The Space Whiskey Death Chronicles

by Vitka, William

  “I do. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Well, let me know how your investigation goes, hear?”

  “Yeah.” Jack paused to phrase his next sentence. “Sheriff?”

  The lawman arched his eyebrows, waiting.

  “I’ll stay out of your way if you stay out of mine. And if I do do something untoward to one of your wards here in town, you have my permission to just put lead in my head. Hear?”

  The sheriff nodded. “I’m Palmer, by the bye.” He tipped his hat and walked away.

  Jack leaned in against his horse and whispered, “Can we trust him?”

  The horse whinnied and clopped once against hard dirt ground of the stable.

  “If you say so,” Jack replied, brushing. “Still need a name for you.”

  The horse raised its hoof again and clopped once more.

  “Brother and I are fans of Comet, you know him?” Jack chuckled. “That horse was a big part of a great show I loved as a kid.”

  A clop and whinny from the Morab.

  “Wonders never cease. I think it’s a good name myself,” Jack said, still chuckling, now holding an apple between Comet’s lips as the horse gnawed at it.

  There was a knock on the stable door.

  Jack whirled, drawing his six-cylinder machine with terrifying speed.

  “Still your hand, gunslinger,” Sheriff Palmer shouted from outside, not quite exposing himself but not really hiding himself either. “Bit jumpy, aren’t we?”

  “More than a bit,” Jack said. He holstered his weapon. “With reason.”

  “I just thought you should know,” the sheriff said, “there was a man showed up out of the blue, like you. Couple months ago.”

  Jack waited, right hand hovering above the butt of his revolver, left hand holding the apple Comet was enthusiastically chewing on.

  “Zloy. His name was Samuel Zloy.”

  Jack relaxed his hand. “Thank you, sheriff, and I ask your pardon for my enthusiasm.”

  “None needed. I have a feeling your enthusiasm may be an asset.”

  Palmer tipped his hat again and departed.

  Jack turned back to Comet, who had just bitten through the apple’s core, staring at the gunslinger with rolling eyes that cried, I told ya so.

  “OK, maybe he’s a good guy. How was I supposed to know? And why am I explaining myself to a goddamn horse?”

  Whinny. Clop.

  “Yeah? Bite me.”

  After some prodding, Jack got a lead from the saloon bartender.

  Bartenders always, always seemed to know what was going on.

  The Hostetler kid’s family – the kid Jack had dubbed Big Bill – owned a ranch outside of town. One day the kid got it in his head that he’d heard some funny noises and seen some lights that didn’t make sense.

  Probably nothing. Probably just some big cat in heat. Probably heat lightning.

  Certainly no way to tie it to Zloy … but Zloy did happen to own the adjacent property. And it was from that adjacent property’s direction that the kid told damn near everyone with a working pair of ears that he’d seen weird lights (kinda blue, with some green thrown in) and heard weird noises (sorta like an animal, a big’un).

  Jack saddled up, and he got the impression that Comet was aching for a run.

  The horse went off like a shot.

  It was a thrill. Exhilarating beyond anything Jack could name. Moreso because Comet seemed to know precisely what the gunslinger wanted. Even where they were going.

  They rode, hard and fast, to Big Bill.

  When they got to the ranch house, Jack dismounted like a pro.

  It was a nice looking place. Very pretty – two stories with a stacked stone exterior.

  Jack didn’t bother to tether Comet to a post.

  “Be right back,” Jack said to the horse.

  Comet whinnied and stomped a hoof more forcefully than usual.

  “I will. Don’t think these folks are part of it, but…I know.”

  The gunslinger walked up to the front door and knocked.

  Big Bill shouted from around the side of the house in response. “Back here! Garden needs tendin!”

  Jack made his way around.

  In the back yard stood the small but strong figure of Big Bill next to, presumably, his mother: Mrs. Hostetler. They were both tugging at plants, some tomato, some potato.

  “Big Bill,” Jack smiled and took off his hat. “Mrs. Hostetler,” he said to her back – she was hunched over, plucking and weeding. “I don’t mean to intrude, but I’d like to ask you a couple of questions, if you’ve got the time.”

  Mrs. Hostetler stood and turned. He face was sweaty. Streaks of dirt hung in smudges under her bright blue eyes. Her dark hair swirled around her shoulders. She smiled. “A’course.” She brushed her hands against the smock on the front of her dress, jostling the fabric just enough that Jack could make out the curve of her breasts.

  Jack allowed himself to imagine what she looked like without clothes for one stupid moment, then pulled himself together and bowed slightly.

  “Ma’am, I’m mostly curious about what Big Bill said he might have seen on the Zloy property,” Jack said.

  “No,” she snapped with a sudden harshness.

  “No? No what?”

  “No, I don’t have anything to say on that account. Bill doesn’t know what he saw. I reckon he didn’t see anything. With the heat lightning we get around here and boys’ imaginations being what they are … they have a way of playing with them and with anyone fool enough to listen.”

  Jack saw Big Bill shift his weight from one foot to the other. The boy was in the presence of a bonafide gunslinger – a quick, hard man he clearly admired. But the gunslinger was also making his mother unhappy.

  It was a test of allegiance that Jack didn’t want to put Big Bill through.

  “Ma’am I understand that. There’s questions I need to ask, is all.”

  “You can be curious all you like until my husband comes back, he’s only out tending to the cows, and if you’re that curious, you’re welcome to ask him. But he won’t even be as kind as I, and he might reply with buckshot.”

  It was now Jack who shifted his weight from foot to foot. Boy present or not, he was on a job. Still, he didn’t want to be an utter bastard. “That, ma’am, would be an awful stupid thing to do.” He drew back his long coat and let his gun shine. “If you can help me here, I’d be much appreciative. I don’t want to cause trouble, but I need to know a few things.”

  Big Bill was red-faced.

  Jack couldn’t tell if it was anger or embarrassment.

  Mrs. Hostetler remained stoic. “You can’t convince me with that.” She pointed to Jack’s weapon. “You can’t convince me with anything. I’ll not be forced to play just because you’re feeling big.”

  Her eyes blazed blue. Her mouth was set and pressed tight, just a thin line above her chin.

  Jack sighed. “Yes’m. I beg your pardon.”

  “Keep on begging,” she said with contempt.

  Jack put his hat back on and tipped it toward the boy.

  Then he turned on his heels and walked back to Comet, grumbling.

  Just wanted to ask about Zloy. Get some information before I stormed up there. At least confirmation that what the kid saw was what the kid saw. Is that so much to ask?

  Jack mounted Comet and turned the horse back to town.

  But Comet wouldn’t run.

  “Ah, Jesus. Not bad enough I pissed that woman off, you’re gonna dick with me, too?”

  Comet bucked and slammed his hooves down.

  (Wait.)

  From around the back of the house, Big Bill ran.

  The boy threw a stop hand up.

  Comet whinnied.

  (Told ya so.)

  Panting, Big Bill hustled up beside the mounted gunslinger. “Scared. My folks are terrible scared. Don’t hate em, please. They mean well. They’re just doing what they think is best. And after Zloy came by–”


  “When did Zloy come by?” Jack asked more curtly than he meant to.

  “After I started stupid-talkin in town bout what I seen.”

  “Did he threaten you? Threaten your folks?”

  “Said we’d pay heavy if I kept my mouth running. It was a mistake, sir. Me talkin. I shouldn’t have. And then Zloy came around. Had flies buzzing around him. Noise they made near drove us crazy.” Big Bill puts hands up to his ears.

  The figure of Mrs. Hostetler appeared at the corner of the house. Her hands were on her hips. The anger in her face was the least pleasant thing Jack had seen in a while.

  “Big Bill,” Jack said, smiling, “you’re gonna be a big man. I can tell. An honorable man. Now, your mom’s going to rain hell down on you, but I ask just one last thing. What, in his exact words, did Zloy say to you?”

  The boy straightened and licked his lips. He glanced at his mother quickly and then turned back to the gunslinger. “Said he’d put us with the others. Put us in the howling pit.”

  Jack consulted his watch, and muttered, as he stood next to Comet. “It’s Zloy. The boy confirmed it.” He snapped the watch shut as soon as he heard footsteps outside.

  “Leaving?” Palmer asked from just outside the stable.

  “Not quite yet,” Jack responded.

  “Your horse there’s loaded for bear.”

  Comet was, in fact, loaded for war.

  “Yep. Is,” Jack said.

  “You’re heading up to Zloy’s, aren’t you?” Palmer asked, stepping into the doorway. His shadow was cast long, propelled by the lamps in the street. Night was setting fast.

  “Maybe,” Jack responded, patting Comet’s side.

  “Could use a steady hand, couldn’t you?”

  “Maybe.”

  Comet whinnied and clopped a hoof down approvingly.

  They were lightning.

  Jack, Comet, Palmer and his horse rode like hell. Up and angry, towards Zloy. Towards the man Jack needed to end.

  Comet, as always, seemed to know they way. And as he galloped, Jack could feel the muscles bulging in the horse’s legs and neck and chest. The creature was a machine, never tiring. He did not think to thank his luck. He was simply happy to have such a companion.

  They stopped about a hundred yards away from Zloy’s ranch and dismounted behind a small hillock that kept them concealed. Jack didn’t want to ride up noisy, and Palmer agreed. Surprise was the one thing that they had going for them – that and Jack’s terrifying weapon.

  Comet whinnied and stamped a hoof against the ground.

  Jack nodded and put an arm around the horse’s neck. “Now, you stay here or farther back. Don’t get in close.”

  Comet bobbed his head up and down, mane bouncing.

  Jack tucked an apple into the horse’s mouth. “Good boy.”

  “That’s a hell of an animal son,” Palmer said, speaking no words to his own.

  “I know it,” Jack said as he grabbed a heavy bag from Comet and threw it over his shoulder. “He knows what he’s doing. Smart enough to keep his distance. Won’t give us away. Your horse, I hope, will do the same.” Jack paused and sized the sheriff up. “Final thing is, I don’t want to hear any questions about the stuff in my bag. None.”

  Palmer nodded as he patted his horse.

  “Let’s do it,” Jack said.

  When they were twenty-five yards from the house, Jack reached into his bag and pulled out a stubby cylindrical device. Something Palmer thought looked like the squat, rotund cousin of a telescoping sight. Except this tool was drab black and cast a faint green glow onto Jack’s face.

  Jack noticed Palmer’s curious gaze.

  “Lets me see in the dark,” he said.

  Palmer nodded, wanting to ask more questions but also mindful of the gunslinger’s words.

  “Nobody around the house outside. Lights on, though.” Jack pulled his eyes from the device and looked down for a moment. “He must be in the basement. Some workspace underground. But the lights are all on. Guards inside, waiting around, maybe. Easy pickings.”

  Jack smiled at Palmer.

  The smile made Palmer unsure if following this man was a wise life decision.

  At least as far as the sheriff’s own lifespan was concerned.

  The gunslinger snapped off his weird night vision machine and threw it back into his bag of tricks. He motioned for the sheriff to move up, and Palmer did.

  “We need to get in and down,” Jack said, huffing as he toted his bag. “Be on the lookout. Just because nothing showed on my scope doesn’t mean nothing is there.”

  Palmer, walking crouched, turned to nod to the gunslinger. And then, almost on cue, was knocked back by something unseen. Something smelly and slick. Something he could feel pushing down on his chest, breathing hot into his face.

  Black. The damned slippery thing was black as the sky above. Any grip Palmer tried to get on it was lost. The creature’s slimy coating kept his hands from finding purchase. He merely flailed.

  Palmer felt pressure on his shoulder, and then a gush of warm blood.

  He groaned, gritting his teeth against the pain.

  There was a hush, like a whisper, and Palmer felt the thing on top of him go slack.

  Jack was at the sheriff’s side. He kicked the black thing and it tumbled awkwardly away, becoming a motionless heap with smoke curling from a giant hole in its head. Palmer clutched his shoulder, glad to be rid of the monster, but now consumed by a new terror: What in the hell was that?

  “Thermal. I forgot to scan for thermal. Heat signatures,” Jack said as he unscrewed a long cylinder from the barrel of his six-gun. “Silencer,” he said casually, as if Palmer had the foggiest idea what that meant. “And thanks for not screaming. Still yourself if you want to survive, you’re losing blood too fast.”

  Palmer did not want to lay still. He wanted to run away. He wanted to get as far from this lunatic named Jack as possible. As far from these slimy, smelly murder machines as possible. But instead, he nodded to the gunslinger and steeled himself.

  “This will hurt,” Jack said as he rammed the nozzle of a thick, hand-pumped tube into the sheriff’s shoulder. When Jack pressed the handle, there was a hiss of gas. From the end of the device came a focused excretion of pink goo.

  Tears filled Palmer’s eyes and he came as close to screaming as he ever had. His shoulder felt as though it was filling with the coldest ice and the hottest lava at once. Then, as abruptly as it had started, the pain disappeared. Entirely.

  “The medical foam has a slight numbing agent as well as an amphetamine derivative and, of course, serious antibiotics,” Jack said.

  This was all gibberish to Palmer, but he suddenly felt supreme and powerful and did not care that the gunslinger was making no sense whatsoever.

  Jack continued: “The little bit of euphoria you’re feeling will wear off in about five seconds, just long enough for the foam to seal the wound, and for the painkillers to take effect.”

  “What … was that?” Palmer asked.

  “The medical foam or the mutant?”

  “Moo-tent.”

  “Something I should have known was here,” Jack said apologetically. “One of Zloy’s experiments. What Zloy’s been doing to the folks who disappeared.”

  In his head, the gunslinger was keeping count: Nineteen disappeared. One was now accounted for. Eighteen left.

  Jack held his hand out and Palmer took it.

  Once on his feet, Palmer glanced over at the moo-tent. When it was on top of him, he’d assumed it was a guard dog. But now he saw that wasn’t the case. It was child-sized, perhaps as large as a twelve-year-old boy. Black, and slick with ooze. From its back and skull protruded gelatinous tentacles. And while its feet might have fit inside a large shoe, its hands were enormous claws that would never fit inside any glove.

  And yet, its overall shape was still so terrifyingly human …

  As they approached the front door, both picked up a distinct audible hum coming
from below them. A deep thrum they could feel in their bones.

  Jack touched the glass of a window on the porch. It vibrated under his fingers.

  Palmer looked to the gunslinger and arched his eyebrows.

  “Machinery in the basement. Maybe a generator. High-powered,” Jack responded. “It’s all connected.”

  Gibberish, still, but the sheriff got the general idea. Zloy had something big and bad underground that he was playing with. Something which had helped him create the moo-tent that nearly ended Palmer’s life.

  “We’re going in now, right?” Palmer asked.

  “Most definitely, but not through the door,” Jack responded. He pulled another trick from his bag – something that looked very much like the medical gel shooter, but instead of pink stuff, this one had orange goo inside. “Door’s undoubtedly bolted and taking it down would be both noisy and a pain.” He put the nozzle of the orange dispenser against the glass and squeezed the handle. Almost immediately, the orange stuff began to eat through it. Thin trails of smoke wafted up from it. The smell was acrid. “I’d like to be as quiet as possible for as long as possible.”

  Jack made a rough square with the gel along the window and then added a small notch for him to fit his finger through and pull the glass out with.

  Palmer was impressed.

  Jack smirked and carefully put the big slab of glass down. Then he slipped a leg through the win-door and passed through entirely.

  Palmer did likewise.

  Zloy’s house was, abominable intentions aside, gorgeous. The fabric on his chairs was exquisite. The paintings that hung on his walls divine. Even Jack, who made his way by taking lives, had to appreciate it.

  But that appreciation came to a quick end when a gruff looking man sucking a sugar cube rounded a corner and came into the room where Palmer and Jack now stood.

  The henchman stopped, mouth mid-pucker.

  “Hi!” Jack said with cheer. “I’m looking for Samuel Zloy. Think you could help me out?”

  Cube still between his lips, the henchman moved his hand toward the revolver on his hip.

  “Now, now, I wouldn’t do that. No need for that,” Jack said.

  But the henchman didn’t listen, and he drew his gun.

  Jack was faster.