy van. It looked like something the potheads in high school would drive. It would have been old even in those days. Only an iron-willed mechanic with no regard for the beauty of better autos could have sustained that cursed chariot. Bert whistled. "Surprised, this thing could even hit fifty."
"That's what the dorks in Nashville said. Doesn't matter. If that maniac kicked the pump and blew up everything, we'd be having the same conversation."
"Would we?" Bert closed his eyes. He could imagine the van, speeding, lights off, veer off the road and slam dead into the pump. "Where's the windshield?"
"The what? It's…" the realization came over Frank's face. The windshield was already gone before the van ended it's journey. "Sonofabitch!"
"Pollack took a trip…", Bert traced the probable path from the seat of the van, "..there." He pointed at the overgrown field adjacent to the gas station parking lot. Both men jogged over.
Seeing some matted grass, the Sheriff said, "Looks like he landed here. Sad, he's not still here with a broken spine…I guess we'll have to oblige him. Boys! Get the dogs!"
Dammit. Bert couldn't have these tax thieves taking his collar. He had to think.
"Frank, this guy killed a giant up in New York. Football player. Like Otis back in school. He'll strangle half your dogs and probably kill your deputies before you perforate him."
"No way, Jose." The Sheriff spat out some chew he was working on. "Thanks for the help Bert, but your job is over. Go down to the station and pick up a finder's fee. Ask for two Benjamins. Three. I don't care. You should be able to crawl back into a couple of bottles."
Enraged, Bert whirled on him, "You're making a mistake. You need me. This is mine, dammit. Mine!" He spouted as he ground his teeth.
Frank waved his hand to dispel the toxic breath wafting in his face. "Go brush your teeth. If he's as dangerous as you say, he probably smells you already." The day's images began to spin in Bert's head. The bodies, his trailer, the beer cans. His ex-wife. The burnt van. Bert doubled over and puked in the parking lot.
The Sheriff was visibly disgusted at the absence of dignity. "Get out of here, man. You're compromising the crime scene."
Bert grabbed two bottles of Old Grandad at the Quik Stop on the way home. The Sheriff. Pollack. His ex-wife. Screw these people.
He was half finished with one bottle when he stumbled back into his trailer. He turned on the tube. Donahue was on. Still early in the day.
Bert stared at his loaded magnum on the TV tray, first bottle of bourbon next to it. It took longer than usual, but he finally reached for the bottle and finished the last quarter with one long pull. Unconsciousness took him as Donahue interviewed some sobbing hooker with AIDS.
He saw images. Fogged. Abstract.
He felt as if he were falling. No. Pulled. Dragged.
He could see Pollack, matted long hair, shifty eyes, running like the devil himself. He transformed into sentient cash, arranged in the vague form of a man. Bert reached for it. It began burning like the sun. NO!
Something swatted him away. Hard. Hot. A dozen eyes stared at him. No, thousands. He wanted to look away, but he couldn't. He was trapped. They stared. Teeth opened. Hundreds of mouths. Small and large, stacked on top of each other. They were reaching for his face. As they closed, he shot up heart exploding.
The gun was in his hand. The barrel was hot. His ears rang in near deafness. Bert had fired four rounds before realizing he was awake. His front door was perforated.
For once, his hermetic seclusion was helpful. No one was around to be hurt.
"I think it's about time I slept with this unloaded." He looked up at the ceiling. More bullet holes, now covered with duct tape, reminded him of his previous terrors. Reminded him…
Jefferson. Isaiah. That's right.
Bert had the same type of drunken suicidal sleep before. What did he do? Ah, yes. Madame Sage.
The cops had lost Jefferson in the hills. The dogs that returned were never the same. Like something had spooked years out of them. One deputy went missing. They only found his gnawed skeleton this summer on a river bank in Georgia. No idea how that happened.
Bert had no leads that time as well. No ideas. No money. But, the drunks at the Hill's Billy gave him his no good worthless single shred of idea. "Maybe, somebody ought to ask that Gypsy witch about it," they said, before doubling over in raucous laughter.
She wasn't a witch. Only a fortune teller. Tarot cards. Malarkey. Gibberish. Bert wasn't even sure she was a gypsy, but she sure dressed like a hillbilly's conception of one. Lived on the other side of the county in her dressed up trailer alongside her family. Her boys.
She claimed to be old. In her 60s. Bert couldn't believe it. She could have gone to high school with him for all he could tell. A sexy woman for any age. The nigh-atrophied part of his libido stirred deep in his reptile brain for a moment recalling her. Dark eyes. Form fitting dress. Pursed red lips. Head band. Patchouli. Alien accent. If he weren't wed to the bottle, maybe…
He slapped himself. Dried crusted vomit flaked off his lips. He must have puked again in his sleep.
"Well, I don't have anything to lose." He creaked to his feet and began the process of pretending to be human again. Shower and all.
The day was getting long. It was late afternoon in October. The sun would be down by the time he got to Madame Sage's. His Firebird rumbled through the hills. Up and down. He wanted to be sick again. The second bottle of old grandad rolled on the backseat floor, clinking occasionally. Not yet, Bert. Get a lead. Get a drink. That's a good boy. He held in his stomach.
The cool fall air made him feel alive for the first time since his ex called last month. It was September then. Warmer. Like he was about to play football again. Have a beer with his friends. Fool around with Jackie in the back of the Firebird. Same car. The world was leaving him. Alas, he was wed to the bottle. Old grandad clinked again to remind him.
The sun winked out on the horizon behind a mountain. The orange sky faded into violet as Bert drove up to the Madame's trailer. He took a breath, checked his armpits for any lingering stench, and stepped out of the rusting muscle car.
The pump of a shotgun greeted him. "We're closed. At sunset. No customers."
It was one of her boys. Bert couldn't recall his name. Probably Michael or Tony. The man was big. Probably 6'5''. Swarthy, but going bald. Could have easily been Bert's age. The Remington trained on him, threateningly.
"I'm not here for any trouble. I…just need some help. Your mother helped us out last year. With the fugitive." Bert didn't need to mention the cops. These foreigners didn't care for the authorities. Bert was inclined to agree with them.
Another son manifested, six shooter cannon in his left hand. "You deaf, hillbilly? Shop's closed." He could have been the twin of the first. Looked younger though, more hair. He pulled back the hammer with a threatening click.
"Could you just tell your mother, I stopped by? Bert. Bert Thompson. I can come back tomorr…"
"Ah, Mr. Thompson. I thought that was you. Please come in." The sultry voice came from purple curtains flanking the front door. An olive hand waved him in. The boys dropped their guns. Reluctantly.
He walked through the threshold, barely holding in a victorious grin as he passed by her overzealous guards.
"Apologies about the boys. I told them I was done for the day. Bad headaches. Your doctor said it is a…migraine? A strange word."
There was barely any light, except a weak glow from a candle at the table in the center of the room. "Please, sit. Tea?"
He couldn't see her in the darkness. As he tried to sit, he almost tripped. A cat yowled and bolted from the room. "My mistake, Mr. Thompson. Here."
Several more candles lit simultaneously. He remembered that trick from last time. Very convincing for the slackjaws trekking out here on the weekly. "The cat. He will be fine." She looked up at him from her chair.
Somehow, this woman had boys pushing middle age. She didn't look a day older than him. She'd be in her 60s if she had those bulldogs out front in her teenage years. Dark eyes, olive skin. Fit. Pursed lips with red lipstick. She wore a loose dress with a white blouse adorned with sequins of blues and purples. A violet bandanna was wrapped around her head and long hooped earrings hung from her ears. She smelled wonderful. The fountain of youth must be in Eastern Europe somewhere.
She sniffed the air. "Mr. Thompson…still drinking, yes?
Bert grimaced as he sat. "I…yes. Ain't much else to do around here. Except ask a pretty lady for a fortune." She chuckled.
"Don't say that too loud, my friend. The boys had to chase off the coroner the other day. Brought me flowers. Very sweet of him. Cheap. But sweet." The flowers sat in the corner of the room on an old piano. "What brings you back to Madame Sage?" Her foreign accent lilted in his ears, its novelty only echoing the beauty of its owner.
"We've got another runner. It's worse this time, though. Several dead people in multiple states. He crashed nearby and is on foot. I just need a lead, Ma'am. Anything."
She stared him directly in the eyes for a moment. If Bert didn't know better he could have sworn she read his mind to confirm the tale. "These hills are dangerous. Haunted. He will not last long. Just wait for him to die, yes?"
"We don't have time. I don't have ti…," Bert caught himself. Without the liquor, it was harder to control his emotions.
"I see…," she said knowingly. "And what will you do for us, Mr. Thompson, hmm?"
"All I have is my word, Ma'am. And a shitbox car out front." He forgot about this. The haggling. He worked out a deal last time. The Sheriff and his deputies gave this holler a wide berth now. He had no idea what real business these Gypsies got up to when the shop closed, and he didn't much care to find out. He just needed a lead.
She sat in thought, calculating his tribute. "You will return when this is over. We will need favors. Information. Your kind does not make it easy to live here."
"Can't promise that, and you know it, Ma'am."
She stared back, like a cat playing with a mouse. "You'll live through this, Mr. Thompson. Do not worry."
Before he could respond, the cards were out. Tarot. Gibberish. But fun for kids with a couple bucks to waste.
He wasn't sure how she knew about Jefferson last time. He figured her boys were a beachhead mafia of some kind, digging their fingers into the underbelly of the hills. They probably heard about something and relayed it back to her. He didn't care. It was very likely Madame Sage already knew where Pollack was holed up. He just needed to go through this charade and be on his way. Still, it was nice to spend an evening with a woman.
She flipped the first card. It was The Drunk - a bum in a dark alleyway, dried vomit on his chest. More dead than alive. He remembered that one.
"I think we knew this player already." She smirked. "I hoped for a different card, Mr. Thompson, but this is the hand we have." Bert cleared his throat in acknowledgement. There was nothing to say. No defense.
She stared at him a moment longer than flipped the next card. It looked like the shape of a man, but within that shape was what looked like stars, galaxies, and black holes. "Ah, The Gateway. This is the man you seek?"
"I don't know about that. He's just some Yankee nutcase. Dangerous though."
"Yes, The Gateway can be formidable. He is not his own master. A door in search of a key. Something dark drives this one." Just then, Bert could have sworn the space-scape inside the man of the card was changing, swirling. The black holes stared at him. Like eyes.
He shook himself out of it. It had to be the modicum of sobriety he was experiencing. Madame Sage flipped the next card.
"The, how do you say it…". The Madame trailed off in thought, massaging her temples. The card depicted a desert landscape with slaves breaking rocks, digging deep into the sand. To Bert, it looked like something on the other side of the earth. Another time.
"He's at the old Quarry! Is that what you're saying?"
"Yes, for now. He is moving fast though."
Bert got up to leave, "Thank you Ma'am. If I can catch this bastard, I'll do my best to help you folks."
"Wait, Mr. Thompson! There are two more cards. You need to see them." She reached to stop him.
"No time. I know where he is. That's all I need."
Bert rushed out the door, heart smacking his ribs. The bastard was five miles away. He could be there in fifteen minutes. Everything seemed so clear. He leaped into the Firebird like a chariot. Fifteen minutes. Fifty G's. That was all he needed. The future, likely criminal, demands of a Gypsy mafia were in the future. The bounty was now.
Madame Sage was still massaging her temples. One of her boys stepped into the cloister, irate that the drunk seemed energized. "What did he want?"
"He is tracking a gateway. But he would not wait for the cards." She flipped the last two quickly in succession. The first depicted cavalry riding into a storm. The second, and final card, showed a man, one-armed, fighting to close a door. Tendrils of some kind were keeping it open. The blood drained from her face as she stared up at her firstborn. "Get the others. And the weapons." He nodded knowingly and rushed out the door.
Bert was speeding as the Firebird crested hills with clearance. He had driven these roads since he could drive. He knew them like he knew the shelves at the liquor store. He drove them drunk so many times, he could probably drive them in his sleep. Dead, even.
He was alive with purpose. Another bounty. Another collar. The chase. The money.
Most importantly, what the money meant. Months. Maybe a year of freedom. Freedom from life. From sobriety. From thinking. He couldn't wait. He slammed on the gas.
He popped over the last hill leading to the old disused quarry, full moon hanging in the October sky. Before he landed, he hammered the brakes.
There was a blockade, of sorts, near the turn for the quarry. Sheriff cars were flipped. One was on fire. There were bodies. Dead dogs.
Bert's rust wagon squealed before colliding with the chaos. The smell of burnt rubber and aching brakes poisoned his nostrils. He winced. The alcohol muted smells as well. He needed it to escape what average people tolerated on the regular. Pain. Taxes. Heartbreak. Smell. He needed it. He was wed to it.
Bert shook it off. He grabbed his magnum from the dash and sidled out of the car.
The road was blocked, but no one was around. The burning cop car had at least one deputy inside. Four and a half others lay about, bleeding. Bert didn't have time to find the torso of the fifth. The Sheriff was going to have his hands full with hiring after this. Gunshots rang out from the quarry. Bert hoofed it.
More gunshots. The battle was happening in the pit, five stories into the earth. This had been going on for at least an hour. Bert shook his head. He was right about Pollack, but sometimes he hated it. The schizo was nuts. He wasn't sure anything short of decapitation would stop him if he somehow left the destruction behind him. Shouts came from below.
"We've got you surrounded. Give it up! Down on your knees!" belted the Sheriff two stories up from the bottom of the quarry. Floodlights were shining over the floor, but Bert couldn't see anything. Despite being mined out decades ago, gnarled trees and shrubs had taken hold. There were plenty of places for a body to hide, despite being surrounded. He could see a dog. It looked like it was bent at a right angle.
Pollack didn't respond, wherever he was. Bert hollered, "Sheriff, where do you need me?"
Frank looked up and saw Bert's thinning hair near the top of the quarry. "Stay there dammit. It's the only way out! We have him surround…"
A tree branch as thick as a man and twice as long launched out of the brush.
Cassidy, a skinny kid from Ohio that Bert drank with on occasion was the target. Cassidy was chopped in half at the waist. Bert instantly understood how the hapless deputy behind him lost his torso.
"Fire, Goddammit!" The deputies unleashed their firepower. Several shotguns and at least one automatic rifle buffeted the brush. Branches cracked and snapped. Any man in there would have taken a hit. "Reload! again!"
As they began to stuff shells back into their cannons something else left the brush. Bert could do nothing but barely process what was happening. Withdrawal was sapping his strength and attention as his heart slapped ribs.
The object, almost rock-like from his vantage, landed on another deputy. Two others around their fallen comrade began spraying shells before thoughts could beat their fear. The downed deputy took five or six pumps before they realized what was happening. The object, now appearing to be a gnarled stump of some kind, started moving. Unfurling. "Keep shooting!"
Eamon Reilly unloaded the automatic. Shards of bark broke off the sentient object. The deputies below finally had their shotguns reloaded again, but it was too late.
It was a man, or something like it, half merged with gnarled wood. The outside carapace was tough, but the inside revealed the mortal owner. Pollack.
The wood beast swung both elongated arms and the adjacent deputies were bludgeoned, one falling into the pit and the other smacking the quarry wall. They were beyond dead.
Bert gave up imagining taking the bounty alive and accepted survival was more important for once. He trained the cannon on the creature and emptied the barrel. Six large chunks of wood cracked off, revealing an orange glow beneath, but the thing that was Pollack barely noticed. Bert reloaded, almost dropping his ammunition.
The Sheriff threw a grenade. Bert forgot they had them. They must have attempted using them already. Perhaps, an errant toss took out the car on the road. When the grenade landed at the feet of the beast, it exploded and shredded the deputy's corpse, ringing throughout the pit of slate.
Riley started to relax, lowering his weapon. The Sheriff screeched, "Reload, you idiot!" Before he had a chance, the smoke cleared and Pollack was gone.
"Behind you!" said Bert as a gnarled claw wrenched the gun out of Riley's hands, breaking fingers. The stunned deputy stared at his ruined phalanges. His right pointer finger was barely attached. "Shoot it, Bert!"
The Sheriff and Bert unloaded their sidearms, one from twenty feet away and one from above, to no avail. Pollack absorbed the bullets. If they didn't bounce off the wooden shell, they disappeared into his body - into the orange glow. Pollack brought down the automatic rifle into Riley's head, crushing the skull and nearly cutting the body in half.
The Sheriff picked up a shotgun and emptied the tube. Nothing worked. This bounty was beyond Bert. Beyond them. Beyond a man.
The Sheriff kept picking up fallen shotguns from his fallen comrades. Bert reloaded. "Frank, get out of there! It's not worth it."
"I can't tell their families what happened, Bert! I can't tell them I did nothing! I don't know what he is, but this ends now!" The Sheriff pulled another grenade and charged Pollack.
"No!" There was nothing he could do but watch. Whatever the Sheriff had experienced over the last hour had driven him insane.
Frank leapt, crashing into the thing that was beyond his men, and exploded. Shrapnel of wood, bone, and guts stained the nearby slate. Smoke obscured the worst of the abattoir below. Bert held us breath.
Nothing moved. Silence filled the fall air.
He was going to have a hard time explaining this to anyone. He…
A man coughed below as the smoke cleared. Pollack hunched over, but he was a man again. No carapace. No glow. Some irrational avaricious part of Bert overcame the terror of a moment before. He was going to get the bastard. Fifty G's. Booze. Freedom. He slid down the ladder.
Pollack slowly began climbing out of the pit. Bert waited for him on the fourth level.
A greasy head crested the edge of slate. The loaded magnum followed it.
"It's over. You're coming with me." Said Bert, triumphantly.
Pollack looked haggard. Starving. "It's never over man. It can't end. Until I find it…"
Bert smacked him with the cannon and Pollack winked out as his head smacked the slate.
"Jesus…" Bert exhaled. He pulled handcuffs from his back pocket, and secured the mark. He dragged the reeking fugitive up the long way on an access ramp. He didn't stir.
As he opened the door to toss the trash into his rust bucket, lights appeared on the road. Several vehicles sped toward him. Madame Sage and her boys leapt out of the cars, heavily armed. There were thirteen of them.
"Mr. Thompson, give him to us. You have done all you can." She said, AK-47 slung over her shoulder.
"This is my bounty dammit. Alive. Fifty G's. You thieving gyp…"
Half of the boys raised their guns.
"This is beyond you, Mr. Thompson. There are no bounties tonight and there may never be again. I know what to do. Trust me."
Bert looked down at his magnum. Six bullets. Maybe…
No. It was his life he'd be throwing away. What was left of it anyway. For what? Killing Sage and some of her boys? The rest would perforate him. There would be no booze, no money, ever again. His head ached.
"Fine…" he raised his hands, but didn't drop the weapon. Two of the boys approached and opened the door to extract Pollack.
"He is gone!" Madame Sage rushed forward to confirm. She screamed in rage. As she turned, she slapped Bert so hard he fell to the ground. No woman had ever hit him that hard, and he had plenty of experience to draw upon.
Pollack had silently slipped out the other side of the car during the showdown. Madame Sage barked orders in a foreign tongue. Despite the alien words, Bert got the gist of it.
She reached a hand out and pulled him up. "You, Mr. Thompson, will be helping, yes?" He nodded, as he touched his burning cheek. They spread out and jogged into the woods opposite the quarry.
Bert stayed close to Sage. "You have to tell me what's going on here woman."
"I tried to tell you, but you did not wait for the cards. You are lucky to be alive, stupid man." He winced, expecting another nuclear slap.
"What is he?"
"He is…something like a door. But this one, he is owned. Claimed. The souls of your world play with things they do not understand. Make deals. Pay tribute. They are tools. He got the attention of something." Bert recalled the bodies in the report. Did Pollack kill them or the other Pollack? Did something else?
"It does not matter. This place, these hills. There are … energies here. Dark. It is why I came. We defend your realm. It cannot yet fall."
"Yet?"
Rifle fire rang out followed by foreign shouts. Bert and Sage ran towards it.
"We winged him, mother." Flashlights on rifles shined on a glow. Orange viscera painted the bark of a tree.
"Curse…he's too strong. Too close."
"To what? Where is he going?"
"There is a place nearby that it exists in two places. A place we have been trying to find. Two realms. Yours and … theirs. They can see your world. Smell it. Hear it. But they cannot be of it. Unless one of you fools lets them in."
"What happens if he gets to this place?"
"Their realm becomes yours. An infestation. Imagine millions of these things, Mr. Thompson. No might of man can stand against it. You will fight and die and then run and die."
"What do we do?"
She looked down. "Sacrifice opens the door. Sacrifice closes it." More gunfire.
"He's coming your way!" The carapace was back. Pollack charged.
"Watch out!" He pushed Sage out of the way, falling on top of her. The door that was a man, barreled past them. Gunfire hit the bark-laced shell.
Despite himself, he could smell her. Even her scent was like sage. She pushed him off. Damn woman was strong.
"It is close, circling the tear." She barked an order in her foreign tongue. Even in rage and frustration it had a musical quality.
Two of her boys unslung shotguns and started blasting. To Bert's surprise, this slowed Pollack down. "How?"
"Salt." She said with no effort at further explanation.
It was true. The boys were peppering him with rock salt, or something like it. Pollack, trying to turn away, was hissing and screaming as his bark-like skin started smoking like it was about to catch fire.
Two others approached and unfurled ropes at their hips. Lassos.
"Now!"
Each one caught a dangerous gnarled arm. Where the ropes touched, more hissing and smoking was emitted. As he screamed, Bert could see the ropes glisten in the moonlight. They were laced with something metallic.
They pulled Pollack down, the salt and ropes sapped his otherworldly strength. Two more lasso wielders approached and lashed his thick trunk like feet. Once caught, they pulled, splaying the howling thing to the ground. For the first time that night, Bert felt a modicum of pity.
The shotgunners kept pelting him. "Tighter!" The Gypsy queen shouted. The men pulled, multiple manning each metallic rope. With a final cry, Pollack seemed to explode, smoke filling the clearing, blotting out the moon.
Flashlights fished the darkness. Pollack, the man, was still there. Tied and weeping. "Please…so close. I need it to end…they won't let me sleep. Please!"
Madame Sage approached the greasy welp. "Tie him tight. We must leave. He still grows in strength."
"No!" His eyes glowed orange. Pollack leapt to his feet, ripping the ropes from his wranglers. Before he could move Sage slammed her palm into his forehead.
"Sleep." She nearly whispered. Pollack collapsed face first, and the boys completed their work.
"Why can't you just…you know?" Bert drew his hand under his throat.
She obliged him. "Bullets. Bombs. You have seen. Salt and silver can weaken and trap, but that is all. Nothing of your world is strong enough. He is powered by…them. Only distance can weaken him. The ocean should be deep enough." He blinked.
"The Ocean?" His head was spinning. Maybe they were a mafia.
"I have said too much. We must go now. Go sleep, Mr. Thompson. Eventually, you will forget this. Nothing but a nightmare. A fiction."
He was tired. Exhausted. He blinked his eyes. He remembered the booze in the Firebird. Old Granddad. He could almost taste it.
"Please go." Her words weighed on him. Pushed him. He should go. His feet dragged him away.
Bert fell into the driver's seat of the Firebird, like a sack of rotting potatoes. Bert instinctively reached for the bottle in the back seat, twisting uncomfortably to fish it out from underneath the passenger seat.
He popped the cork and brought it to his lips. He would drink it, half now, half at home. He would sleep. He had to forget this night. He would forget. Maybe he would finally pick up and leave. Disappear into the west somewhere. Maybe…
Screams erupted for the woods. The drain on his spirit evaporated as his adrenaline spiked. It was a woman's scream. Sage.
Anything that could make that woman cry out like that would make most men swallow a shotgun. Bert shivered. He raised his magnum from where he dropped it in the seat. He ambled towards the screams, gun in one hand, bottle in the other.
The boys were down, some likely dead. Pollack did not sleep. Sage was gone. Again, he had a bounty to track.
His heart whined as he sprinted. Decades of abuse and infrequent exercise had made it weak. He didn't care. He would probably die. What did it matter if it were a heart attack? Likely, that would be less painful than the options ahead of him.
The woods grew more thick, hiding most of the full moon, and his eyes strained to adjust. Occasional screams from ahead drove him on.
Deep in the woods a faint glow appeared. Orange. Impossible.
But it was enough. He could see Pollack ahead. Fifty yards. Twenty-five. Ten.
He crashed into Pollack dragging an unconscious Sage by the hair. He was still a man. Short. Gangly. Light. The lithe man flew. Bert coughed and wheezed, almost falling to his knees. The bottle dropped. Why did he still have that?
"Hands in the air Pollack! Knees on the ground." Pollack began to stand. The orange glow just beyond them grew brighter in the center of a…bog?
A swamp. Bert shook his head. Couldn't be. Impossible here. Impossible like the glow itself.
"I said hands in air, knees on the ground!"
He didn't respond or move. He was glowing.
Bert fired as the gnarled carapace grew out of his skin. The bullets were useless, disappearing into the umber emission or creaking wood. Pollack stomped the ground and launched into the air. The force was strong enough to knock Bert off his feet.
Pollack landed in the middle of the bog, where a single dead tree rose out of the murk.
As Bert struggled to stand, he could see the source of the glow. An orange flame burned at the top of the dead tree. A torch. Impossible.
Pollack climbed the tree. Each inch closer increased the brightness of the flame.
Bert unloaded the rest of his rounds. He didn't care what he shot. He wanted those that found his corpse to know he died with an empty chamber.
The last bullet shattered the base of the highest tree branch, causing it to fall past Pollack. The flame hung in the air, where it would have sat on the now absent branch. Pollack leapt, covering the distance between him and the fire easily. The glow disappeared. Darkness took the swamp.
Bert scrambled on the ground. Sage had a rifle slung over her shoulder with a flashlight attached. Somehow, she was unable to turn it on Pollack. Why did he need her? Luckily, she was still breathing as he blindly unlatched the sling of the AK.
He couldn't hear anything as he traipsed into the water. He swung the gun around, attempting to see anything. Pollack was gone. The fire was gone. The corpse of a tree remained. The water only stirred for him.
An explosive sound tore through the silence. If anything, it sounded like canvas ripping, if the canvas were a mile thick and god himself wrenched it apart. With it, Bert was blinded, as the flame returned roaring like the sun.
He blinked, attempting to process it. Above the tree was the shape of a man - of Pollack, but it burned with an inferno. The gateway was opened.
Stupefied, nearly blind and deaf, he raised the gun when a wave from behind pushed him forward.
He turned and saw it. Them. Eyes. Mouths. Teeth. Gnarled demons of glowing bogwood from a hell he couldn't comprehend. The sadistic masters of the gateway. Of Pollack. He saw the largest fiend, looming behind its acolytes. It's wooden teeth shaped a doubled rictus smile, illuminated by an internal fire. Reptilian-like nostrils flared. They all burned from the inside like Pollack before. Bert aimed the gun and fired.
The gun kicked hard. It was modified somehow. The bullets hit like cannonballs. Crushing demonic wooden faces as his aim drifted. They charged him.
They were fast. This swamp was theirs. Three feet of sludge was nothing to them. Teeth sank into his arm and wrenched the gun from its mission. He held down the trigger, screaming. Teeth sank and hit bone. He was being pulled apart from both sides. With a final wrench, he was launched out for the bog, his right arm torn from his torso.
The landing was a welcome distraction from the agony. Blood was rushing out. His life force. This was it.
The glow illuminated the forest edge. More of those things were pouring in. Merging. Escaping. Infesting. He lay on his left side, vainly trying to save what blood was left.
Sage touched him. "It is almost over Mr. Thompson." Guns fired into the bog. The boys were back. At least, most of them.
"What…is happening?" Bert hissed. Aching. Dying.
"Sacrifice, Mr. Thompson." She touched his bleeding stump and the pain cooled. He could feel the final valuable pints of blood circle back to his heart. "You have paid the toll, so only you can close the door."
She brought him to his feet. The gunfire riled the fiends, but as Bert could now see, they were trapped. A ring of salt encompassed the bog, which they refused to cross. "We have seconds, minutes maybe. The Gnarled are simple, but they will find a way. More keep coming."
One of Sage's boys, maybe Michael or Tony, handed Bert the bottle of Old Grandad. Bert popped the cork.
The largest fiend reached for Pollack and wrapped a giant claw around his burning form. Another tearing sound began to erupt as it started to rip the door from where it was anchored. It would move the door. Wrench it away from the barrier. Over it.
The bottle of Old Grandad, lit with some white lace of Sage's dress shattered on the straining arch fiend. Fire erupted, blue in color. Otherworldly echoes of ancient demonic pain rumbled. It no longer smiled. Bert looked at his left arm, amazed. He couldn't have thrown a football that far with his right. "Quick, Mr. Thompson. We move." Blue fire. Unholy strength from his weak arm. Cannon fire from Russian rifles. Impossible.
Pollack fell from its claw, no longer burning himself, just a man again. The flame burning bright hung in the air.
The gypsies unleashed synchronized rifle fire, carving a path, smaller demons fleeing as their leader retreated. Sage and a one-armed Bert waded into the water. Pollack's body, thankfully, floating in their direction. Sage moved fast.
"Back to the tree, Mr. Thompson!" They dragged his body toward the center of the bog, the ruined tree. Bullets staved off the ravenous stragglers that dared approach.
They crawled atop ruined branches to the base of the tree. Sage pulled salt from her pockets and sprinkled it around.
Pollack opened his eyes and sat up.
"Oh Jesus…no." Horror covered his face.
"If you had listened to him, we would not be here." Sage told him. Angus started weeping, head in hands.
Beyond the grease and violence, Pollack was just a man. Young. Small. Weak. He was a Yankee, but no one was perfect. Bert could almost feel pity.
"It…wasn't supposed to be like this." His New England accent was becoming more discernible.
Sage stared at him. "It never is. There are no shortcuts to paradise."
"They…said I could leave. I could leave this world. I just wanted out." Tears flowed as he looked up at the flame above.
"A door never leaves, child. Always stuck between two places. Two worlds. Trapped. They lied to you." Angus stopped crying, face turning red.
Bert broke the silence. "What do we do?" The water was starting to roil. More and more of the infestation was merging into the swamp.
"You, and this man. Must close it. You feel it, yes? The power?" said Sage. Bert flexed his left arm. It was strong. He felt as if he could flip a car with it. She turned to Pollack. "Tell me, child. Are you truly sorry? Do you want to make this, right?"
"I…yes. Anything. Just make it go away. Make it end!"
She moved too fast for Bert to process it. She had a knife, a long serrated blade. Gold handle laced with jewels. She grabbed Pollack's greasy hair, wrenched his neck back, and hacked through his throat with one clean draw of the blade. Pollack's eyes stared at her in shock as he grabbed his ruined neck. Blood gushed.
Bert wanted to shout. But…it made, an odd kind of sense. Even if he lived through this, Pollack, now sane, would face a bitter end. The chair in Tennessee, likely. His expression grew calm as he gave Madame Sage a thankful knowing look. She had given him what no demon from another plane could. An escape from this world via redemption.
The water roiled, they were coming now. A final push to prop open their foothold. Thousands of burning eyes and millions of teeth converged on the center.
"Mr. Thompson, he…is like a collapsing cave, but he must be in the right place for this to work!" She looked up at the flame. The key to this world.
The salt barely kept back the braying, clawing creatures. Each one was unique, now that Bert could see them up close.
Bert grabbed the bounty, near death, by the collar. Blood poured and stained the front of his shirt. With his one arm and strength beyond men, Bert Thompson hurled his big score back into the flame.
At first, Pollack hung there in stasis, inner core burning again. Only this time, it dripped blood on the corpse of tree below. Bert finally understood. Pollack and the flame had become one. If one fell, so did the other.
The salt was failing and an errant claw grabbed Sage by the ankle. "Bert!"
He stomped down on its elbow, crushing the wood. Vengeful strength still in him. Behind, the largest, now burnt, fiend rose, hate in its eyes empty eyes. It was collapsing on them. They would be crushed.
Then, the flame winked out.
The beeps of the machines woke him up. Everything hurt. His mouth was dry.
When he tried to move, he found his hand cuffed to the bed. When he reached with his right arm, he remembered it wasn't there. The shock of it spiked his heart rate, echoed by the relentless beeping.
A nurse rushed in and pumped morphine into his IV. Sweet relief came in cold, and his phantom arm stopped wailing from the beyond. When she left he could hear her talking to someone outside. A man. No, men.
They were feds and they required a statement. For once in his life, Bert kept his mouth shut. There was nothing to say. Nothing to explain. They admitted they couldn't charge him with anything, but they needed something - anything to explain the carnage they were still cleaning up. Bert simply explained that the cops underestimated Pollack. "So did I," said Bert as he pointed to his missing arm.
They wrote something down and gave him a card with a number. They signaled a state trooper outside who came in and uncuffed him, glaring with disgust the whole time. Bert didn't care. He had new problems now. No - more problems.
He slept. And ate. The morphine poured into him. He had to be careful not to crave its sweet kiss when he finally left.
After his afternoon nap, she was there waiting for him to open his eyes. He spoke firtst. "I was wondering what happened to you." She was wearing a simple blouse with jeans and tennis shoes. She looked like any random mother at the grocery store.
"We brought you here, Mr. Thompson. Had to bury our dead and mourn. You…did what you were meant to do."
"What did the cards say?" Bert said, thirsty for answers.
"That you would lose your arm, and you would struggle. Failure was possible. Success unclear. Unlikely. We had to let it play out. It never happens how I imagine it will. But we were there to give you just enough of a nudge."
"What are you people? Why are you here?" Blame etched his dry words. She handed him a styrofoam cup with water.
"Refugees. Protectors. Criminals. Gypsies. We are what we have to be. As are you. You…did well. Better than most." She touched his remaining hand and squeezed it tight. "You come see Madame Sage when you leave here and we will talk more, Bert Thompson."
She smelled amazing. Like Sage. How old was she? What was she? He would have to know. He must know.
He left the hospital two days later, shocked to find the Firebird in the parking lot. He sat in the driver's seat, old leather cracking. The shocks creaked as they held his weight, sans right arm, once again. He looked in the backseat. No alcohol. No clinking bottles. No money.
He looked at the bottle of pills the doctor gave him. Percocet. His arm ached, begging for the drug's relief, the bitter ghost of a sacrifice that saved these hills, Tennessee, and likely, the world.
He chuckled and threw the pills out the window. The engine hummed to life and Bert decided to go get his fortune read during business hours. He would stay to see all the cards, this time.