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Shon:gili/Carl stretched and yawned. He lay across the
carcass of a deer that most of the meat was stripped from. An hour ago, he was
burning and whimpering in the pain of change with the asgina shon:gili
whispering laughter, mocking him.
Thee art a fool, slave.
The shon:gili ignored the demon, but that part that was still
Carl bristled at being called a fool and snapped his jaws at being referred to
as a slave.
Hell awaits thee, Carl.
The demon snarled a laugh. Kill thy
stepson else shall thee burn again, forever in torment.
Carl shrank away into the shon:gili’s mind and the animal
stood on hind legs to smell the air. It was warmer here, wetter than the Pocono
highlands. In the Poconos there was the smell of ice and snow and wood smoke.
Here, anything that burned was used as fuel, even bones. But here was prey, as
well.
The country was rough, broken with few roads and those worn
down to rough cart tracks. In the distance he could hear the Delaware River. The
asgina whispered it was the Great Black River, and Carl recognized it as that.
Here and there a rotting chunk of cement thrust up from the
leaf litter. The asgina muttered about the homes that once filled the land.
First came the Natives who only passed through, doing so hurriedly because this
was an unclean place of spirits and snakes. Then came the whites, first filling
the lands to the east, the softer, easier land. Whites hurried through here, as
well, heading west to the wide valleys, first, then the coal fields. At last the
Natives came because they had no where else to go. Then the whites forced them
from even this purgatory of swamps.
The land filled with houses, then condominiums, then the
cities brought in hordes.
Shortly after the beginning of the Twenty-First century, the
plagues came and filled the homes with dead. It was easy then to hunt and prey
on survivors. Then the burners came, and fire swept through the hills and
valleys, wiping out what little remained.
A scent of copper clung here and there. A few shards of glass
from crack vials and plastic that managed to resist the bacteria that fed on
things made of oil. The soil was acid, and nothing lived forever.
Stomach so filled with venison the belly sagged to the
ground, the shon:gili trotted south with the river as its guide. To the east the
moon was bright and filled with laughter. The shon:gili looked at it when Carl
noted it, then looked away. It was a part of the night as much as the shadows it
created, and to the shon:gili, no more substantial.
South lay Philadelphia, and for both, freedom.
It was past two in the morning. Agent Creel was dead asleep,
but no longer wheezing, and Mike was tired of waiting for the girl, Sue. When he
walked to the bar, he went to the end on the right, away from the kitchen area.
A thin smile touched his lips. Benny was hiding from him. The
kid had to be. And when the damned kid left, Mike would follow, if Sue didn’t
come in by then. Some things are more important than others were, and the brat
would keep.
The tall Hispanic that tended bar came to sweep dirty glasses
into a dishpan.
“You need another un?”
“Yeah, I guess.” Mike gave him a happy grin just to show
the whiskey already consumed. “My partner done passed out on me.”
Filling clean glasses, the man held up a small red bottle of
pepper oil.
“Hm?” Mike swayed a little. “Yeah. Hey, you know a girl
here name o’ Sue? Or is it Hannah?" At that point he wasn’t quite
certain of it, either.
A cold look came over the brown features.
Setting the drinks on the bar, the man said, "Maybe.
Why?”
“Whoa, partner!” Mike held up a hand. Something was
wedged in it. He peered at his hand and found the hideout gun. That went back in
his pocket. “Sorry,” he said, but cold metal touched the back of his neck.
“Hey, man,” the guard muttered. “Don’t make me do it.
OK?”
“It’s cool, Jason,” the Hispanic said. “He wanted to
know about Sue.”
The shotgun slid away, and Mike frowned. Then he remembered
something important.
“Sue? Where is she? I was told she always comes in her.
Here! Comes in here.” He peered around the place and found himself to be the
object of a lot of eyes.
Mike reached in his pocket again and with an exaggerated care
withdrew twenty credits for the drinks. He slapped it on the table and almost
lost his head in the bargain, but the Hispanic shouted at the guard.
“Damn it,” the guard cried. “I am doin’ me be-damned
job, ain’t I? A mon pays an honest wage; he gets an honest night from me.”
Holding onto the glasses, Mike watched where his feet went
and wandered back to the booth and a snoring Creel.
He sat them down and pushed back Creel’s head by holding
his nose. The toddy went down without a hitch and the glass back to the table.
Mike thumped down and started to slide out but caught himself in time. Pulling
Mike back into his seat, the guard was grinning.
“Next time, the rum be drinkin’.”
Mike snorted in contempt. “Shoo . . . I ain’t drunk.”
“Then you does a mighty fine imitation o’ it, mon.”
Jason sat some dits on the table. The plastic coins rattled. “Here. You done
leave you’ change on the bar. Folks, they don’t steal from each other, but
they poor enough the sin it tempts them.”
With a broad gesture, Mike said, “Sin? Bah. You talk like
my dear ol’ Mama. Always praying for me and getting’ me in trouble."
Glaring at Jason he muttered something uncouth. “Ain’t no such thing as
sin.”
“Mon does ye wrong, that’s sinnin’ against ye, an’ my
old Bible, it says such.”
Mike opened his mouth to berate the man as uneducated and a
buffoon, then remembered one sin he was in need of.
“Hey, where’s that babe, Hannah?" He frowned. “I
mean Sue something.”
“Sue be sickly,” the guard said. "Her papa near kilt
her an’ her new man done near kilt that evil old shit-for-brains.”
Sick? “But I need her,” Mike protested.
©2004 StoriesByEmail.com
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