by Eric Miller
Rook struggled not to roll his eyes. One of those guys. “The study of imaginary bullshit totems and trinkets?”
“You’ve heard of it then? I know it’s easy to scoff, but I believe, man. The world is full of objects that want to remain undiscovered. Things that people want to keep hidden by any means necessary. It’s cool shit, man!”
Rook exhaled a fine spray of pie crumbs and laughter.
Sticks leaned back. “Most people feel like you, but I could show you something that would change your mind.”
“You know, usually people wait until we’re actually rolling down the road to start talking about looney bullshit, but I gotta say, thanks for saving me some time.” Rook started to slide out of his seat, but Sticks laid a hand on the table.
“You a vet?” Sticks asked. When Rook glanced over at him, Sticks jutted his chin at the tattoo wrapping around Rook’s forearm. It was his namesake, a crow wreathed in black flame, rising from his wrist and up his forearm. Floating just above the beak was a simple black chess piece, the rook, eternally just out of reach.
“Yeah, I guess you could say that. I’ve seen action in a lot of places. Not exactly on the books, if you catch my drift.”
“What’s it mean?”
“Guess you didn’t catch my drift. Let’s just say delivering freedom isn’t about hopes and dreams and flowery shit. It’s a dirty business.” Rook scratched at the dark stubble on his chin.
“You’re a soldier though. I can show you something that’ll blow your mind.” Sticks started to rummage through his backpack. “Anyone ever tell you that you kinda look like a younger version of Lemmy from Motorhead?”
“Nobody that wanted to keep their teeth.” Rook fixed a steely glare on him.
“It was supposed to be a compliment. Rugged badass. You know? Anyway, soldier boy, this is going to slay you. Check it out.” Sticks pulled a long, thin black box from his backpack and set it on the table, sliding it toward Rook.
Rook stared at the box. It was smooth and featureless, just a small seam that ran around the top edge. It had the dull sheen of fresh asphalt, and even though it looked like cardboard, Rook knew that it would be cold to the touch.
“Open it!” Sticks laughed. “It ain’t gonna bite ya, don’t worry.”
Rook folded his arms and stared at Sticks. The young man broke, laughing and sliding the box back toward himself. “Fine. Big tough soldier guy scared of a little box.” Sticks pushed a dirty thumbnail into the seam and pried the lid from the box.
A small whisper escaped the box, probably just cardboard scraping cardboard, but Rook swore it sounded like the thing hissed his birth name. Inside the box, laying in neatly piled hay, was a metal blade, about eight inches long. It was chipped and dull. Covered in rust, except for the tip which was bright polished silver. It looked like someone had been trying to restore the thing and just gave up about two inches into the job.
“And?” Rook asked.
“Guess what it is,” Sticks smiled.
“You have any idea how many miles I have left to go tonight?” Rook asked.
“All right, all right,” Sticks said. He leaned in closer, checking over his shoulders to make sure there were no snooping ears. “The legend is, this is the tip of a spear.”
“Certainly shaped that way,” Rook said, rolling his eyes. “You gonna tell me it’s magical?”
Sticks danced his fingers along the edge of the box, looking at the spear, then back at Rook. “A Roman spear. Probably the most famous spear in history. That shiny part, that was used to hold a sponge once. And also used to deliver the final insulting wound to—”
“Jesus Christ,” Rook muttered, sliding out of the booth and standing up. “Word of advice, kid. You want a ride cross-country, save your batshit crazy talk for whoever’s waiting for you at the end of the line. Tell the next guy you see that you’re taking a break from college to find yourself. Try to—”
Rook swallowed his next thought as Sticks picked up the spear tip and jammed it through his forearm. He held his arm high, the blade jutting out at an odd angle, the flesh around it puckering.
“No blood,” Sticks said. “By his wounds,” and he drew the blade out of his arm, “we are healed.”
Rook turned on his heel and hustled out to the parking lot, yanking on his battered leather jacket. He heard a chair slide out behind him, heard Sticks’ heavy steps following. Besides one disinterested waitress and two fat guys sleeping in separate booths, the truck stop was all but abandoned this evening.
Outside, the air was congealing into a cold, wet fog that had no business on a Wyoming highway. Rook jogged out to the far end of the lot where his truck, The Iron Bulldogge, lurked in the shadows.
“Hey!” Sticks’ voice called through the fog. “Why are you running?! Come on, man, it’s all just shades and shadows. Illusion! Scaredy-cat!”
Rook fumbled in his pocket for his keys. His fingers wrapped around them just as Sticks’ cold hand wrapped around his bicep, spinning him around. His fingers were cold, even through Rook’s jacket. The target in Rook’s pocket had shifted from keys to folding knife. If he couldn’t get that one out, he had a few others concealed on standby.
“You know what I am. You’ve known since I sat down,” Sticks said.
“Who sent you?” Rook asked.
“A mutual friend. We know what you’re carrying in there,” Sticks tipped his chin at the truck, letting out a low whistle. “What has this thing been through, man? Where’d you drive, Hell and back?” he laughed.
Rook remained silent.
The Iron Bulldogge had definitely seen better days, and was usually scary enough on the outside to keep people from asking for a lift. The cab was scorched and burned, pocked with holes and slashes in the doors and fenders. The trailer was a short twenty-footer that looked like it had just been dredged from a swamp.
“What’s your real name?” Rook asked.
Sticks stared at Rook, a brief glimmer of red flashing through his eye. “If you want to have a chance of rolling out of this parking lot, I just need to have a look inside your trailer.”
“Not happening.”
“You picked up a package in Shreveport, right? Little box, about a foot square. About big enough to hold a human head. Sound familiar?”
Rook shrugged.
Sticks flicked the spear tip out, holding it low and ready. “This is the key. You have the lock on the truck. We want it back. It wasn’t yours to take.”
“Never said it was mine. I’m just the delivery guy.”
“Open the trailer.”
“Whatever you say. Put your little shiv away before you bring the wrong kind of attention on us.”
Rook slowly pulled his keys from his pocket. He lifted the lock on the latch of the trailer, tapping it precisely four times against the door. He slid the flat of his palm up the metal and rubbed a dusty circle on the truck before slapping the center.
“Gotta clear the hex first,” he said, sliding the key into the lock and unlatching the door. “Might want to stand back.”
The doors slowly creaked open, a dull purple glow emanating from inside the trailer. It was impossibly large, a museum on wheels, cavernous. The walls extended back into the darkness, the ceiling was nowhere in sight. The floor was decorated in elaborate marble tile.
“How far does it go?” Sticks asked.
“How far can you walk?” Rook asked.
Sticks shook his head. “Just give me the box.”
“Go get it,” Rook said. “Just tap the edge of the trailer four times—” and Rook slapped the floor hard four times, “—and hop in. Just…four…times…” Rook slapped the floor hard and kicked at the dirt, muttering “Dammit, Coogles…”
“There’s no hex, is there?” Sticks said. “You’re trying to trick me.”
“No hex. Just a good for nothing lazy-ass Nightshade named Coogles who seems to have forgotten our secret distress call. Fiercest guardian you’ll ever know, they told me. More like a
flying puppy that eats everything in sight.”
“Enough chit-chat. Give me the box. And no tricks.”
“Tricks? Nah, I don’t do tricks. Just get by on my charm and grace.”
Rook hopped up into the trailer. It was no use fighting. Wouldn’t be the first delivery he failed to make, probably not the last either. This one would’ve paid pretty damn good though. And he’d have a lot of explaining to do to the witch’s sister in Portland who was expecting this package.
The box wasn’t too far back. It was sitting on a low shelf near the collection of shrunken heads and Atlantean statues in the antechamber near the door. Rook tucked it under his arm and headed back to the door. He hopped down to the ground, squinting to see Sticks through the gathering gloom. The fog was thick now, tendrils of orange and blue witchfire dancing in the air around them.
“Dusted it off for you and everything.” Rook started to thrust the box into Sticks’ chest, then drew it back. “Who are you working for?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Matters to me. I let you have this, you do whatever you want with it, but someone’s paying me for my time, trouble, and fuel.”
“You don’t want to go down that road.”
“Mister, you don’t want to know about the roads I’ve been down. Gimme a name.”
“Or you’ll do what, exactly?” Sticks reached a palm out for the box. “Give me the box before I surgically remove your charm and grace.”
“I’ll follow you until I figure it out.”
“Horrible plan.”
“I’ve had worse ideas,” Rook scowled. He realized that he wasn’t going to stare his way out of the situation and decided to hand the box over while he thought of Plan B.
No! No! A sharp voice barked from inside the trailer. No give to bad thing! Bad, bad thing!
A clumsy fluttering grew louder inside the trailer, a noise like a fuzzy sack of potatoes being thrown down a long hallway. A giant blur of white rocketed from inside the trailer, slamming into Sticks and knocking him back. It settled on the ground, a stout creature that was somewhere between a bat and a medium-sized dog.
“Is this your Nightshade?” Sticks groaned from the ground, pulling himself up.
“Yeah, this is him. It’s all right Coogles. We’re letting this one go.”
No! Bad thing! Not box! Box is bad! Thing is bad! No box!
“He talks?” Sticks said.
“Something like that,” Rook said, laying a hand on Coogles’ head.
I love you! Coogles barked, licking Rook’s hand. Not you bad thing! Bad! Go!
Sticks scrambled to his feet, brandishing the spear tip again. “Well, let’s have the box now or I’m going to put this bad thing through his head.”
“Was it Azazel? He put you up to this?”
Sticks swiped the spear at Coogles, who skittered backwards and hid behind Rook’s legs, clutching at his pantleg with long fingers.
Bad!
Rook dropped the box on the ground and stepped back.
Sticks crawled forward, kneeling and slicing at the lid. “The blade is the key, the head is the lock. The secrets inside unleash the end. You had no idea what you were carrying back here…”
“I never look inside of customer’s packages. Union rules.”
Sticks reached a hand into the box and lifted his prize out. A desiccated human head, the lower jaw dangling slack, the skin loose and yellow. “The traitor. The interrupter. Judas the liar.”
The head spun freely by the lock of hair clutched in Sticks’ hand, the dull eyes looking through him.
“Inside,” Rook whispered to Coogles. The Nightshade needed no further coaxing, flapping up into the truck.
“Do you know this man?” Sticks asked Rook.
“Well, you just told me his name was—”
“Do you know him?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Rook asked.
“Cursed to roam the earth forever. He tried so many times to end it. Hung himself the day that he killed the prophet, woke up the next morning and went on his way. Same thing happened to Cain. Can you imagine the eternal torment? Living forever?”
“I have a good imagination. So…you know, I never really ask people what they’re doing with the stuff they give me. Point A to point B, that’s good enough for me. But since this has turned into armed theft, I feel like I oughtta know what the big deal is with a dried-up skull.”
“He has work to do. Many people to see, many tales to tell. So much knowledge locked in that brain. So many secrets, so much power. He’s been known by so many names through history. The Great Khan. The Impaler. Rasputin. He couldn’t bring death to himself so he walked through history and brought it to others. It’s why they eventually cut his head off.”
“And what’s your job? You gonna carry a dried up head across the country and beat people to death with it?” Rook asked.
“My job is almost done. His is just about to begin again. By his wounds—” and Sticks raised the spear, driving it into the side of his own neck, “—we are healed…”
He rested the rotten skull on his shoulder as he proceeded to saw his own head off with the spear. There was no blood. No gore. Just a clean, wet slicing, like watermelon on a hot summer day. Sticks slid the head of Judas the betrayer on top of his neck just as his own head fell to the ground. He dropped the spear and stared at Rook with lifeless eyes, the color slowly returning to ancient cheeks as the wound on his neck knitted itself closed.
Judas shuffled forward and coughed twice, then drew in a sharp breath. He glanced around, taking in the thick fog that was slowly dissipating.
“I gcás ina? ??? ?? Where?”
“America,” Rook said seizing on the first English word, quickly swinging one door to his trailer closed.
“America. Long time,” Judas growled. His face had grown whole, his features unassuming. He had thick dark hair and round cheeks, a chin that would be better hidden by a beard, and solid black eyes. The faint pink scar on Sticks’ neck was a line of demarcation between a road tan and pale skin that hadn’t seen the sun for generations. “What in carriage?”
“Don’t worry about it. Food in there,” Rook pointed to the truck stop, “Warmth too. Me, I have to be moving on.”
“You will give me your carriage.”
“There’s plenty to choose from over there. Besides, you wouldn’t know how to drive—”
“You have things I need. In there. Then you will take me. To ocean.” Judas pointed a finger toward the trailer.
“Not going that far,” Rook said, slowly walking backward toward the cab of his truck.
Judas slowly crouched down and picked up the spear. He raised it above his head and spoke three syllables, an ancient language that this continent hadn’t heard since its founding. The fog in the air grew thick again, coalescing around the spear tip.
“I’m afraid I must insist. Years ago, I lost something in a river in Russia. A strange object, you’d call it. I need to destroy it. I am not strong enough to do it. Two things I need. You have them,” Judas gestured toward the trailer again. “You will give them to me and deliver me to the ocean, or I will remove your head and take what I need, and leave your body here as food for the beasts.”
“Museum’s closed,” Rook muttered. He slapped the side of the trailer twice and grabbed a strap hanging on the inside wall. “Gun it, Coogles!”
The Iron Bulldogge roared to life, rolling forward. Rook scrambled inside the trailer and rose to his feet, anxious to see Judas recede from his sight. Instead, the man walked behind the truck, keeping pace, arms outstretched as if to ask really?
Rook scratched behind his ear. “Coogles can drive, but sometimes he forgets what this ol’ bucket can do.”
Drive drive drive! Came a faint bark from the cab.
“Flip the red lever, furbag!” Rook yelled, bracing himself.
Judas took two jogging steps and leapt inside, striking hard with his palm against Rook’s chest, sending him skiddin
g further backwards into the truck.
Red lever! Red Red Red! Coogles barked.
“No no no no wait! He’s inside the—” Rook shouted, but it was no use. Gears ground together and an explosive rumble bucked through the trailer. The truck accelerated from a slow walk to an all-out sprint, sending Rook sliding across the floor toward the open trailer door. As his feet flew out into the cold night air, he managed to hook a hand around Judas’s ankle. The temporary brake allowed him to brace his other hand around the closed door. Pulling himself in at the moment wasn’t an option because of the acceleration.
Judas had regained his balance enough to throw a kick at Rook. Rook rolled sideways, taking the impact on his shoulder but managing to stay in place. “Brakes! Brakes, Coogles!”
Race Race Race! Came the bark from the cabin.
“I really need a human sidekick,” Rook grumbled. He inched further into the truck and took another kick to the head from Judas. Ears ringing, rook slid slowly backward, further into the darkness outside, the roar of the wind and engine deafening. The truck came to a curve in the road, shifting both men against the side and buffeting them back as the road straightened. They were on the interstate now.
Judas stood in front of a large rack of shelves. Rook knew that beyond that shelf, the magic that made the trailer into the cavernous space it was took hold, and the room had its own sense of gravity. Fortunately, Judas hadn’t figured that out yet. The truck was holding a steady speed now, too fast for Rook to overcome. His grip was fading and he couldn’t feel his fingers from the cold. One finger slipped free from the door, then another. If there was a God who received their prayers as a litany of curses, Rook was their devoted supplicant. His hand slipped, and his body slid backward, a sickening feeling in his stomach. He closed his eyes and prepared for the pain.
The only pain he felt was in his wrist. He looked up to see Judas gripping him, pulling him back up into the truck. Judas shifted back and threw Rook into the trailer as if he were a spare pillow.
“Your companion is a horrible carriage driver,” Judas grumbled. “I need a reliable driver. You may continue to live. You will take me to the things I need.”