August W. Stubbes

Her goats brayed, fleeing from the front gate. A cluster of individuals clad in black stood there, broken, white ourboroses shining on their featureless, black masks. The tallest stepped through the gate, coat swishing over the grass. They adjusted their gloves.

“Can’t you see I’m sulking, krasotki? Go away.” Kalina waved them off with her free hand, aggressively sipping tea.

The leader towered over the witch, continuing to adjust their gloves, before motioning with two fingers towards the cabin. Several of their subordinates kicked through the door, rendering it to splinters.

“What the Hell are you doing?!” She tossed her tea to the ground, jumping up to her feet. She grabbed the tall figure’s left arm, a power crumpling them to their knees. Kalina’s features pulsed, wrinkles appearing and disappearing. “I’d prefer if you were asleep,” she grunted, “hurts less that way.” The remaining subordinates outside aimed black-metal pistols at the witch, stopped at the motioning of their leader’s gloved hand. They slipped the leather glove off, their right hand pulsing with the witch’s features. They pressed their palm to the witch’s forehead, gripping her face.

“What’re yo—” She began to shriek.

The figure pushed to their full height, lifting the witch into the air, her feet kicking spasmodically. The subordinates tensed, stepping back half-a-pace. Kalina shriveled and dried, crumbling to an untidy pile of bones and cloth, her skull still in the leader’s bare hand, which was smooth once again.

Several subordinate soldiers filed out of the cabin doorway, carrying with them odd artifacts and many books. The leader placed Kalina’s skull on one of the book stacks, her sockets staring emptily, a glowing rune on her forehead, and replaced their glove with a snap. They brushed a skeletal limb from their arm, letting it clatter against the ground. Flicking their fingers around the area, they pushed through the fence, goats and soldiers cowering in their wake. They whipped their head around, the broken ouroboros flashing with intensity, spiralling their fingers in the same motion, once again. Their subordinates scrambled.

Sitting up, he felt heavy and slow, and a thin pain pulsed above his right kidney. Mary was lying beside him. He stifled a gasp, her face was furrowed with deep wrinkles, some lanced through her dimples, turning them into chasms, and her hair was a deep gray, strands of white wisping through. He looked at his hands, turning them over. They were heavily veined and twig thin. The hands of the elderly. Shakingly, he pushed himself up into a standing position. He and Mary both wore nightshirts that were handsewn with obvious skill. The journal rested on the stump table ahead of him, open to a complex diagram covered in odd, cryptic symbols. Frank stooped, haltingly lifting Mary into a standing position, draping her limp arm around his shoulder. Her eyelids fluttered. She was fighting, trying to wake up. She always had a hard time falling asleep. He dragged them toward the table, quietly closing the journal, tucking it under his arm, edging toward the door. Kalina continued mixing something at the counter, a pestle clinking in a mortar. He pushed his way outside, midday sun beaming through the trees above. He didn’t realize how much he missed the greens and browns of real nature.

“How did you wake up?” Frank jumped, almost losing Mary to the yard. Kalina sat on a little stump beside the door. She appeared to have aged backwards, with few to no wrinkles, her brown hair shining in the sun, her eyes filled with a confused fury. She stood and began to chant in an unknown tongue, hair gathering in a storm.

Mary’s eyes flickered open, “What’s—” Frank pulled Mary into a run.

“No you—Damn bird!” A little, brown crow swooped down, tearing at the witch’s head, clawing at her rapidly graying hair and wrinkling face.

A broken branch. A flower. Words in an unknown language scratched into a tree. A skeleton. That skeleton, unlike the other things, wasn’t mirrored through the forest. He didn’t want to think about how long they’d been sitting there, jaw slightly agape, but he couldn’t ignore the starched white color of the bones and the rotting rattiness of their clothes.

He pulled his eyes away, feeling the empty, lifeless sockets on his back. Occasionally, he glimpsed an immense tree through the canopy, stretching high above everything. Perhaps that’s where the bird was taking him. It’s not like there was anything else to walk to.

The smoke-bird stopped, hopping off a silver branch onto the purple grass. It pecked a spot on the ground, “Craw.” It pecked again.

“Okay, okay.” He stepped into the spot, “Why do you even want—” A screaming Mary plummeted through the canopy, crushing Frank underneath herself. Purple leaves stuck out of her hair, her amber eyes wide in terror.

Another vague smoke-bird glided down to the ground, merging with the prior, coalescing into a solid, brown crow with piercingly pale eyes. It tilted its head at the pile.

“Mary…”

“Frank! Oh, you’re okay, I was so worried, I thought I’d never see you again, and you’re a child again too, what kind of place is this, I—”

“Mary…”

“Yes, Frank?”

“Please get off me.”

“I’m so sorry!” She pulled him up, letting him re-inflate his lungs. She plucked purple grass blades from his face.

“What was the big idea?!” She glowered at the crow, “You could’ve killed us!”

“You can’t die.” In less than a blink, the little, brown crow was a girl of indeterminate age. Instead of hair, she had long, brown feathers that draped around her; a corvine cloak that tickled the ground. Her fingers and toes ended in talons. She wore gray furs and leathers. Her face had the timeless look of a fairy painting. “Until the witch kills you.” Her head cocked, her pale eyes trained on them. She looked familiar.

Mary stumbled backwards into Frank.

“You must awake.”

“How?” Frank clutched Mary’s shoulders, steadying her mid-trip.

The crow-girl cocked her head to the other side, “Sleep.” She said it as if it was the most obvious course of action.

“What? It’s too bright to do that here. And I’ve never felt more awake in my entire life.”

Mary nodded, “Me neither.”

“Okay—” she breathed, startling herself. She gripped the tree more firmly. Her voice sounded so young, maybe nine or ten.

She clung there for a while, she had no idea how long, trying and failing to steady her breath.

“Craw!”

She tensed.

“Craw!” Again.

Taking a dry swallow, she haltingly opened an eye. She found a blurry, vaguely bird-shaped puff of smoke, watching her with pale eyes. It was… Mary shook her head, looking at it with both eyes. It was sitting on the empty space, as if it were solid.

“Craw.” it beckoned.

She peeled herself off of the trunk, red outlines of bark on her face and hands. She took a halting breath, keeping her eyes firmly on the sky above and not the purple canopy below. She reached her foot out, stepping out onto nothing. Her stomach tilted and her vision shifted. Swallowing hard against the threatening bile, she held her gaze on the bird-cloud, following it out across the nothingness. To her surprise, the emptiness felt cool and solid, like smooth marble, under her feet.

 the dancing light. The bark was rough through his shirt. He pulled up a handful of deep, violet grass blades, letting them fall between his fingers. His hand was so small. A child’s hand. He rotated his palms, patted his face. It was smooth and soft, no evidence of a beard that had once been there or would have ever been there.

“How odd.” His voice was high and light, emphasizing his words with the squeak of a prepubescent. “Wow,” the echo bounced from silver trunk to silver trunk, “I think I’m nine again.”

He lightly jumped to his feet, “Now where exactly am I?” The forest echoed with silence as of a cemetery at night. The purples and silvers were terribly bright and made everything feel as if it were a fairy tale. He ventured to the next tree, not even the grass underfoot made rustling sounds. The only sounds were of him. His breathing. Clothes rubbing against his skin. His heart beating. The tree appeared practically identical to the one he woke against. He scratched his chin, the cacophony of fingernails to skin rippling between the trees. He slipped his little fingers around a loose piece of bark. Pressing his shoe against a protruding, silver root, he pulled at the bark with all the might his young muscles could muster, “I could get this off if I was an adult again—oof!” He toppled backwards, rolling head over feet.

He leapt up, triumphantly brandishing the ragged silver bark. Underneath, the raw wood was a garish crimson; a gash. He ran to the next tree and sure enough, it also had a bloody wound. “Thought so.” He tossed the bark behind him, it multiplied, resting at the bases of the surrounding trees. He dropped into a seated position, peeking around the trunk at the infinite stretches of mirror trees. His brow furrowed as he rested his head atop his knees, “How the Hell do I get out of here?” It was odd to hear his own voice so young again.

“Craw!”

Frank glanced up at the boughs where a vaguely bird shaped puff of brown smoke sat, little white pinpricks appraised him.

“Craw!” It extended smoky wings and hopped to the next tree, “Craw!”

 built of old stone and weathered wood. Twig fences formed a vague half-circle on the front wall. A conservative herd of three goats ambled absently about the yard, chewing on everything they could, grass, flowers, fencing, even the old stones of the cabin’s foundation. Light smoke drifted from two chimneys, one sitting crookedly on the roof of the cabin, the second jutting from out the back of a little clay oven that stood a few feet from the front door. The light smoke shown golden in the warm light of dawn. The air smelt of apple pie and something savory underneath. It looked as though it was a scene taken directly from an illustrated Brothers Grimm.

Frank and Mary couldn’t stop their mouths from watering, their stomachs from growling, nor their feet from moving. Everything felt foggy. Kalina smiled all too sweetly, the corners of her eyes crinkling. A little brown crow sat atop the peak of the cabin, screaming its little head off, only gaining a quick, narrow glance from Kalina. It was as if the two couldn’t process anything outside of their feet moving toward the front door. A goat tore a piece of Frank’s pant leg, chewing boredly. Their eyes drooped drowsily, their bodies dragged lightly behind the woman. She pushed inside, the wooden door creaked. There were an unnecessary number of blankets and cushions clustered on the floor. They looked used and well-slept in.

Kalina placed a tin plate of apple pie in front of each of them, on a little stump of a table. A low flame curled from the fireplace, nearly done with its meal of twigs. “Oh, one moment, krasotki. The fire’s almost out. Enjoy the pie!” She clasped her hands together. Her posture seemed a bit straighter than it did naught but several minutes ago and her hair had gained some brown streaks. The door clattered behind her. Frank sunk into his pie, the apples pooling around his face, sticking into his beard, like flies in amber.

“Frank?” Mary blinked heavily, shaking his arm. She felt as though her bones were replaced with lead. “Hey—” she yawned, crumpling off of the chair softly into the furs, “What’s...?”

Kalina pushed through the door, skirting the two, tossing a bundle of twigs into the little fireplace, the flames jumping hungrily. “Get some rest, little one.” Her voice was thick as honey. Her wrinkles were now shallower and her hair had more brown than gray.

 looming figures barely visible through the gray. Frank rummaged through the truck’s bed, his beard still speckled with soot, despite his efforts. He shifted around the assortment of loose boxes, random clothes, freshly bought junk, and what appeared to be a complete, intact chicken skeleton, its eyeless sockets watched him balefully. He shook his head, how did they accrue this much garbage in such a short amount of time. It only had crates and jugs of moonshine before. He felt his chest clench at the thought of those old moonshiners. Most of them now…

Mary coughed and spat through the engine smoke, her hangover forgotten as soon as her hands became busy with machinery, “Anything at all?”

“Not even a wrench.” He called back, rubbing his face, smearing some of the left over soot into a smeary raccoon mask, “Unless you need a chicken ribcage.”

She seemed to seriously ponder this for a moment, scratching black lines onto her skin. Shaking her head, “It’d snap before I could do anything useful.”

“Did you find the problem, at least?” He looked like a shoddy thief with his soot mask, stealing ill-fitting pinstripe clothing.

“Yeah,” the hood slammed down and clicked into place, a thin line of smoke still oozed out, “the engine is full of bullet holes. Hell, everything that’d make this thing run is full of bullet holes. I’m surprised we got anywhere at all.” She wiped her hands on the navy vest, already stained beyond repair, her face still coated in a thin, gritty layer of soot. “Did you find anything else we could use?” She eyed the chicken skeleton, perched atop a peak of a clothing mountain, all of which were new, obviously bought with the mobsters’ money.

“At least a change of clothes, sadly no food. Not even alcohol. Also, an oddly high number of furniture limbs?” He picked up the claw-footed leg of some sort of study chair, perhaps a loveseat.

Mary’s eyebrows scrunched, unearthing white lines in the soot. “Is that all?”

“I think—Hey, wait a minute.” A thumb-sized notch caught his eye. It was far too worn to have been a gunshot, as the fresh bullet holes were torn and splintered. He placed his thumb in the board and pulled upward. It gave easily and revealed a small space within the bed, about the size of a little breadbox.

He pulled out a wad of bills, the face of William McKinley staring sternly back at him. He handed Mary the wad, plunging his arm searchingly into the hole. She flipped through the money, her eyes wide and jaw slack.

“How—How many are there?”

He fished out two more wads of similar size, all with McKinley’s face on them, and nothing else except a single dollar. “That’s a lot of money.” He breathed.

“An understatement.” She rested the wads on the clothing pile, to be guarded by the skeletal poultry.

“With this we could book anything we needed to get to Washington!” Frank paced excitedly, combing his fingers through his beard, streaking the soot, changing the blond to more of a dirty straw.

Mary quashed her excitement, “It’s not ours, Hell, it wasn’t really theirs. It probably wasn’t even the mobsters’ to begin with. Can we—Should we even use it?”

He scratched his beard, relaxing his brow, “I—”

“Oh, did your truck break down, krasotki?” A woman, somewhere between her late fifties, early seventies, greeted them through the gray mist. Clad in a patchwork of furs, with odd bits of bone and jewelry dangling from her clothes and hair, a gnarled hand lifted in greeting. The bulk of her furs emphasized the hunching of her back, making her look like a bear or a troll, in silhouette. Her eyes were a strikingly bright and young blue, beaming in a very amiable way.

Mary stuffed the money into her shirt, “How long have you been there?”

“Oh please,” she gestured with gnarled fingers, “I don’t need money, krasota.” Her weight shifted between her feet, the bulk of her furs swaying, her smile sugary in its sweetness, “I’m Kalina, do you two like pie?”

 the roiling ball, she shifted in her seat, resting her head against something cool and smooth. The world shifted, bouncing her head off the glass with a head-splitting clatter. Peeling open her bloodshot eyes, she blinked painfully. She pressed her palms over her temples, only barely staving off the thrumming inside her skull. Trees zipped by the windows, blurred brown and green lines. Wind whistled through a bullet hole in the windshield, spiderweb cracks sprawling out along the glass, ruffling a few hairs of Frank’s beard. He squinted at the dirt track, eye bags a shade grayer than usual.

Frank’s grass-green eyes momentarily glanced up and down at Mary, then back to the track, “How’re you feeling?”

Mary stretched her back, her popping spine audible, her body felt like a boat about to capsize in a sea of molasses and her skull was undergoing a storm of stones that just happened to be raining on a procession of tin roofs, “Fantastic.” The truck hit another fallen branch and she turned a shade of green.

“Do we need to stop?”

Mary swallowed, hiccuping roughly, “No, that’s fine.”

Frank tapped the wheel with his finger, “How much do you remember?”

“That I’ll never drink again. That we were getting shot at. That… a lot of people... died.” She choked the last word out, it tasted sour as bile.

Silence ruled the truck for a time, save for the rumbling of the wheels beneath them, and the incessant whistling from the windshield. Mary’s headed pounded in time with the wheels.

Frank opened his mouth, but the truck interrupted him with a deathwale of sputtering, coughing, popping, and worrying grinding sounds. Black, acrid smoke leaked from under the hood, billowing through the bullet hole, filling the cabin. A loud, metallic snapping sound signaled the halting of the truck on its own, as if in protest of its new driver. They coughed and wheezed, pushing out of the doors into the fresh, pre-dawn air. The headlights licked the track ahead of them.

Frank swore, kicking the wheel. The truck puffed smoke in his face, in retaliation, coating him with black soot. He coughed.

 some sort of whale.

Wheels rumbled on dusty potholes. Twin beams flashed over the two before coming to a rest on the charred doors of the barn. Mary sat up, rubbing at her eyes. The side of the moonshiners’ rusty, old truck greeted her. Mary nudged Frank awake, his eyes green, groggy pools.

“Get in lovebirds, sorry we took so long, we had a lotta errands.” John grinned sloppily from the driver’s seat, Tom hiccuped in the passenger, his hat covering red cheeks, and his body slouched into a position only alcohol or contortionism would allow. “How’d paying off your debts go?”

Frank stood, helping Mary up. They dusted themselves off, “Fine, I think? They didn’t shoot us.” He schlepped the bag over, passing it through the window.

John’s arm wrenched, “What’s in ‘ere, lead?” He unclasped the bag, peering inside its leather innards. He reached an arm into the maw, stirring the contents. He became still and silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Did they… say anything when paying for the ‘shine?”

They glanced at each other. Mary shrugged and Frank said, “They said it was the ‘usual.’ Why? Is it not enough?” He swallowed.

“This is about five times the amount we’d get for a load that size!” He held up fistfuls of wrapped bills, gesticulating with every word, “You’ve paid off your debt and then some. Hell, you could take this rickety piece of junk and you still wouldn’t owe me anything!” He punched the roof of the cabin, causing Frank and Mary to flinch. “Now, get in! We’ve gotta celebrate!” He dropped the bag into Tom’s lap, pressing out a terribly painful sounding hiccup and a few dry curses, before he settled back into his sleeping position, that was surely bad for his spine.

The truck trundled down the track, back onto the road. “Could we actually take the truck?” Mary called over the road.

“No.”

The fire crackled as jovially as the moonshiners drank. Clear alcohol dribbled through their beards, as they guffawed and made crude jokes, slapping each others backs. Frank and Mary sat huddled together in front of the flames, tin plates resting in their laps, spoons swimming in the shallow red remains of their stew. Tom drunkenly played dominoes with some of the other moonshiners. He was too inebriated to notice that his dots didn’t match or add up to what he thought they were, so he was winning many games without any real reason. Luckily his fellows were just about as drunk. A little brown crow took the opportunity to steal little bits of their stew, its pale eyes glinting against the fire, as it hopped from plate to plate, eating its fill.

John hobbled up to them, giving them both hearty backslaps, nearly knocking them into the fire. “Lighten up, young’uns―hic―this is a celebration!” He leaned in close, his breath could’ve gotten anyone drunk. He pushed a clear bottle into each of their hands, the liquor sloshing. “Drink up!” He sat heavily in front of them, holding out his bottle in an anticipated toast. The fire licked the back of his shirt, eating stray strings.

They exchanged glances before uncorking their bottles, the fumes somehow stronger than John’s breath. Hesitantly, they clinked the bottles against his and watched as the entire volume of the bottle funneled slowly down into his mouth.

Frank took the first sip. It burned his throat and tickled the back of his eyes. He gave the bottle a surprised smile and partook in more of it. Mary glanced between her bottle, Frank, and John, who continued to funnel. She glanced through the liquid, flickering orange in the firelight. Taking a steadying bread, she took a moderately sized sip. It burned down her throat and up her nose, lighting her intestines on fire. Her head felt warm and light, and kind of fuzzy. The camp buckled and swam around her. She felt terribly giddy; everything was hilarious. She fell back off the crate, hiccoughing violently.

John burst into deep guffaws, as Frank went to see if she was alright, “We got ourselves a lightweight!” The whole camp burst into slurred laughter, filling the camp with noise. Mary laughed between hiccoughs. She didn’t know why people were laughing, but she found having no idea to be just as funny.

A crack rang through the forest, cutting through the noise like a knife through cheesecloth. Silence reigned. One of the moonshiners slumped to the ground, a dark circle pooling under him. He crumpled almost in slow motion. They became drunk on shock and confusion, as well on moonshine. Mary giggled and hiccoughed quietly, fear swimming in with her floating giddiness.

“Ge’dow―” Another crack and another fallen moonshiner.

The camp was inundated with cacophony. They leapt for rifles, cover, moonshine, and peered into the woods.

After what felt like centuries of silence, a voice rang out through the clearing, drunken moonshiners sloppily twisted their rifles towards it. “Slappy went blind from your tainted ‘shine y’bastards!” Frank swore it sounded like the egg-shaped man. A bottled arced through the air, a burning cloth hanging from its mouth.

Moonshiners scattered. The still was washed in flames and explosions decimated its shack. The clearing was peppered with hot metal, glass, and ravaged with raining fire. Nearby tents burst into violent flames. Frank hunkered over Mary, little bits of metal and glass pinging off his back, tearing through the navy. He winced. Men clad in dark, expensive looking suits, Stetsons shading their eyes in the firelight, marched into the clearing, tommy guns hefted. Shots from a far off rifle pocked the ground and moonshiners alike.

“―gotta get outa here!” John screamed over the gunfire. He kept low to the ground pulling Frank by the sleeve.

Frank hefted the paralyzed, hiccoughing Mary over his shoulder, following John’s lead toward the empty truck, bullets zipping by, some ripping through the truck’s wooden side, spraying splinters. Both mobsters and moonshiners fell. Some were even in hand to hand combat. John stopped Frank from putting Mary in the truck bed, directing him toward the passenger seat instead.

“I need you to drive son.” He patted him on the shoulder.

“You’re going to be shooting from the back?”

They flinched as a tree burst into flames from a soaring bottle.

“I’m too drunk boy. And I ain’t leaving!”

“What?! You can’t just―”

“Yes I can! You too are too young! Go live!” He shoved Frank into the driver’s seat, “I’m not leaving my brothers behind!”

“Wait―”

Go, damn it!” He aimed a pistol at Frank, gesturing.

 of the sedan, fine shoes crunching sooty dust underfoot. One of them, a stout man, who had the uncanny shape of an egg, lit a cigar, breathing a foul blue ring into the air.

“They late or something?” He puffed.

“That’s not like them.” A man built like a spiralling birch tree said, his face thin as a twig. He gave off an air of superiority that seemed to barely have room in his thin figure.

The charred door creaked open, releasing a very obviously nerve-wracked Frank, ruffling his blond hair. He cleared his throat, very aware of the eyes trained on him, and the discreet peering of a tommy gun from the milk truck. “Good day, gentleman.” He coughed.

“Who the Hell’re you?” Mr. Birch-Tree said casually, as if it were just a friendly tea party. “Haven’t seen you before.”

Frank pulled his mind away from the milk truck driver, nonchalantly hefting his tommy gun. It struck him as a bit surreal to see a man dressed for milk delivery instead stroking the idea of delivering lead. “Well, you see,” he swallowed, “what’s it matter if it’s a different face, if they’re delivering the same product?” He could feel Mary tensing in the dim light of the barn.

She pushed through the door, the flame-rusted hinges squeakily threatening her. Clay jugs and clear bottles sat in their crates, like little monarchs in wooden thrones, illuminated under soot-dancing light.

The stumpy man chewed his cigar, stepping toward the crates. He lifted a jug carefully, as if full of reverence for their spirited majesty. The cork popped and he took an audible, long sniff before setting it back amongst its fellows, with a soft clink, cork replaced. He nodded once to his compatriots.

Mr. Birch-Tree pulled a leather travel bag from the sedan’s trunk, carrying it with very little effort. His slender finger unclasped the bag, letting Frank see the contents. “The usual for this type of load.”

Frank’s throat went dry. “Yes, of course.” He rasped. The bag dropped into his arms, nearly sending him to the ground. This man was much stronger than he appeared. Mary peered into the bag, her tongue shrivelling into a raisin.

The milk truck backed up to the barn. The back doors swung open, releasing two more dubious milkmen. In minutes, they loaded the crates in. The stumpy cigar smoker leered at Frank and Mary. “Hope to do more business with you lads. Real soon.”

Frank and Mary weren’t particularly enthused by the edge inflicted on those two last words. The mobsters left about as swiftly as it took them to load up the milk truck. The sedan and truck kicked up explosions of dust, coating the two, dulling their pinstripes and muddying the navy blue into a sort of tan-purple. As soon as they turned out of sight, Frank sank to the dusty ground. Mary sat beside him, removing her cap, her hair released in a black waterfall.

“My stomach tried to escape a few times.” He said clutching his gut.

She chuckled, “Mine too.” She scratched at her scalp, smoothing out hat tangles, “Did John say when they’d come back?”

He flopped back onto the dust, “Nope don’t think so.” He paused, “We could just take the money.”

She joined him in the dust, amber-hazel staring up into the cloudy blue, “I was thinking about that too. We’d be set for a while… It’d probably do us a lot more harm than good. Plus, you know, it’s stealing.” She flailed her arms in the air for emphasis, “Is stealing mobster money from moonshiners stealing?”

“Yeah probably.” He chuckled. “Hopefully they’ll be back soon.”

“Until then, we’ve got each other.” She sat up, fishing through her vest for the journal, “And this.”

He sat up, with a grunt, giving her a hearty side hug, “That’s enough for me.”

the same as the prior evening’s, and were at least partially rested from a night on thin bed mats, also lent by Mr. Navy-Blue. They kept getting woken up by raucous, drunkards, when they weren’t keeping watch. In case one of the men had funny ideas. They sat jostled in the back of an old pick-up, which was almost identical to the one they were in the bed of almost a week ago, though the paint was non-existent and there was no mud to be had. Just dust. It also seemed older than that cranky farmer’s truck. But not by much. The truck stirred their stew-filled insides, threatening expulsion. Their fellow truck bed passengers clinked around them in their crates, seemingly a single, extra violent bump away from shattering and dousing Frank and Mary in their sharp-scented, very flammable liquid. John sat in the passenger seat, his straw hat replaced with a fine, if worn, looking trilby. He stroked his beard, absently, combing out little tangles. Tom took the role of the driver and had a groggy, gray look about his large countenance. His reddish beard still freckled with liquor. If they hadn’t known he was in the bouts of a hangover, they would’ve attempted dousing him in holy water or fire, as his gray flesh and hazy eyes were too reminiscent of a Dognapian.

Frank pulled at his borrowed collar, swallowing roughly. This was as much caused by nerves, as it was by the press of stiff fabric lent from a thinner man. Mary had the opposite problem, clothes-wise, anyway, her nerves were just as frazzled as her companion’s. Since the moonshiners didn’t sport any female members, or any feminely portioned men, Mary’s options for clothes landed in the same category as Frank’s, as the man they deemed fit for the job as the closest in Frank’s size, was also the smallest member. He was a tad thinner than Frank, but his clothes still were quite baggy for Mary. She had to tie off certain parts, just to keep them from falling off at the drop of a hat. And since she appeared to be a younger boy in the getup, they decided to go all the way, and she tucked her hair up into a spare cap. To the navy-lover’s chagrin, it was his favorite hat.

The trees waned and slowly shifted to lush fields of green, where cattle grazed lazily. The truck took a sharp, bumpy turn off of the main road onto another dirt road, which was more of a track, really. The wheels popped with each little dusty hill. Decaying and decayed fences ringed the overgrown pastures adjacent the track. Frank and Mary half-expected to see the bones of cattle poking up through the gently swaying grasses. A large, black barn hulked ahead of them. It had seen far better days. Though, it was hard to tell how long ago those days were. Whatever color it once had was superimposed by soot ingrained into its very soul. The roof was partially caved in, charred beams jutted brittly into the air, like the ribs of carrion. A little brown crow sat atop the blackened ribs, curiously examining. The truck came to a stop in front of its large doors, sending the two into each other and the cabin of the truck. Mary, underneath Frank, swallowed her stew back down. Frank readjusted his neck.

“Sorry ‘bout that.” Tom grunted.

John leaned against the side of the truck bed, picking his teeth, as Tom unlatched its gate. “Alright young’uns, yer in charge here. That means you gotta get us a good sale and your debt’s as good as done.”

Frank and Mary, at Tom’s motionings, assisted in unloading the cargo from the truck bed. The crates of clay jugs and clear bottles rattled as they went.

“That doesn’t sound too bad…” Frank mused.

“Now, Slappy’s boys’ll be here in, oh…” He glanced up at the Sun, his eyes squinted, “Mmm, an hour or so.” Tom shut the back of the truck, cracking his neck and burping, flecking his beard. John climbed into the passenger door, the engine revving almost without a sputter. “We got errands to do.” The truck sped along down the track, coughing up a cloud of dust, the last crate of glass bottles clinking furiously, “Don’t get shot!”

They watched the dust clouds dissipate into the distance, coughing, dusting themselves off, “Great.”

 Shlappy’sh boysh?” The last half said in a slurred hush.

“Slappy?” Mary muttered in confusion.

“Is that Slappy there?!” He raised his jug threateningly, liquor dribbling onto his pants. Frank raised his arms further into the air than they already were. Less from the drunken man’s motions, and more from the points of his companions’ rifles. A little brown crow watched from the edge of the clearing, its feathers bristling. It was either amused or furious.

“I―”

“Don’t lishen to the liesh!” He hiccuped, burped, and swallowed almost simultaneously. Impressive, baffling, and, frankly, unpleasant to witness.

“Tom!”

The drunken man’s beard quivered, like the drenched fur of a punch-drunk cat. He flinched, nearly losing hold of his jug, sending another splash of clear liquor onto his pants. He hugged it protectively. The stew frothed into the fire, hissing angrily.

“You drunken bastard!” An elderly man appeared from behind the shack, “Enough! They ain’t Slappy’s boys. It’s plain as day.” He examined the men, each withering under his gaze, straw hat crinkling, brow furrowed, “Put yer damn guns away! They look half-starved and like they’ve been chased through a thornbush by the devil!” The men shot from their positions and dashed about the camp, beards on end, except for Tom, who found the inside of his jug, all of a sudden, quite fascinating. John kicked the crate out from under him, “Sober up!”

Tom scampered away like a raccoon with an inner ear infection and its fur on fire. He crashed through a tent and disappeared behind the shack, canvas waving with him.

The elderly man cleared his throat and adjusted his collar, approaching Frank and Mary. “Sorry ‘bout that. Tom’s a good second and a good man, but when he’s drunk, all the screws spill from his nose.” He shook both of their hands vigorously, “I’m John, and you’re?”

“Frank.”

“Mary.”

“Ya got last names?”

“Do you?” Frank’s eyebrow rose.

John eyed him and guffawed, startling them, “Fair enough, son. We’ll get ya some new clothes that’re less…” He tore part of his sleeve, “Holey… and a few bowls’a stew, while we’re at it.” He slapped Frank’s stomach.

“Tha-thank you.” Mary stuttered, putting her hand on Frank’s shoulder, to calm him.

“I don’ like seein’ young folk going hungry.” He scratched his snowy beard, “Though it ain’t free.” He eyed the journal in her arms.

“We’re a bit light on funds, right now.” Mary slipped the journal behind her back.

“I can see that. Hmm, don’t worry, we’re livin’ in hard times, but I gotta different idea for repayment. How’re you two with selling… products?”

Frank swallowed, “…Products?”

“You’ll be great!” He slapped him on the back, “Slappy’s not the worst customer.”

“Who exactly is Slappy?”

“Hmm? Oh, old mobster, bit stout, not a bad businessman. A bit of a temper.”

“Why’s he called Slappy?”

“Hmm. They say he once slapped a man’s eyes and teeth out’a his skull after sellin’ him something he didn’t quite like.”

“Ah. Nice guy.”

John guffawed again. “I like you, son.”

curtained her face, amber-hazel eyes dragging along the ground with her feet. Frank’s messy, blond hair held stubbornly to a stray leaf, beard pointed in odd directions, his grass-green eyes plagued with bags. Which wasn’t that much different than usual, really.

They opted not to speak for most of their time in the forest. Their energy being spent almost solely on ignoring the waves of needles pricking their feet and the predatory grumble of their stomachs. A little brown crow flitted between the trees, its head tilted curiously. Pale eyes glinted orange with the setting Sun.

Frank halted, his eyes becoming more awake than they had been for several miles. He jutted his nose in the air, like a bloodhound searching for rabbits. “Do you smell that?”

Hearty and smokey scents trickled between the trees, towards them. Their mouths watered. Hunger quashed caution and dragged them into a small clearing populated with a little metal shack, rust eating every corner that wasn’t wooden. In place of a door, the wall itself was absent. Inside sat a contraption of pipes, barrels, chimneys, and faucet taps, the other three walls lined with shelves of clay jugs and bottles of clear liquid, taking up every space, including the outside walls. Around the rest of the clearing were canvas tents and hammocks, propped with trees. Barrels, crates, and boards made up the tables and seats, as well as the storage for more of the bottles and jugs, and a few held corn and wheat. The few actual chairs there were, were ratty armchairs, seemingly stolen from their old lives propping up the seats of smoking gentlemen. Though they still clung stubbornly to the reek of tobacco. Frank’s and Mary’s attentions were mostly set on the campfire in the middle of the clearing, where a large kettle sat, lid rattling. Then they noticed, around the fire clustered men, playing cards, smoking, and waiting for stew. Or they had been doing these things, except now they were staring at the two young people who had stumbled out of the forest, dressed in ragged clothes and gawking like startled deer.

“Hello.” Mary waved awkwardly.

 his snore, seemingly amplifying it. She noticed that the train had been going up inclines more frequently, but she paid this little mind.

“Hey Frank.” She elbowed him, his blond hair messily out of place.

“Mm?”

“Look.” She held the journal to his nose, spreading the pages out before him.

He took it in his hands, rubbing dried flecks of sleep from his green eyes. A large diagram took up the entirety of the spread. It appeared to be an anatomical study of some kind. It resembled any university cadaver dissection. Although, it was a bit more unique than that. The diagram was swarmed with notes and odd little quirks to the anatomy, that were most definitely not normal nor healthy for a regular body. He scanned through some of the scribbled notes.

...their brain, though rotting, still retains the spark of life, controlling the needed motor, and other similar, functions… though organs appear nonfunctioning, they are still in full use, even if the subject had been inflicted with severe damage and in spite of their lack of digestive fluids and enzymes… some tissue has been replaced with some sort of fungal growth… even if the subject lacked a brain, the fungi simulates the missing gray matter to an uncanny, frankly fascinating, degree… my research indicates that, even when pieces are separated from the whole colony, the fungi acts as a sort of clotting and healing mechanism, even regenerating entire limbs in a matter of days, though the limbs are obviously fungal and lack bones, hindering movement, but not eliminating it… needs many nutrients, hence the insatiable appetite of the inflicted cadaver… no explanation for their desire of human flesh, as any animal, and certain plants, will provide the necessary nutrients… more research required, this is fascinating… due to the fungi’s regenerative qualities, the most successful means of extermination are through corrosive agents, immolation, and, curiously, blessed water…

Mary accepted the journal back from Frank, sliding it into the fraying pocket inside her dress, “Sounds a lot like what we met in Dognap, don’t you think?”

Frank nodded, “If they aren’t one in the same, I wouldn’t believe it.”

They locked eyes for a few moments, the train bumping along on the tracks, trees blurring by them, jerkily. Large grins crept across their faces. Mary pumped her arms in the air, her torn dress sagging at odd points, “Our first supernatural encounter!”

Frank jumped to a standing position, “They almost ate us, but it was amazing!” The train buckled, stumbling Frank into the rail. “Whoa.”

Another buckle and the train screeched to a halt. Their eyebrows rose, and they leant over the rails, peering up both sides.

“What do you think’s going on? Are we at a town?”

“Hey! What’re you doing back there?!” A man in pinstripe coveralls, brandishing a threateningly heavy wrench, ran towards them, from Frank’s side of the train.

“Time to go!” They leapt over the rails and dashed into the woods.

“Hey!” The man’s voice faded into the distance.