The Last Defense of C Street

The Last Defense of C Street
by
Bobby Derie

The sirens all faded into the distance; the last police left, radios squawking orders, leaving doors unknocked on, houses unchecked. C Street was quiet, all the motion and activity behind closed windows and closed doors. The children were set in attics and basements, bolt-holes and safe rooms. The men brooded silently over old weapons; the women took stone and strap to kitchen knives. No barricades were raised, no guards or soldiers were posted, no bars or hookah-dens closed. Not on C Street.

The first sign of the approaching army was a vibration. The pounding of feet and hooves, the rumbles of trucks and tanks. It shook the whiskey in the tumbler, rattled the glass in the window panes, and somewhere a child cried, only to be hushed by his big sister. Somewhere distant was the whine and whir of planes, the terrible thump of bomb and missile; but the skies above C Street were clear, the building untouched by mortar or shell.

Morto hauled himself into the street first, his servos whining, the grim parody of an outline of a man, only accentuated by the great white smile the alley-kids had painted on him, glass eyes dark under a heavy brow. He took to the middle of C Street like a statue, lone and forlorn, and nothing that stood at Gibraltar could have waited with more patience or dignity.

Up and down the street, the clangor went up as the barwomen rang the last calls. Dark men and scarred women bent the elbow and shuffled out in the easy camaraderie of shared purpose; and leaving the glasses on the bars and tables the barkeeps followed them out, taking with them their bats and shotguns. They lined the street on either side, a genial crowd that kept well clear of the gutter, and the dark shadows that led to the stormdrains. Itchy fingers tested the action on well-notched pistols, loosened swords in scabbards, cracked necks and stretched shoulders as they hefted hammers and crude polearms. The common men and women of C Street filed down from stoop and ladder and stairwell, filling out the back - all races and creeds, all gangs and sects, a silent alliance carried in respectful nods where any other day or night there would be the flash of blades, the loud cough of a muffled gun, and more blood yet spilled on the street.

From the east, where now they could see the army marching towards them, a warm wind blew that tasted of sand, and the light of the dawning sun. Yet the wind stopped at the 1300s on C Street, and were thrown back. A dark bank of cloud, high and grey, pushed forward. There were houses on that block that every child and mother on C Street knew by name and legend, old temples backed by small iron-gated cemeteries, stones lost in the tall grass that no one ever mowed, witch trees where the sound of old nooses still creaked on certain nights. Now dark portals opened, and vomited up the horrors of C Street legends - the Bonekeeper, with his sickle of teeth; the Gristleman, leading his white cockroaches on leashes of black silk; old Mother Alice, the sight of whose tall peaked cap was often seen against the moon on nights when children stopped breathing in their cribs, hobbled out, and holding her arm was a mixed-blood Saint, a caramel-colored woman in white with a bloody chin, her train held by the ghosts of the stillborn and aborted, her dress tied about her by a chain of tiny skulls.

They took their place to the left of Morto, for there was no room left on the right. Captain Cauldwell who had faced down the Union at the Black Gulf was there in his old uniform, the black blade Betsy on his shoulder. The Storm Halo was there, lightning crackling about his head, the dark clouds dripping blood onto C Street, as though to wet its appetite. Mhari C. hulked nearby, the hump of her crooked back eight feet in the air; the asphalt of the street seemed to pool and cling to her feet like a lover, her skin was the same color of the granite on the sidewalks, and any who looked would have seen her pale reflection stare out from each window pane. The Hexslinger was astride his horse, and for once had his coat open to display the tin stars that covered his chest like mail. On his left and right the stone lion-dogs of the C Street Library roared silently, flesh flickering in movement like an old camera show.

And from the shadows of the alleys, the rats watched. The natives of C Street knew to keep well clear.

The rumble grew, until all in the front row could see it, the short-barreled tank with the high treads in the lead, behind which they could see a wall of marching men, hear the lows of elephants and stranger beasts. At the first stoop in the Zero-Block, the bigger members of the Zero Kids started swinging their chains, the smaller kids with the razors pushed up close against the door. They were street kids, and they guarded their stoop. It was all they had.

The tank's turret swiveled, the short barrel bobbing up and down as it took its range on the Zeroes.

With a hiss of air and a squeal of metal and a thump of pistons and an unholy scream, Morto charged. The Hexslinger and the lion-dogs took off close behind, the Bonekeeper keeping pace with easy loping strides. The tank fired, and in a flameless burst the stoop exploded, the stair an instant rubble, the door stove in, the still bodies exploded from within, blood dripping from empty sockets.

The crash of Morto and the tank sent a crack down the middle of the street, as the mechanical man lifted the front of it clear off the ground the treads angrily chewed up the asphalt. Men and women of C Street could remember when Arturo Romero had bled to death on that very spot, after he had strangled his last victim; lightning and darkness cracked from the Hexslinger's pistol as the support crew came up to assist, and each flash found its mark. Bloody teeth sliced through cloth and flesh as the Bonekeeper began his bloodiest harvest, every C Street child's nightmare made flesh.

With a whine of exertion, Morto stretched his arms to their fullest extant, ripping the treads off the tank, which fell down on its side, a broken toy of war, smoke billowing from engines, axles spinning uselessly. As a mob, C Street moved forward, as the invaders marched on. The soldiers in their grey and white and black urban camouflaged fingered gun and rifle and halberd, and knew what every C Street native had already vowed in their heart.

They would pay for every fucking inch.

###

Bastard

Bastard
by
Bobby Derie

The LT hit the button and a shapely butt filled the screen, red lace stretched tight but not hiding the little tent at the bottom. The lights were down and there wasn't even a snigger as the lieutenant swiftly clicked through the images. Typical webcam stuff; by three shots in the panties were off and by ten he was exploring his internal anatomy. At fifteen a strange hand and knife entered the screen. Sixteen through sixty were bloody, and one of the interns wandered off to be sick. By eighty-nine you could glimpse bits of hip bones, and a couple of the detectives had left the room too. By one hundred and fifteen, the images looked like an alien landscape, all traces of the human form erased except for a mashed cauldron of blood and shit and shredded meat.

"Jack, I want you to take this one." The LT said.

"Any ID on the victim?"

"No," she frowned, "total John Doe. Not even a face on the images, no missing persons match what little we can see. We got this off the internet, some sick fucks passing it around reddit. Curtis found it before it made the news; you know how Vice likes the weird shit."

Detective Jack Bastard nodded, red light bouncing off the screen and giving his face a Satanic glow.

"Okay," he said, "I know somebody."

*

Maria Velhellena was a forensic proctologist. She could be, as far as Jack knew, the only forensic proctologist in the world. They'd met during another murder investigation, one where she had been the suspect, at least for a short time. Jack didn't like to think about that case either, but "the Impaler" had made his reputation, and Maria owed Jack her life...but not much else.

He was surprised to find her walking, albeit with the aid of crutches.

"Jack!" she brightened up, clicking across the floor, legs almost dragging behind her. He stooped down to give her a carefully-balanced hug; it felt like he was being squeezed by a gorilla. "It's been so long! What brings you here?"

"A bad one, Em," he said, as they made their way over to her desk; instead of a chair she had a kind of cradle to lay down in, "worst one in a while. I need to identify a John Doe."

The images were in the cloud, hosted behind a police firewall; he had to plug in a little reader and scan the microchip in his badge so she could read it. The slideshow played, and her eyes went from bemused to detached professionalism in seconds. Jack let it play through, without interruptions.

"It's too bad," she said, short fingernails scratching just above her knee, "he had a nice ass."

*

Jack's phone woke him from a nightmare, uncomfortably hard and hoping that was autonomic; the details were fleeting, but he distinctly remembered it being a bit like shitting Excalibur only backwards. One drowsy hand, acting on automatic, grabbed the glowing screen and brought it near his face.

"Bastard."

"Jack? I have something." Maria said.

Gentle snores came from across the hall. John rolled out of bed, and tiptoed to his bedroom door and closed it as quietly as he could.

"Listening."

"I did a three-dimensional reconstruction of his anus, but it isn't in the database." Jack reached instinctively for the flask of emergency whiskey that was no longer on his bedside table. He hadn't known there was a database, or who kept it. He remembered his last visit to the proctologist - they'd offered him a drone-probe, but somehow that was worse than a human touch - and wondered if pictures of his own ring-piece were stored somewhere for medical students and perverts to check for polyps. "However, there are characteristic scars of prolapse correction surgery."

"Prolapse," Jack said. "So he's been around a bit, maybe a pro?"

"I can't comment," she said, and by the tone of her voice Jack knew he'd done something wrong. He wondered what you gave to a forensic pathologist by way of apology for a social fuckup. Visions of chocolate cream-filled dildos filled his head, and Jack knew it was way too early in the AM to be thinking of that shit. "What I can tell you is that there is only one licensed physician in the city for performing such procedures."

He asked for the name, and she gave it. Jack swallowed and thanked her, then hung up. He didn't go back to sleep.

*

Doctor Friendly had no criminal record; his few run-ins with the police had been related to his patients, and he had been polite and helpful and kept his lawyer in the room at all times. He had a private practice, and took any insurance; he was one of the few docs that treated the city's prostitutes, of any gender, and did it without judgment, insisting everyone had the right to basic dignity and fair medical treatment.

Jack ambushed him as he came in to work. Friendly didn't even blink; he had his lawyer on speed dial, and pressed the button even as he politely asked if he were under arrest. Jack knew the rest was a dance, familiar from a million cop shows and courtroom dramas. Subpoenas for patient records, interviews with nurses and patients, the dry rigmarole of building a case, and he didn't even have a body yet. He hoped to hell he was wrong; he liked Friendly. Half the whores in this city owed him money and favors that he'd never call in.

The detective cued up slide 8 on his phone and flashed it at him.

"Doctor, do you recognize this ass?"

Something like shock went through Friendly's face. His eye twitched. His lawyer's Cadillac zoomed into the parking lot.

"Yes, detective," he said, voice cracking, "that's my son. Have they found him yet?"

Jack almost hugged him.

*

The case got weirder. Jack's cases tended to. The boy had been on and off the street since his teens, came back when he was too hurt or too strung out to sell himself; his dad would patch him up and get him clean and all would be fine for a few weeks and he'd start staying out late at night, then abruptly disappear again. Friendly's eyes were sad when he talked about it, and Jack felt there was more there than needed to be in a police report.

Word spread among the workers; Jack nearly tripped over himself following the leads. They all liked Friendly. More than a few knew the boy, looked after him, but he was part of a bad crowd. Movie types with too much money and a hankering for underwear models and PCP. Vice started following Jack like hound dogs, arresting his suspects until the LT threatened very specific parts of their anatomy.

The end of the mystery wasn't terribly weird, though. It was just sad and squalid and human, an obsessive customer that thought he was a boyfriend. Lust mistaken for love, gone over into madness. Jack had been half afraid he'd find the bastard pants-down, bent over the ruined shell of a corpse, but when they broke down the door they found him on the couch, overdosed on sleeping pills.

Jack stood back as the technicians did their thing with the scene, knowing he wasn't the only one who wished they could just burn the apartment down and forget it. The LT gave him the nod that meant the case was closed, save the paperwork. Friendly would get what was left of his boy; Jack still needed to find a way to make it up to Maria for whatever he'd said.

His phone rang; he brought it to his face.

"Bastard."

###



The Last Witch in Texas

The Last Witch in Texas
by
Bobby Derie

"I might also point out that no one has ever been hanged in Texas for a witch," I read aloud. The room was quiet and the light was good, so for the past week I had taken to working on my latest project - an anthology of sorts built around snippets of stories that Robert E. Howard had woven throughout his collected letters, tales of bloodshed, war, and frontier life where lawman and outlaw alike were treated with somber respect for their grisly skills. For the last four nights I had been hard at it, between the occasional bock beer, and had built up a goodly collection of quotations, which I had the habit of reading aloud to myself - as I just had.

"Never? Don't be absurd."

The voice surprised me and I looked up to see the only other man in this part of the club, an older gentleman who affected a thin mustache long gone to grey, a string tie with a brass clip of Indian design, and was dressed in a dark lightweight suit that could have been purchased yesterday or a hundred years ago; the illusion was heightened by the fact that while his right hand held a tall McGinty glass, his left held a Stetson Boss-of-the-Plains of an ancient and rugged make. Yet for all his grey hairs his hand did not shake when he held his drink, and he paused a moment for me to nod before joining me at the table.

"It was one of the more curious byblows of the massacre at Fort Parker," he began without preamble. "Her name, as I recall, was Frost, the wife of Samuel Frost, who was killed when the Comanche took the fort. No one alive today knows her people, or where she came from, though it is not unlikely she fled some unpleasantness back east, as was true for many of the pioneers. Her skills, too, are a matter of some debate among those few that listened to the old men and women, and they often having heard it whispered from their parents. They say she had a familiar in the form of a black cat, who would come up to newborns as they slept and steal their breath to bring back to her; others say she herself could become a black hill-panther, and stalked the night, bringing back scalps for her husband to claim the reward. But those came later. At the time the Comanche struck, she was known in a small way for being handy with an herb when the need called for it, and to always know the right spot for digging a well, and doctoring sick cattle. Well enough for a woman at that time to be called wise."

He took a sip. A slice of lime surfaced in the dark rum and sank again.

"Now when the Comanche came, there was one of their own miracle-workers with them, and they say he came upon her with a quickness, and though she fought like a cat and scratched and howled, he bound her with a rope of charms woven from the hair of his grandfathers, who were both medicine men in their own right, and dragged her out of there cursing a fit. No white man or woman saw her alive for six years after that, and she was given up for dead - the Parker and Plummer narratives don't mention a word of her, nor was any ransom ever asked for - but of course she wasn't dead. We here today, sitting at this warm table, probably cannot imagine what went on between that white witch and red witch-man; possibly he wanted to learn her magic, or to have another wife, or maybe he just wished to neutralize her before the full Comanche assault. We will never know. But there are stories - aren't there always? In the Starland mountains, they say, they would see a red man lead a black catamount around on a hair rope, and children disappeared from frontier houses where they slept in their parents' arms without either waking, and graves were disturbed."

"Now one day, six years after the massacre, a band of Comanche came to the missions in San Antonio - they had converted to Christianity, and claimed they had a witch. Well, it was Frost, of course. Most of the missions turned them away, and even threatened to call on the authorities, but the native converts were persistent, and at last a small trial was conducted witness by a Father Cortes. What proofs were offered, no one knows; but Cortes was a middle-aged man at the time, with a head of greying black hair, and when the scared Comanche had finished showing and telling him all they had, it fell out in a day, so all that was left was white."

He took another sip, and seemed lost in thought for a moment.

"There were records. One of the Comanche said as much, that Cortes wrote everything down, and sealed it away somewhere. You can't stop the Church from doing that kind of thing. But I've never seen or heard of a copy of it. I'd like if there was a transcript of what was said. You can imagine, I think, what horrors a Franciscan monk might relate to find himself face-to-face with a real witch, a horror straight from the Old Testament, a bit of Salem madness in the heart of frontier Texas! Yet also one that had lived rough for six years among the Comanche, and you can imagine the demands a white woman, and a slave at that, might have in that society. Some say she was even pregnant with a bastard child. Well, it wouldn't be the first in Texas. There was nothing to it but that she hang. It's what they did with witches. And they did - with the same rope that medicine-man had bound her with six years ago."

"The tree is gone now; it was a live-oak some fifteen miles outside of Antonio, where no-one was like to disturb a quiet execution," he smiled at that, showing silver among his teeth, "gone now, of course. Not even a stump. Her legend grew after that, of course. There's a stretch of road outside San Antonio with a peculiar twist on the myth of La Llorona - a white woman with a rope tied about her neck, trailing behind her. Whatever charms were bound in it, she can't escape it, even in death. And that is all there is to tell of the last witch in Texas, and how she was hanged."

###

London Remains

London Remains
by
Bobby Derie

"There will come a day," she wheezed, "when the shepherds graze their flocks on the great mound next to the dry riverbed, whose name they don't remember."

Blood pooled beneath her, running down the gutter in a stream. One hand scrambled at a wall; one arm hung limp at her side, shredded meat poking through her sleeve.

"Even the accents will change. All the streets and towers will be long torn down and buried and gone."

She pulled himself to a standing position. Her only audience lay on his back like a broken spider on the cracked asphalt, mouth working silently, legs a dead weight as he tried to pull himself along the ground.

Walking past him, she knelt down and picked up a half-brick from the rubbish strewn alley. Still on her knees she made a three-legged crab-walk toward the broken man, the brick in her hand chiming against the road in easy rhythm. Her breath came in ragged gasps.

"Yet for now, for today, and for tomorrow," she knelt over him, his weak hands pawing at her clothes, as she raised the brick above her head.

"London remains."

###