Selected Stories Read online

  SELECTED STORIES

  by Nate Southard

  ISBN: 978-88-99569-44-0

  Copyright (Edition) ©2017 Independent Legions Publishing

  Copyright (Text) ©Nate Southard

  March, 2017

  Editing: Jodi Renée Lester

  Cover Art by Daniele Serra

  Digital Layout: Lukha B. Kremo

  www.independentlegions.com

  Nate Southard

  SELECTED STORIES

  Table of Contents:

  “His Start,” “Why I Do It,” Working the Bag,” “In the Clearing Beneath the Firs,” and “Yellow Triangles” previously published in Broken Skin (2009)

  “Insomnia Is My Only Friend” previously published in Horror Literature Quarterly no. 1 (2007)

  “Silent Corners” previously published in Trunk Stories no. 3 (2007)

  “Señorita” previously published on HorrorWorld.org (2009)

  “Work Pit Four” previously published in Of Keene Interest no. 1 (2009)

  “Going Home, Ugly Stick in Hand” previously published in Black Static issue 20 (2010)

  “Armageddon, Now Available in High Definition” previously published in Darkness on the Edge (2010).

  “The Blisters on My Heart” previously published in Supernatural Noir (2011)

  “Mouth” previously published in Horror for Good (2012)

  “Bottle. Paper. Samurai.” previously published in LampLight (2015)

  “It Burns” previously published in Something Went Wrong (2012)

  “It’s Even Better the Second Time” previously published in Horror d’Oeuvres (2008)

  “A Team-Building Exercise” previously published Aoife’s Kiss (2005)

  “Three, Two, One” previously published in A Hacked-Up Holiday Massacre (2011)

  For Simon and Maddie, who stay close.

  HIS START

  The cold rain had extinguished the pile of burning bodies, but their clinging stench hovered in the air like a virus. Tommy wrinkled his nose behind the handkerchief he had tied across his face and kept walking. Raindrops like daggers pelted the stiff leather of his coat, their percussive racket blending with the creak of the weathered hide. The slow, steady rhythm of his boots on the two-lane hardtop completed the sad chorus.

  His shoulder ached beneath the weight of Sabrina’s body. The blanket he’d wrapped her in had soaked through, adding to his burden. He eyed the burn pile longingly—he could rid himself of her weight there—but he shook the thought away. He’d promised she would be buried under green grass, the first good patch he could find.

  He’d walked to the small town of Sparta to find that patch.

  The squat four street by four street rose from the road like a patch of sickly toadstools. The buildings of brick and concrete shared the same drab tones as the stormy sky. Farther out, several buildings had collapsed into piles of material. He’d find no mansions here. The only good side effect of the conflict had been how it made everyone and everything equal. Rich and poor didn’t exist anymore. Neither did beauty and ugliness, and being a winner just meant you hadn’t lost yet. Everything was just there now, hanging on and hoping like hell it didn’t lose its grip.

  The sentry spotted him as he closed to within three hundred yards of the burn pile, which was maybe half the distance to Sparta itself. The guy wore a gas mask with one cracked lens. He was a heavy man, what Tommy would have called a tubby bastard back in the old days. The guy had a big gun, though, so Tommy did what he was told and froze.

  He drummed his fingers on Sabrina’s leg, as if she were the one who needed calming.

  “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “They won’t take you.” He stood still as stone, waiting for the sentry to waddle the distance between them. The guard kept the business end of his rifle—an old Remington that appeared just a little more rusted than it should—trained on him. The barrel’s mouth looked about the size of a wishing well. Tommy made himself look up from the dark hole to meet the approaching man’s eyes.

  “Who are you?” came the sentry’s rasping voice.

  “Name’s Tommy.”

  “Tommy? That all?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Why you got that mask tied on your face?”

  “Ash. Want to trade?” He tried to make it sound like a joke and failed.

  The sentry’s eyes narrowed. “Why you coming to Sparta?”

  “Get a start. Heard things had settled down a bit here.”

  “And where did you hear that?”

  “Back in Coltrain.”

  “That’s a three-week walk from here.” The sentry nodded toward Sabrina’s soaked corpse. “You carry that for three weeks?”

  “No. Picked her up two nights ago.”

  “Her?”

  “Yes.”

  Tommy heard the guard chuckle. The mask made it sound like he was choking, suffocating on the inside of his fat neck. It would make things easier, no doubt about that.

  “She your girlfriend or something?” the man finally asked between chortles.

  “Something, yeah.” Tommy kept his voice flat and even, not giving anything away. Deep in his stomach, he felt a familiar vibration. Not a good sign.

  “I’m guessing she isn’t taking a nap?”

  “No. She’s gone.”

  The heavy man gave him a bored shrug, then jerked a thumb toward the haphazard stack of smoldering corpses. “Put her on the pile. We’re going to start it up once the rain quits.”

  The vibration strengthened to a fluttering pain. Tommy let out a slow breath before shaking his head. “I’m sorry, but she can’t go on the pile.”

  “Why’s that? She have the pox or something?”

  “No. I just made a promise. I have to keep it.”

  “That’s pretty,” the sentry said. His voice had lost some of its personality, business taking its place. “Bodies go on the pile, though.”

  Tommy nodded. “I understand. But I made a promise.”

  “I don’t care. You can take that right there to the pile, or you can turn around and go back the way you came. Either way, you don’t get to cart a corpse into Sparta.”

  “I just want to get a start.”

  “That’s all anybody wants. Doesn’t mean you get to do whatever the hell you please, though. We’re building here, getting our own start.”

  “I can help.”

  “Not with that, you can’t.”

  Tommy rolled his left shoulder, loosening the socket. Sabrina’s weight still pressed on his right. Having both arms free would be nice, but that wasn’t in the cards right this second.

  “I’m not a troublemaker,” he said. “I’m not a thief or a rapist. I’m not a cheat or somebody who bullies people at the water hole. I’m just a man starting over, but making sure this woman is taken care of is a part of that. It’s the first step. I just want to enter Sparta, bury her, then find some materials and start building. I won’t bother anybody, and I’ll help with anything the community needs—and I’m a good help. She gets buried, though. She does not go on the pile.”

  The sentry didn’t say a word, but Tommy saw the shift in his eyes and knew what was coming. The feeling in his stomach sent out a flash of dark pain as the large man jammed the rifle’s butt against his shoulder and started to squeeze the trigger.

  Tommy moved faster. He stepped in and grabbed the barrel with his left hand, dodging past it. The guard started to let loose a startled cry, but then Tommy’s elbow shot forward and crushed his throat.

  The old Remington clattered to the hardtop as the fat man clawed at his neck. A second later he fell to the road. His face turned a deep red behind the gas mask, and he was almost gone by the time Tommy carried Sabrina past the burn pile and into town.
/>   Tommy’s stomach felt fine.

  The citizens of Sparta watched Tommy with weary, suspicious expressions. They didn’t say a word, but they didn’t have to. He could feel their hesitation and barely contained hostility like a cold breeze on the back of his neck. He wasn’t welcome here.

  They stayed in the buildings that lined the cracked and muddy street. The rain kept them in doorways and windows, wondering about this stranger with the morbid bundle on one shoulder and the stolen rifle in his hand. Tommy kept his eyes moving from one to the next, searching for movement both sudden and subtle. His ears listened past the rain for the sound of steel hammers cocking back. He found neither. The people of Sparta didn’t plan on trying him, not like their sentry had.

  As Tommy made his way down the street, feeling the rain sluice down his face in thick trails, he realized he had no idea what his next move might be. He hadn’t been stupid enough to think he’d just walk into Sparta and set up camp, but he didn’t know exactly how he’d set about this new start.

  The constable made the decision for him.

  He was a man of maybe forty years, his salt-and-pepper hair in need of a trim. He had dark eyes that stared out from above the painter’s mask he wore. A thick denim jacket that had long faded from its original blue sat on his sturdy shoulders and covered arms that were almost certainly thick. The hands that stuck out from the threadbare cuffs looked powerful enough. They gripped the shotgun firm and sure as he squared himself to Tommy.

  “You might want to hold up your walk a second.” The man’s voice boomed with what Tommy liked to call Real Authority—not the chickenshit courage most men with some form of responsibility showed.

  Tommy did as he was told. He didn’t want to make things worse than they already had to be. He’d taken a wrong step with the pushy bastard outside of town. He didn’t need to dive in after it. That would get him shot instead of welcomed, if not by the constable, then by the men who flanked him, their assault rifles trained and ready to fire.

  “You got it,” Tommy said.

  “Rifle on the ground.”

  He dropped it. Rusted piece of junk probably wouldn’t fire, anyway.

  “Thank you.”

  “Welcome.”

  The man appraised him for a long moment. Those behind him didn’t appear so interested. They just stood there waiting for the order to shoot.

  The constable cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose Johnson let you pass, did he?”

  “He didn’t stop me.”

  “But he tried?”

  “Poorly.”

  One of the gunmen almost smiled. He regained his composure quickly, but he’d already given himself up. Pathetic.

  “Where is he now?”

  “In the road.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Might still be alive if you want to send somebody out. Probably been too long, though. I don’t walk as fast as I used to.”

  “You want to tell me your name?”

  “Tommy.”

  “Thanks. Mind if I ask you a few more questions, Tommy?”

  “No. Go right ahead.”

  “Where you coming from?”

  “Coltrain.”

  “Passing through?”

  “Hoping to stay.”

  “Why?”

  “Trying to get a start.”

  “Did you think murdering a town sentry was the best way to earn Sparta’s favor?”

  Tommy felt the start of those familiar vibrations, and he breathed deep, forcing them to calm.

  “I really am sorry about that. It was a matter of self-defense.”

  “Self-defense?”

  “Yes. He tried to shoot me.”

  “Unprovoked?”

  “In my view.”

  “And how does that view look?”

  Bleak? Tired?

  “I am carrying somebody special to me. He wanted me to throw her on the burn pile outside of town, and I refused. He insisted, and I refused again. He raised his rifle, so I took it from him.”

  “Do you really think you had to kill him in order to do that?”

  “Probably not. I didn’t take the time to think.”

  The constable stepped forward, slowly closing the distance between them. Tommy saw a patch just above the man’s badge that read POTTER.

  “Constable Potter?”

  “Sheriff.”

  “Sheriff, then.”

  Potter was just outside of his reach. The shotgun rested at his hip, its barrels ready to cut him in half if need be. The man’s eyes had calmed somewhat, though, and when he spoke his voice was a bit softer than before. It still contained enough grit to scrape paint, though.

  “Are you responsible for that body?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I think you know.”

  “Then yes. I plan to bury it, then build a place for myself.”

  “And to hell with the folk you’re scaring by carrying a corpse into town?”

  “I don’t want to scare anybody.”

  “But you can’t help it?”

  “No. I was a sweeper for the last three years.”

  One of Potter’s eyebrows rose, but the interest never reached his eyes. “Are you telling me the truth?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why are you here? I heard sweepers don’t leave their tour. You’re in, you stay in. Am I right?”

  “You heard wrong. Sorry to say it. Three-year tour, then you can stick around if you want.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “No. I had something to come back for.”

  Potter nodded toward Sabrina. “That?”

  “Her.”

  “And you want to bury her?”

  “Yes.”

  “And live in Sparta?”

  “Yes.”

  The shotgun’s twin barrels dropped toward the ground. Good move.

  The lawman cast his eyes at the concrete for a second, then fixed them on Tommy’s. The two men remained silent for a long time. The rain’s staccato filled the air. Finally, Potter reached up with one hand and pulled down his mask. A white scar ran from the corner of his mouth halfway to his ear.

  “I trust men better when I can see their lips move,” he said.

  Tommy nodded, then pulled down his own mask. He watched the sheriff as they both breathed the ash that was slowly killing the world. He’d taken in his share in the past—everybody had. He could take some more if he had to.

  “That’s good,” Potter said. “You really were a sweeper, we can use you. It’s not always safe around here, but we try to keep it that way.”

  He took a step closer. His voice dropped to a whisper.

  “Nobody gets in free, though. You walk in here with a past and a dead body, I need you to stand trial. Think you can stand tall?”

  Tommy nodded. “Yes.”

  “Good. I like to hear that. Now, I need you to set her down.”

  He froze, eyes boring into Potter’s. His face remained cool, almost relaxed, but his stomach kicked into triple time with the rumbling sensation of impending violence.

  “She will be buried, Tommy. I can promise you that.”

  “You better.”

  “I do.”

  He left the sheriff in the middle of the street. Six steps carried him to what remained of Sparta’s sidewalk. He dropped to one knee and gently shrugged Sabrina off his shoulder. Carefully, he lowered her to the walk, keeping a hand behind her head. Once she was safe, he leaned forward and gave her forehead a gentle kiss. His eyes slipped shut for an instant, and when they opened again he stood and returned to Potter.

  “Okay. Try me.”

  Potter nodded, then pulled his mask back into place. “You bet.”

  He stepped past Tommy and called out in his Real Authority voice.

  “I need fifteen men!”

  Tommy turned to look over his shoulder. He thought it might be better than looking at the pair of assault rifles pointed at him, but soon realized just how wrong he was.

 
Slowly, cautiously, fifteen men—no more and no less—stepped out of the surrounding buildings. Their skin had been bleached by blowing ash, and their eyes were guarded and hostile. He couldn’t blame them. He might ruin their lives just by showing up and asking for a place at the table. Their job was to test his mettle, make sure he earned his spot.

  He guessed that’s what the bricks were for.

  Each man held two. Tommy wondered how many times this trial had taken place. Had any of these men stood in his spot? From the hunger on their faces—the burning righteousness—he guessed at least a few of them had.

  He slipped his mask back into place and took a deep breath, then turned to face his jury.

  The men halted, standing in a line that stretched the length of the broken street. Potter stood before them and spoke.

  “This man wants to get a start here in Sparta. In another life, he spent three years as a sweeper. We can use him. But nobody enters without standing trial.

  “For three years, this man murdered every soul our government ordered him to. He did not kill any enemy, but our own people. He did this without question. I know this because he stands here today.

  “I, Sheriff Ron Potter, judge this man guilty of those murders. His sentence will be ten stones for each year of his tour. If he survives, he may build a home here in Sparta and live among us. He will share our food and water. He will be a part of our community.”

  Potter turned to face Tommy.

  “Do you accept this judgment?”

  “I do,” Tommy said as if he had a choice.

  “Very well.” The sheriff stepped behind the row of men.

  “Throw.”

  Tommy kept his eyes open, and he saw the first wave of stones sail toward him. The rumbling in his stomach exploded like a fire through his entire body. He screamed as the first few bricks struck him like jagged wrecking balls, but he was out long before the second wave began.