FP297 – The Murder Plague: Fencing, Part 3 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and ninety-seven.

Flash PulpTonight we present The Murder Plague: Fencing, Part 3 of 3
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp297.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Nutty Bites.

 

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Harm Carter meets his theoretically murderous neighbour.

 

The Murder Plague: Fencing, Part 3 of 3

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

She was maybe forty, with hair that had likely been short-cropped a few weeks previous, but was hanging shaggily across her brow by the time she pushed open the shed’s green doors.

She moved along the lawn like a cat, keeping tight to the fence and stopping to test the air whenever an unexpected noise ricocheted down our little alley of backyards.

I was sure she was The Carpenter.

The Murder PlagueMy eyes ached from a lack of sleep, and my legs were stiff from my all-night vigil, but I felt vindicated somehow. Here was a clever someone deep in their homicidal delusion, and I was staying one step ahead. Nevermind that I hadn’t thought much of the shack before she’d stepped from it, I’d known someone would appear by dawn and here she was.

The woman did not check on the now no-doubt-dead fellow at the pool’s bottom, however. No, instead she hustled to my fence – our shared fence – and hopped over. It was as she made the jump that I realized there was a gun belt on her hip.

She paused when she discovered the patio entrance barricaded, but only long enough to slip in through a basement window that I hadn’t realized was open.

Moments later a bellowing hello ascended from the depths, and continued to be repeated throughout the ground floor.

My mind raced. Had The Carpenter seen me at my lookout? Perhaps someone so ingenious couldn’t actually be mad – perhaps she was sane, just as I considered myself, and she hoped to form some sort of alliance.

The shouting stopped as she mounted the flight to the second story, and I guessed that she’d considered that any further yelling would only unnecessarily give away her approach – that if I was going to answer, I would have by then.

Still, she came, and I grew increasingly certain she knew exactly where I was.

There was no place to hide. The bed was a child’s, and too low to the ground to fully cover me. The closet was crammed tight with brightly coloured craft-making kits and forgotten halloween costumes. Worse, if she did happen to be insane, neither spot would provide give me a chance to swing my blade in my defense.

In the end, when she entered, I already had my hands raised and my open palms clearly showing.

Now, you must understand that the infection is a self-reinforcing idea. You’re paranoid about appearing paranoid, so you do your best to act normal – except, of course, that there’s a murderous apocalypse outside your door and you probably SHOULD seem rather nervous.

I said, “well, hello.”

“Oh, uh, hi,’ she replied.

The astonishment on her face caught me off guard: Didn’t she know I was waiting?

In truth, misunderstood motives were the heart of the sickness.

Her fingers were on her gun belt, but I think my demeanour slowed her. Clearly I was hiding an unexpected surprise if I was so calm about being exposed, right?

I was no longer guessing at her intentions, however, as my corrupted brain had moved into a dance for survival. It decided flattery was my best option for extracting information.

“I’ve been observing your work,” I said, “you’ve got a brilliant set up over there. It was like watching a magic trick unfold when that fellow disappeared.”

Almost as if to underline the statement, the shattered ruin lying in the dark at the bottom of the pool began screaming again. I suppose the pain must have caused him to black out for a time.

The assumed Carpenter raised a brow at me. Her conversational tone was punctuated by the muffled pleading from across the way.

“It isn’t mine, actually,” she said. “Barry and Rhonda were always waiting for the end of the world, and I guess they finally got it. Rhonda vanished a couple days into their construction efforts, but Barry managed to last a few weeks before accidentally impaling himself in the middle of the night with a swinging pickaxe-thing he’d rigged above his bedroom door.

“Honestly, I was just over there collecting some of their food stash when I noticed you in my house. I knew the shed’s shotgun had already been set off, so I pushed the corpse all the way inside and hid. He didn’t smell terribly good, but he had a can of tuna in his pocket which made for a nice snack.”

I hadn’t recognized her from the scattered family photos that now seemed to stare at me. Her face had hardened and her stomach was now taut.

Worse, The Carpenter had been dead all along. As if the ghost of his madness, only his traps had lingered.

In retrospect, I think she was trying to goad me into an excursion. Maybe her confidence was up due to my raised hands. Maybe she hoped that I would head in and engage another of the pitfalls, thus making her scavenging that much easier.

Maybe it’s just tempting to make myself believe there was a threat.

“Frankly,” she continued, “I thought it was you who’d fallen into the Mortenson’s swimming hole. That’s why I came back.”

Whatever the case, there was no ulterior motive, no clever plan that had brought her directly to my perch – it wasn’t crazed genius, it was simply bad luck.

She leaned towards the window to peer at the dying man’s premature burial, and her touch slipped briefly from her pistol’s grip.

The bread knife I’d found in the kitchen dropped cleanly from my left shirt sleeve.

Was she infected? Likely, but I didn’t give her the chance to prove it.

Then the house was mine.

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

True Crime Tuesday: Strange Loads Edition

Sport Magazine

Today’s True Crime Tuesday comes bearing strange gifts.

For example, our first story demonstrates that it takes a special kind of fetish to haul folks into illegal waters. The Wisconsin State Journal reports:

Cedarburg police believe they have identified the man who has been impersonating a reporter and contacting female high school athletes in Wisconsin, […] Gary Medrow, 68, of the Milwaukee suburb of Greenfield, has multiple convictions over the past 30 years of improper use of a telephone and impersonating a police officer, according to police and court records. On Friday, Medrow was charged in Ozaukee County Circuit Court with two counts each of disorderly conduct and unlawful use of a phone.

This may seem like a straight forward, if creepy, case, and you may even be wondering how it ranked for inclusion in this TCT – please allow me to, er, lift some of the mystery:

In 1997, Medrow was convicted […] of unlawful use of a telephone and impersonating a police officer. In that case he made a collect call from the Milwaukee House of Corrections, said he was investigating a car crash and asked a Marshall woman if she could carry other women.

A 1998 Milwaukee Journal Sentinel story that profiled Medrow, who at one time was a patient at Mendota Mental Health Institute in Madison, said Medrow had a fetish for “calling women and trying to persuade them to lift other women and carry them around.”

About two weeks ago, the caller called the daughter of Rob Hernandez, an assistant sports editor at the Wisconsin State Journal. The man indicated he wanted a photo of the Verona girls golf team in a pyramid or on one another’s shoulders, asked for the names of teammates and wanted to know their heights.

Mr. Medrow’s isn’t, however, the strangest load I’ve recently seen carried in the news – from Express.co.uk:

TEN sad-looking Shetland ponies were found in a night-mare position after astonished traffic cops stopped a dodgy-looking white van at a service station.

From: http://www.express.co.uk/posts/view/358383/That-doesn-t-look-very-stable-Ten-horses-found-crammed-into-van

How did the pony-crammers attempt to explain their unlikely cargo? Did they claim to be transportation managers for some upcoming Hobbit-related promo event?

Neigh.

In an even more absurd twist, the drivers – on their way to Romania when they were stopped at Offenbach, Germany – claimed they’d had no idea they had livestock on board.

Boys' Ranch

FP296 – The Murder Plague: Fencing, Part 2 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and ninety-six.

Flash PulpTonight we present The Murder Plague: Fencing, Part 2 of 3
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp296.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Nutty Bites.

 

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Harm Carter finds a home for himself amongst the infected maniacs.

 

The Murder Plague: Fencing, Part 2 of 3

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

I could have helped. I would have, probably, if I was in my right mind.

The Murder PlagueThe doctors tell you about your lack of culpability, but Hitchcock’s doesn’t touch your memory. You dream of things you’ve done, details you’ve forgotten for years, and there are, of course, plenty of things you remember always; the feeling of resistance against the blade, or the smack of the hammer, or the simple thud of a trap being sprung.

You never escape the memory of the rush of victory against a hated enemy – even if that enemy is only the cancer patient grandmother from next door.

Sometimes you even dream that your delusions were true.

Now – when I was a boy we’d start our ball games with one lad tossing another a bat. They’d then hand-over-hand the handle till the winner grabbed the top. Meeting someone during the plague was like that, but coming out on top usually meant a knife in the other fellow

That’s how the following period felt in my mind: A series of escalations, with the opening toss of the bat being the chance revealing of the pool.

It was like staring at my opponent’s shadow and trying to guess what they looked like. I didn’t know if it was a man or woman, but I knew they were crafty. It must have taken quite a bit of work to construct the grid they’d laid across the pool, to hinge and balance the planks, then lay the sod camouflage.

Worse still, Capital City was largely powerless. Unless their fortifications had been built at the immediate onset of the plague, they’d used only hand tools.

It would mean less noise while getting the job done. Yes, I thought they were crafty indeed.

Without doing it consciously, I started thinking of my neighbour as The Carpenter.

I became convinced every object in my opponent’s yard was booby trapped, and that the homemade abyss was but one defensive line of many. The propane grill was obviously a bomb. The four broad steps leading to the rear patio door were likely break away, divulging some sort of foot-sole impaling devices beneath. Below the overhang of the house stood a green dutch-doored shed. Touching the latch would no doubt mean decapitation, or some equally ingeniously horrible fate.

Standing there, absentmindedly listening to the screaming while my thumb and forefinger still held the fuzzy pink curtain, odd ideas came to me; like lingering till the wind was favourable and trying to set fire to the opposite string of houses, or finding a car and rigging the gas pedal so that it slammed into the cream siding, or even just ringing the bell and seeing what would happen if I asked to borrow a cup of sugar.

All were discarded as distinctly too risky. I considered on.

Would The Carpenter appear to check the tiger in his trap? No, he or she would wait and see if the death throes brought anyone else – so, in turn, I would wait to see what The Carpenter would see.

My fevered mind began to feel my neighbour’s presence in the void they’d left. Of the four windows I could see clearly, two were covered with slat blinds and the others held thick floral-patterned drapes. I suspected the blinds in the bottom-right had been slanted just enough to allow a view of the outside, as neither row had been cracked for a better view, but every now and then I would come around to convincing myself that there was a flutter at the upper curtains. I was a fisherman uncertain as to if he was actually feeling nibbles on his line and never getting a solid bite.

The shrieking became wailing, and the wailing became weeping, then, no more than an hour later, there was nothing but silence.

It got late, and I got tired, yet I couldn’t leave my post. The Carpenter, I was sure, would hold out till the darkest moment of the night, then venture forth. By the time the moon was deeply within cloud cover, however, I was positive it would be dawn.

I peered carefully from behind my flimsy veil, determined to be just as crafty, and patient, as my worthy adversary.

At dusk the shed opened, and a thin faced woman stepped from its depths.

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

FP295 – The Murder Plague: Fencing, Part 1 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and ninety-five.

Flash PulpTonight we present The Murder Plague: Fencing, Part 1 of 3
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp295.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Nutty Bites.

 

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Harm Carter finds a home for himself amongst the infected maniacs.

 

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

The door to the house on Washington was open, but not too open. The driveway was abandoned and the garage left gaping at the street. The backyard faced onto other cookie-cutter suburban homes, but the front had a wide view of a playground that provided no place to hide. The exterior had the look of factory aged faux-brickwork, and the hedges had been painstakingly maintained before having run riot during the plague times.

It was exactly what I was searching for.

At first, though, I walked past it.

The Murder PlagueNow, I should clarify, it wasn’t as if I was strolling about like a grandmother on her way back from Sunday service. The madness of Hitchcock’s Disease had fully gripped my mind by then, and I managed forward momentum only through slow progress and carefully affected casualness.

I thought the rules had changed since entering the city. While hidden riflemen were an issue in the country, anyone crazy enough to shoot a stranger on sight was also too scared to give away their position so easily. So long as I wasn’t rushed by a knife-wielding maniac, I reasoned, I’d be OK.

That’s not how Hitchock’s works, of course – it was always more important to worry about the smiling man with extended hand than the risk that a slasher film villain would come barreling onto the street – but the viral fear running amok in my veins couldn’t consider that far.

Anyhow, I went around the block, moving cautiously, but not so cautiously that I appeared paranoid. Or so I hoped. Everything seemed a threat. A recycling bin brimming with plastic bottles, no doubt forgotten at the roadside during a panicked evacuation, became an improvised explosive device. The abode on the corner, whose door was slamming against its protruding deadbolt with every tug and thrust of the wind, was obviously a deathtrap bristling with shotguns and poisoned broken glass.

Every window contained a watcher, and every useful item I passed was clearly set there to lure me into danger. In my mind my chosen neighbourhood was against me, but I was smart, and sober, and sane, and I would use this clarity to kill any one of those murderous bastards who might attempt to show their heads.

This mix of anxiety and twisted justification carried me back to the molded-cement stoop of 276 Washington.

I did not pause in my approach, as I worried it would give extra time to anyone inside. Despite the fact that the house met the careful criteria I’d worked up during my walk, any delay was an excuse to envision a thousand threats, and my stomach was a knot. I was well into convincing myself that the whole thing was a trick when I finally entered the front hall, but, when I flipped the deadbolt it was like erecting a wall to keep the world out.

I immediately began to fear whatever might lurk beyond the barrier more than whatever might lurk on the second floor.

Moving through a small sitting area, I ignored the staircase and beelined to the kitchen. I located a stout knife, and, after some cupboard fumbling, a flashlight. I searched the ground level, then searched it again. I descended into the unfinished basement – largely used for storage – and turned over the boxes of Christmas decorations and photo albums. Just in case.

When I returned to the main floor, I searched it again. While arguing with myself about being trapped inside, I shuffled around the living room furniture to block the french doors that lead to the back patio.

Finally, I climbed the stairs.

Seven doors. Subtract two, as one was an open closet that had clearly been raided for blankets in a hurry and the other was a laundry room that stood empty in the gloom. The entry on my left I revealed a wall dominated by a slightly risque poster of a woman washing a sports car, and a number of logos and pictures from a number of bands that I’d likely complain about if I were to ever hear their music. I popped my head in and the place was a mess of clothing dunes and forgotten soda cans. Turning back, I scanned the bathroom, then encountered a home office that looked like it had never been fully unpacked despite being used regularly. Next came a nearly antiseptic bedroom, with a plush bed and a flatscreen on the opposing wall. I assumed it was the parents. The final chamber belonged to a girl of perhaps nine. There was a large framed picture of the family on her shelf, but I wasn’t terribly interested anymore as it didn’t seem as if any of them were on the cusp of leaping out to stab me.

Of course, my inspection hadn’t been about trying to piece together who these people were – no, I was allowed only to think in terms of traps and advantages. Could I use that lamp as a weapon? Perhaps I could rig it to the windows somehow to electrify the pane? Was that a murderer in the closet? No, it was just a Halloween mask hung on hook – but could I use the guise somehow? Was there some worth in a scarecrow? Perhaps as bait?

– and so it went until I noticed the spidery fellow.

From the shelter of the pink curtain I could see a square of 6 backyards – my own, the two on either side of my little plot, and most of those belonging to the three houses that faced us.

The creeper moved slowly. He’d peep over the fence, scan the windows of the house, then pull himself over. He was methodical about it, and every enclosure took at least ten minutes to clear. I can’t say exactly what he was seeking, but I suspect food. I did see him try one patio, but it was locked. Rather than shatter the glass and draw attention, he’d simply turned to analyze the next residence.

He’d made it perhaps a third of the way across the lawn directly behind my own when he disappeared.

The turf seemed to fall away beneath him, and I caught a brief flash of aqua blue ceramic tile, then the spring that held up the plank’s hinge must have snapped back into place. There was not a disordered blade of grass, and, even having just seen the trap door magic trick, I didn’t entirely believe it had taken place. At least, I wouldn’t have if it weren’t for the screaming.

The potato sack sound of his landing made it obvious that the pool was drained – and rather deep.

It was then that I realized I likely had a neighbour.

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

True Crime Tuesday: Chemical Imbalance Edition

Vigilante War in Buena Vista
Today’s TCT is all about a lack of control.

First up, via citypages.com, we find a patrol car responding to a “shots fired” call on Halloween night – instead of locating a shoot-out, however, they…

[…] found a group of juvenile boys, who said a man had driven up, pulled over and began to yell at them, accusing them of stealing candy from his child.

Candy theft is clearly a greater crime than pumpkin smashing, but neither is reason enough for vigilante justice – and yet:

Vigilante Wonder WomanThe boys described the suspect as a white male with an Asian female passenger in his car, the same description of a driver who was stopped earlier in the evening for driving erratically. During that traffic stop, the driver, identified as Hager, told officers that he was looking for “older kids” who had stolen candy from his child.

Police went to Hager’s home and found him “very eager” to talk to them. He told them that he was angry that someone had stolen candy from his child, so he got into his car – accompanied by his wife and two children – and went searching for the “kids” who were responsible for the theft, according to the complaint.

I can understand being upset that your child has lost his candy, but there’s bullying and then there’s bullying.

When he saw the group at 27th and Brunswick, he got out of his car to confront them, he told police. However, it appeared that none of them were taking him seriously and they were giving him “attitude,” he said, so he pulled a gun from his car, the complaint says.

[…]

Police arrested Hager and confiscated the unloaded AK-47.

AK47
The second entry on today’s menu – a fantastic suggestion by Strawsburg – also relates to control: In fact, there was a time, not so long ago, when the criminal in question held at least some control over the vast majority of home computer systems.

Then things got a bit crazy.

From Gizmodo:

Antivirus pioneer John McAfee is on the run from murder charges, Belize police say. According to Marco Vidal, head of the national police force’s Gang Suppression Unit, McAfee is a prime suspect in the murder of American expatriate Gregory Faull, who was gunned down Saturday night at his home in San Pedro Town on the island of Ambergris Caye.

[…] Last Wednesday, Faull filed a formal complaint against McAfee with the mayor’s office, asserting that McAfee had fired off guns and exhibited “roguish behavior.” Their final disagreement apparently involved dogs.

At first I thought perhaps he had simply finally found the fellow who wrote Sobig.F – but the rabbit hole goes much deeper.

“Belize?” you may be asking yourself, “why Belize?”

Writing under the name “stuffmonger,” a handle he has used on other online message boards, McAfee posted more than 200 times over the next nine months about his ongoing quest to purify psychoactive drugs from compounds commercially available over the internet. “I’m a huge fan of MDPV,” he wrote. “I think it’s the finest drug ever conceived, not just for the indescribable hypersexuality, but also for the smooth euphoria and mild comedown.”

What does that have to do with Belize?

MDPV, which was recently banned in the US but remains legal in Belize, belongs to a class of drugs called cathinones, a natural source of which is the East African plant khat.

[…]

McAfee’s purported interest in extracting medicine from jungle plants provided him a wholesome justification for building a well-equipped chemistry lab in a remote corner of Belize. The specific properties of the drugs he was attempting to isolate also fit in well with what those closest to him have reported: that he is an enthusiastic amateur pharmacologist with a longstanding interest in drugs that induce sexual behavior in women. Indeed, former friends of McAfee have said he could be extremely persistent and devious in trying to coerce women who rebuff his advances to have sex with him.

Clearly Mr. McAfee is suffering from something that a simple software update won’t fix, though it sounds like he may also be carrying some viral infections of a different kind.
Thrilling Mystery 1940

FC73 – Killer Kinks

FC73 - Killer Kinks
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashCast073.mp3](Download/iTunes/RSS)

Hello, and welcome to FlashCast 73.

Prepare yourself for: Murder by sex, curiosity killed the kids, DOOM, an occult ritual, and Ruby.

* * *

Huge thanks to:

* * *

FP294 – Coffin: Change, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and ninety-four.

Flash PulpTonight we present Coffin: Change

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp294.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Nutty Bites.

 

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Coffin and Bunny face a powerful arcane force, and find themselves in a changing climate.

 

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

The winding road home had lead Will Coffin, urban shaman, and Bunny, his tipsy companion, to a Motel 6 a mere five hours from Capital City. Hurricane rains and fearsome wind had made continuing on an unpleasant prospect, and Coffin had nosed the rented Nissan into the lot only half certain that the neon smudge beyond the river on his windshield actually indicated lodging.

He was happy enough to cut the engine and not have to fight the storm for his life any longer – the confirmation of a vacancy sign was nearly just frosting on his fully-stopped cake.

“What a ####in’ dump,” said Bunny. “Still, I’d rather not drown in a parking lot. Let’s get inside.”

After a quick exchange at the faux-wood front desk, and a coin toss for who would bunk on the folding cot, the pair settled for the night. Coffin had spent the trip sleeping in a variety of ragged jeans and t-shirts, and tonight was no different. His lack of wardrobe changes meant that, while Bunny ducked into the bathroom to change, he was first grab the remote.

He’d found The Weather Channel by the time she exited in her oversized pin-striped pajamas.

“The Weather Channel?” she asked, “Better yet, The Weather Channel on mute? Christ, here comes the party – should I call for some champagne from the con-see-urge?”

“The what?” he replied.

“The Con-see-arg? The conc – whatever: The ####ing bottle boy, not that this place has anything more than a counter jockey with an already opened fifth of watered-down vodka under the counter. Way to ruin a solid goddamn joke.”

CoffinWithout breaking away from the swirl of gray and red, Coffin said, “yeah, The Weather Channel.”

“It’s raining outside – you know how I know? Because it’s been raining for the last five ####ing hours. How about you give me the remote and you can, you know, look out a ####ing window. That way we’ll both be happy.”

Will finally shifted to eye his companion. Something about the woman had changed since they’d turned eastward, but he’d been too preoccupied to put his finger on it. She was peevish, but it was not her usual hangover fury.

“I stopped taking suggestions from women dressed like you when I was ten and told my senile grandmother I wasn’t going to eat any more of her still-frozen peas,” he replied. “Why did you buy that senior home suit, anyhow? Usually you just pass out in – wait, are you sober?”

Bunny’s cheeks grew red, and she suddenly became extremely interested in the close-cropped green carpet.

“I’m not ####ing quitting or anything,” she said. “I’ve never been in need of any ###damn church basements – I’m only, uh, taking it easy for a bit.”

Bunny’s gaze came up as she finished, so that she could clearly see his reaction. Her fists clenched in preparation for a smirk.

Instead, Coffin nodded, letting the moment sink to silence.

When she began to fuss with the folded blankets on her cot, he changed the topic to the weather.

“See this tracking map? Anything seem weird about the storm’s path?”

“Looks like any two-year-old’s scribbling. It’s a mess of loops with a randomly straight line.”

“Exactly. The scrawl is saying the forecasters are blaming sudden wind changes, but the guy they keep cutting to at the desk looks like he thinks a pack of teenage hooligans are feeding him bad meteorological data.”

“So?”

“So I think our night’s not done. There’s too much property damage and too many lost lives.”

“You’re going to go help people bail out their cellars and maybe save some kittens in trees while you’re at it?”

He stood from the bed. “I’m going to deal with the problem directly.”

“You plan on punching a ####ing hurricane?”

“No, I plan on reasoning with it.” He stooped to lace his boots, then added “ – hopefully.”

* * *

Despite the heart of the storm lying further north, each step was a fight for footing as the duo crossed the small beach’s parking lot.

Will was saying, “What is it? Well, squalls are a symptom common to a number of beasties, but most of them I’ve only ever read about – it could be the Tempestwalker, but I’ve never met it, I only know about it from Blackhall’s book and the occasional rumour. It could be even be one of the old thunder chuckers – Thor, Perun, or Set – though my understanding is that they’re all dead.”

“My mom always used to say storms were God bowling,” Bunny shouted into the rain. “The thunder was supposed to be the big guy getting strikes.”

She regretted the comment, as even the brief statement had covered her tongue with blown sand and seawater.

From behind the damp white motel towel that Coffin had absconded with, he said, “I’d say this is probably one of the elementals – specifically water, or Merc, as he was introduced to me. Mostly because I know for sure he exists.”

“He?”

“Sorry, just a leftover from the Victorian-era literature. It. Although, personality-wise – well, it’s an approximation.

“The problem is that Merc really shouldn’t be able to do this. It hasn’t had this kind of power since before -” a gust of wind carrying the sound of shattering glass somewhere in the dark over his left shoulder gave Will a moment to reconsider his words. “Actually, the problem with Merc is that he’s incredibly old school.”

”It,” said Bunny. “It’s incredibly old school. If it’s, uh, even it.”

Will raised a brow at his unusually sober companion. “Yeah. Exactly. Speaking of, time to cast a line and see what we catch.”

The silver links of the chain affixed to the Crook of Ortez dripped from Will’s jacket pocket as he plucked the talisman from its place of safekeeping. With a stiff arm, Coffin began to swing the ornate hook high over his head. Though the gale only grew, he kept the rhythm of his orbit for three long minutes before Merc appeared.

Bunny’s first thought was that a tornado funnel was setting down – she’d seen many of the coiling fingers in grainy footage from Discovery Channel storm chaser specials – but even as the rain abated in a narrow cone around their position on the shore, the billowing throng halted its descent.

Its details were half cloud, half shadow, but, a face, of inhuman proportions, formed a hundred feet above them.

Coffin ceased his rotations.

“If I saw this #### on the Internet,” said Bunny, “I’d think it was the work of some CGI-hoaxing keyboard molester.”

“Quiet now,” said Will, “things are about to get stupid enough as it is.”

The sound of Merc’s words arrived as if carried on a combination of crashing waves and surging wind,

“You’ve a new wench then? I suppose you had to get rid of the last one, considering how lippy she was.”

As he spoke, Bunny noted that the thunderheads which formed his mouth did not move. Instead, the darkness at their edges seemed to ripple with his speech, providing a semblance of motion.”

“Oh,” answered Coffin, “she’s around.”

“Not a great move on the part of you penis-wagglers to start letting them talk in public,” continued the elemental. Despite the dramatic method of its delivery, Bunny thought the entity sounded much like an opinionated uncle with no verbal filter.

Will cleared his throat. “If I’d known you were going to show up I wouldn’t have spent the last while driving across the country to check my thermometer.”

“The ogre still lives? May miracles never cease – and by miracles, I really mean me.”

“Yeah, it’s worryingly awake – and now I find you here, practically on my back stoop. At least the beast of the mountain is a mindless creature. You should know better than to show off like this. The more you carry on, the closer the Spider-God gets.”

“Sheriff, Sheriff, the idea that magic brings Kar’Wick closer to our world is a myth. A boogey cooked up by your funny-hatted predecessor.”

Coffin squinted at the massive visage before asking, “Blackhall wore a hat?”

“It was the same one every time I saw him. Actually, the same tattered coat as well.”

“Huh. Anyhow, back to my point: The last time I saw you, you couldn’t so much as cause a drizzle outside of your Bermudan home. Unless I’m mistaken, and I doubt I am, you haven’t been this far north in nearly two-hundred years.

“You can doubt old man Thomas if you like, but open your misty eyes: You can’t deny that there’s something odd going on. I’ve seen the results. Hell, I’m seeing you right now.”

“Arcane power is cyclical, that’s all,” replied Merc. “Any threat of nearing disaster is a false conspiracy cooked up by Blackhall, who simply wanted to wipe the occult from the world. You, the Coffin, should know that better than any else.”

Bunny shrugged within her damp jacket.

“You know,” she said, “I thought it was pretty nifty meeting the weather and ####, but you’re as thick headed as my ex-husband. Which is to say, he was pretty ####ing sure nothing could hurt him until a cleaver landed in his skull.

“Sounds like you weren’t much of a fan of this dead guy, Drywall or whatever, but do you have any reason to not believe him other than the fact that you don’t like him?”

Merc frowned.

“Your bitch is yapping,” it said, “where’s its leash?”

Coffin’s jaw was locked tight as he responded. “Listen, you can spout conspiracy nonsense if you like – hell, you can claim to have assassinated JFK for all I care – but this antiquated garbage you’re speaking isn’t winning you any friends.

“Go home, and quietly, or you’ll wish you’d had the chance to spend the next two hundred years tickling kites and dispersing flatulence.

“You may mock me, my title, or my mentor, but you WILL respect my neophyte.”

Thunder rolled, the rain returned, and Merc’s features loomed close.

Will’s fingers once again entangled in the silver chain.

“Come then,” he replied, “and learn the hard way.”

At the sight of the charm, the elemental’s fury-lit eyes seemed to reconsider. As if no more threat than a draft of pipe smoke, its own wind dispersed its form over the white-capped water.

After a moment of staring down the calming ocean, Will started back to their room with heavy boots and stooped shoulders. Three steps into his exit, however, he turned to his companion.

A hint of a smirk touched his lips as he said, “good job.”

By the time the pair found their numbered door, even the drizzle had ceased.

 

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