by Mark Teppo
“Yeah, ‘nothing.’ Is that the whole problem? You woke up this morning and realized just how empty your life is. When was the last time you got a decent raise? Or had a date? What friends do you have outside the four of us? Are you still living in that shithole in Parkway, or did you ever manage to save enough for a deposit on a place across the bridge?”
Each question was a psychic blow that collapsed more of his body: his lungs grew tighter, his stomach knotted, his throat constricted to a tiny hole. Each question made real a phantasmal terror Carter had been fighting, had been dismissing this last quarter as he had focused on his report. As if everything would be resolved with the release of his findings; as if his document was a life-affirming manifesto instead of a study in paper consumption. Jack’s questions were delivered as if he was trying to push Carter into the existential blankness that filled the void behind the inconsequential truth of his report.
Carter tried to brush them off, tried to dismiss them with a wave of his hand. “Forget it,” he said. He struggled to get out of the plush comfort of the chair. “I’m done. I’m heading home.”
“You need to do something,” Jack said. “Something real. Jump out of an airplane, race a motorcycle. Something like that.”
Carter paused, one arm partially snared in his coat. Against his better judgment, he turned and looked down at Jack. “Now?”
“Why not?”
Carter made a show of looking around the room. “Because it’s the middle of the night. Because I—”
“Because you’re scared? Because it’s easier to talk about doing something than actually doing it? Because you’d rather bitch about us telling the same old stories than actually go out and make a new one?”
“No—”
“It’s just an excuse, Carter. Whatever you’re going to say. It’s just a lame excuse to do nothing again.”
Carter flushed. He shoved his remaining arm in his coat. “What the fuck do you care?”
“Because I think you’re right. Because Hurley does tell the same damn story every time, and I’m sick of it too. But is that his fault? Is anything we fail to do here any fault but our own?”
“Jesus, Jack,” Hurley snorted, stung by his words.
Carter’s tongue was dry, and he licked his lips as if to find moisture on them. “What did you have in mind?”
Jack smiled. “There’s a unicorn in Windward Park.”
Hurley laughed. “Ah, shit, that’s a good one, Jack.” When the others looked at him. “What? It’s a good setup for a story. Giving us all grief for being boring and then hitting us with . . .” He faltered. “What? You believe him?”
David nodded. “I heard it too. From someone else.”
“Oh, and that makes it true?” Hurley shook his head and reached for his drink. “Everyone could be telling the same lie here. That doesn’t make it true.”
Jack was still staring at Carter. “So let’s go find out. If you’re so eager for something true and hard and honest, then let’s go. Let’s go out there right now and find it.”
“Why?” Carter asked, the only word he could manage.
“Why not?”
“That’s not a reason.”
“Isn’t it?” Jack raised his chin towards the wall behind Carter. “David and Hurley have enough hunting gear to outfit all of us. Let’s go bag ourselves a unicorn and get the head stuffed. Mount it right there on the wall behind you so no one forgets.” He laughed and looked at the others, spearing them with the fervent gleam in his eyes. “Fuck the stories. Let’s go make our own.”
*
The ground was slick and icy near the lion statue, and Carter nearly fell. His hip caught on the angry mouth of the statue where he regained his balance, leaning against the cold stone for support. Behind him, Jack was shouting incoherently, giving voice to the bloom of pain from the shattered bones in his shoulder.
The unicorn thundered up Glory’s slope, its hooves cracking against the frosted hillock. Carter pressed himself against the stone lion, stealing a glance upslope as the animal passed. Silver twinkled in its mane, its horn a glittering spike. Blood streamed down its white flank from Jack’s earlier crossbow bolt.
“Where is it?” Hurley was in a panic. “Where the fuck is it?”
“Look for Jack’s bolt,” David shouted. Standing in the open meadow at the base of Glory, he sighted carefully through the sights of his crossbow. The experienced hunter, Carter thought, transfixed by David’s patience, waiting for his prey to come into range.
The unicorn charged down the slope past Carter, head lowered.
But he can’t see it.
David squinted and fired. The unicorn flipped its head up, horn rising. The metal bolt struck sparks—a cascade of falling stars—as it ricocheted off the hard horn. Galloping past the stunned hunter, the unicorn dipped its horn down. David spun, trailing a thin arc of crimson, and then he was facedown on the ground.
Hurley hesitated, caught between trying to do something for Jack’s shattered shoulder and his fallen friend. Carter found himself wondering how surreal the scene must be for the florid salesman. First, Jack had been knocked down and trampled and now David, throat cut, was a crumpled shape on the white ground. All the while, Hurley hadn’t seen the animal that had dropped two of his companions. Like fighting a ghost.
The unicorn wheeled near the tree line and pounded back across the field. Carter braced his back against the cold statue as the animal charged towards him. His crossbow lay on the ground not far from him, but he didn’t dare move from the statue, as if he could meld himself into the stone and disappear.
The unicorn pulled up short of Carter, rearing back on its hind legs. Up close, its hooves were huge and flashed like the blade of a headsman’s axe. The blood streaking its flank made its ribs appear like dusty shadows under its pale skin. Its eyes were stark and white with panic, and its chest heaved like massive bellows.
Carter was sucked into the winter whiteness of the unicorn’s eyes, suddenly pulled into a pure void bereft of shadow and darkness. As the animal towered over him, the panic and fear flowed out of Carter as if a plug had been pulled and all the emotional tension was draining out of his body. He was floating in the opaque purity of the unicorn’s gaze and, instead of being lost against this background, he was a single dot upon the white sea. A nut. A seed. A catalyst.
The unicorn blinked, a shuttering of souls, and Carter was snapped back into his own body. The animal lowered its horn. Not as an antagonist, but as a gesture of recognition and kindness. Of understanding. Carter raised his hand, his fingers reaching for the tip of the unicorn’s horn.
The unicorn bleated and took a drunken step to Carter’s left, and he saw the fresh crossbow bolt jutting from its side just behind its shoulder.
Jack, leaning against Hurley, lowered his crossbow, a triumphant grin working through the pain wracking his face.
The animal staggered on the uneven slope of Glory. It shook its head, twisting its neck in an effort to see what was biting its flesh. Carter took a step towards the wounded creature, hand still outstretched. He reached for the bolts jutting out of its sides instead of the horn. If he could just touch the nearest bolt, he could draw it out before the unicorn expired. He could stop the flow of the blood.
The unicorn’s front legs buckled and it fell heavily against the slope. Its head lolled on a weak neck, and Carter laid a hand on the heaving animal’s flank. The skin was hot and slicked with sweat.
“Get out of the way, Carter!” Jack shouted. He had Hurley’s crossbow and was pointing it at Carter and the unicorn. The tip of the bolt shivered as Jack’s adrenaline-charged muscles twitched and jumped.
With a clarity like the white field he had seen in the unicorn’s eye, Carter knew Jack would fire. If he tried to block Jack’s shot, his sacrifice would be a fruitless one. Jack—or Hurley—would just reload and fire again, unobstructed.
The unicorn snorted behind him, a sighing exhalation like a furnace expiring. Carter s
tarted to turn his head to look at the animal and his gaze fell on his discarded crossbow. The bolt was still in place, ready to fire.
“Carter—” Jack started, a grim finality in his voice.
Carter scrambled for his crossbow, scooping it off the ground. He lifted it with one hand and pulled the trigger.
Jack quivered as the bolt struck him, his expression softening into something akin to dismay. The tip of his weapon drooped, and he coughed. Blood spattered the feathers of his bolt and, his face crumbling with a weak cry, he stared down at the metal bolt sticking out of his chest. He tried to look at Hurley, but his knees failed, and he fell.
The unicorn blew air again, struggling to its feet. Its head drooped and its knees were locked, but it remained upright. To Carter, it was already fading: opaque through the withers, crystalline shine bleeding through its tail and mane.
I’ll never see it again, he realized.
Hurley was reloading the crossbow Jack had given him.
Carter did the same.
*
“That’s a pretty sad story.” Jennie tugged on a pigtail, hair woven through the tangle of her long fingers.
Carter’s mouth was dry from the telling as if the words had all dried up in his throat.
“I’ve heard a lot of unicorn stories recently—it’s the popular meme right now—but that one . . .” She shrugged. “It’s different. Most of what I hear are tales of wish-fulfillment. You know, sex stories for stunted adolescents.”
Carter nodded.
“Yeah.” She clucked her tongue once, punctuating the thought, and tapped her tray against her leg. “So, seriously, are your friends going to be joining you tonight.”
Carter thought of Glory, of the blood and innocence that had fallen there. In the spring, he realized, when the frost broke and the green started its assault on the city again, a different sort of recycling program would begin. Born of a single catalytic moment. One thought, one shot. The rest was simply the way the story spun itself out.
“No,” he said. “I’m the only one.”
Exclusive Material
One of the best parts of writing a story is knowing that someone is reading it, and not only that they read it, but that they'd like to read more. Reviews of this book (and other books of mine, or books by other authors, really) are very valuable as they help goose the all-mighty algorithm so that it finds me more readers. Please leave a review on your favorite online site.
Additionally, I have a low-traffic newsletter where I offer up advance information about new projects, exclusive material, and other premier access to content. If you enjoyed this story, and would like to keep up-to-date, please sign up for the newsletter at the following URL.
http://www.markteppo.com/mailinglist
About the Sprawl
“What is the Sprawl?" is a question that I get asked now and again. Mostly from one person, who likes to lurk in hedges and open windows where they can whisper, "What is the Sprawl?" And I hate to take away their fun, but here's a brief answer to that question.
The Sprawl is, essentially, the Pacific Northwest coast of North America, in a world that took a few different turns at the beginning of the 20th century. Science was a thing, and certain industrial rivalries turned out differently.
And then there was the War to End All Wars (which was the sequel to the Great War, right?). During that conflict, the United States developed a weapon—the very pinnacle of scientific effort, in fact—and they were going to drop it on an island nation. However, the other adversary in this conflict revealed they had a super weapon too. A weapon powered by faith.
It was a very old spear, in fact, and according to tradition, armies that carried this spear into battle would be invincible.
Reluctant to test this theory in the field, a certain flight crew was rerouted, and the weapon of science was dropped somewhere else. Somewhere far from the water.
In that moment, science and faith were tested. Science won, but faith held its own for far longer than it takes for an atom to split. As you can imagine, this splitting—this moment of suspension before splitting—has made a difference. This difference pushed this world farther from the history we've lived.
Maybe science doesn't have all the answers. Maybe there was something to faith. And maybe the world was stranger than anyone could possibly imagine.
This, then, is the world of the Sprawl.
It's been seventy-five years since the War to End All Wars, and some places are still the same. Some are different. Some of the names are names you'll recognize. Some of them you won't. It's okay. This world isn't quite like ours, but it's mostly the same.
You know where the Sprawl is.
The Strip is out in the desert, beyond the high mountains that keep the sea from the heartland.
The Spire is in the east, and is so-called because of its towers.
Summit is north of the Strip, high in the mountains.
The Square is where traditions are still fiercely held, and where our history is still remembered.
The Sweep looks out over the broad range of the great gulf.
You'll find your way around this map. There are recognizable landmarks, even if the names have slipped. Everyone finds their way, in the end.
About the Author
Mark Teppo lives in the Pacific Northwest, where he writes, reads, and sells books. Every once in a while, he goes out into the woods. His favorite tarot card is the Moon.
You can find him on Twitter, Instragram, and Facebook (@markteppo). His website is: www.markteppo.com.
In addition to stories from the Sprawl, he also writes stories with monsters, stories about conspiracy theories and esoteric mysteries, and books about writing. He also writes sun-soaked Southern California noir under the name Harry Bryant.
Also by Mark Teppo
Elm & the Judge
Solitaire
Longspur
The Codex of Souls
Lightbreaker
Heartland
Rudolph! He is the Reason for the Season
The Potemkin Mosaic
Silence of Angels
Instrument
Jumpstart Your Novel
Finish Your Novel
The Foreworld Saga
The Mongoliad [with Neal Stephenson, Greg Bear, Erik Bear, Joseph Brassey, Nicole Galland, and Cooper Moo]
Katabasis [with Joseph Brassey, Cooper Moo, and Angus Trim]
The Lion in Chains [with Angus Trim]
Cimarronin [with Neal Stephenson, Charles C. Mann, and Ellis Amdur]
Sinner
Dreamer
Seer
The Beast of Calatrava
writing as Harry Bryant
Hidden Palms
Snake Road
In & Out
Copyright
© 2008, 2019 Mark Teppo
"The One That Got Away" first appeared in Paper Cities, published by Senses Five Press in 2008.
Cover image by grandfailure / stock.adobe.com