by Unknown
I pressed the heels of my hands into my eye sockets and groaned. I could feel warm blood trickling down my chest from where the Burned Man had bitten me. My head was pounding, and I was seriously starting to reconsider the whole throwing up thing.
“What can I do, then?” I demanded. “I can’t pay him, unless you can summon me up an angel’s skull, or something worth the same amount.”
The Burned Man sniggered. “If I could summon up things you wouldn’t be broke, would you?” it sneered. “There’s a limit to what I can do, bound and chained to your sodding altar.”
I gave it a sharp look. The Burned Man never said anything it didn’t mean, and it never said anything useful at all unless you asked it a direct question.
“What?” I said. “That sounded like a hint.”
“There was a settlement on the Thames, where London stands now, long before the Romans came,” the Burned Man said. “I was bound before even then, bound by a magic you can’t even begin to imagine, you little puke. So if there are things I can’t say, it’s not because you’re clever, you understand me?”
I nodded slowly. “You can’t say,” I said. “I have to guess?”
The Burned Man shrugged, and rattled its iron chains.
“So,” I began, pausing to wipe the oozing blood off my chest with the back of my hand, “if there’s a limit to what you can do while you’re bound, there might be less of a limit if you weren’t bound, is that what you’re getting at?”
“I couldn’t possibly comment on idle speculation,” the Burned Man said. “I could tell you a little story, I suppose, if you’re bored. Just to pass the time, you understand.”
I shrugged. This was getting obtuse, even for the Burned Man, but like I say it never said anything without a reason.
“Go on then,” I said. “Story time.”
“Back then,” it said, “in Tir Na Nog, before the waters made this land an island, there was an antler druid called Oisin who had the gift of Summoning. Oisin had the words of binding, and the gift of iron, and the power to take his pick of all the demons of Hell to enslave to do his bidding. Oisin chose me, as the most powerful, and bound me into this fetish to serve him. Do you see?”
I frowned at it. “You’re saying he chose you over Astaroth, is that it?” I said.
The Burned Man shrugged. “Is it?” it asked. “Why would that be, I wonder? If a man asked a direct cocking question maybe I could answer it.”
“Are you more powerful than Astaroth?” I asked it.
It laughed. “Is a bear catholic?” it said.
“Ah,” I said. “Well fuck me sideways.”
“Of course,” the Burned Man went on, “not while I’m bound into this hideous little thing and chained to your puking table I’m not.”
“So,” I said, thinking out loud, “if I unbound you, could you get rid of Wormwood for me?”
The Burned Man nodded. “I could,” it said.
“Forever?” I asked. “I don’t mean send him to Spain for a week’s bloody holiday, I mean smash him into atoms so he’ll never bother me again, yeah? And get my warpstone back. And fuck it, I wouldn’t mind his money, and his club, and his minions and his house in Mayfair while you’re about it, yeah?
The Burned Man laughed. “You drive a hard bargain,” it said, “but yeah, why not? I could do that for you. If you let me free.”
“Then I reckon I could let you free,” I said. “If I had that lot I wouldn’t need to work any more, so I wouldn’t need you anyway. It’s a deal.”
“Deal,” the Burned Man hissed. “Do it. Now.”
“Now hang on,” I said, “we need to plan this out. We need to get near him, don’t we? That club’s like a fortress, but he’s always suspected I’ve been sitting on something special, something that gives me my edge. How about I offer him a rematch, double or quits? If I bet you, he’ll be more than happy to go for it. Once we set up the meet, I’ll turn you loose in his club, how’s that?”
The Burned Man didn’t have a lot of choice, of course. I wasn’t stupid – I’d get Wormwood to put his club, his business and everything he owned up, as his stake. If I won the rematch I could keep the Burned Man and the club and everything else, and be happily rich. If not, well, turning the Burned Man loose to get it for me anyway could always be plan B.
***
I phoned Selina back in the early afternoon, and by nine that evening I was leaving the office with a big black holdall in my hand. I had used a circular saw to chop the middle out of the altar, with the burned man still chained to the ancient consecrated wood. It was in the bottom of the holdall now, grumbling and cursing to itself as I carried it down the stairs. I stopped to lock the door behind me, and noticed somebody had scratched “drunken” in front of the “wanker” underneath my sign. Someone had seen me come home last night then. Sod them, whichever way the game went tonight I wouldn’t be living in this shithole much longer.
I lugged the holdall the three miles to Wormwood’s club. I turned into the alley, and stopped in the right place. I moved my hand over the exact piece of graffiti-covered brickwork, and muttered the words of entry under my breath before I walked into it. The wall felt cold and sticky as I walked through it, like a huge spiders web, but it offered no real resistance. There was a dimly lit, grubby bar on the other side, and there were people in the bar. Sort of people, anyway. I recognised Wormwood’s huge, hulking minder, and nodded at him.
“Evening,” I said. “I’m meeting your boss for a hand of cards.”
“You’re Drake, yeah,” he said. “Yeah, Selina said you was coming. Come on up.”
He led me through the crowd of colourful characters in the shabby downstairs bar and up the staircase with its thick red carpet, into the upstairs club. It was smoky up there already, and busier than it ought to be this early in the evening. It seemed like our rematch might have drawn a bit of a crowd.
Wormwood was sitting at his usual table, with the two decks of cards neatly positioned on the green cloth in front of him and an already full ashtray at his elbow. The waitress with the cute tail was nowhere to be seen, but there was a glass and an open bottle waiting for me by the empty chair.
“This had better be good, Drake,” Wormwood said, but his eyes glittered with avarice. He knew it would be.
“Oh yes,” I said. “It is.”
I opened the bag and lifted out the Burned Man, still chained to the sawn-out piece of ancient oak. Wormwood gaped. The cigarette fell out of his mouth and landed in his lap, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“You’re shitting me,” he said.
I shook my head. “The Burned Man,” I said. “That’s my bet.”
“What’s mine?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Against this? My debt, and pretty much everything else you have. Your money, your house, your club and the rest of your business interests. And I’m still undervaluing this, and you know it.”
“Yeah, well, you ain’t got a lot of choice, have you,” he said, and noisily sucked his greyish teeth for a moment while he made up his mind. “Deal.”
Normal blokes would have shaken hands at that point, but neither of us were exactly normal and neither of us much wanted to touch the other one. We nodded at each other instead, and the croupier cut the two decks and began to deal the minor arcana from the thicker deck.
I poured myself a drink. If I’m honest, I’d had a couple already, well a few actually, just to steady my nerves, but now I really felt the need. I tipped the first shot straight down my neck and was refilling the glass before I’d even finished swallowing. This was big. This was really, really big. I could feel the eyes of everyone in the club staring at the Burned Man in something between awe and horror. It was about then that I realised I was the only human in the club tonight. There were none of us today, it was all them. Shit.
I picked up my cards and fanned them, looking at a pair of sixes and a mixture of random junk. I kept my face smooth. Except for the uncontrollable tick that was beat
ing under my left eye, anyway. Wormwood looked down at his own cards, his horrible face expressionless. The way the game is played, you have to decide on your minor arcana, your suits, before you draw your trump.
Wormwood plucked a card out of his fan and discarded it on the table, face down.
“Card,” he said.
I did the same. The dealer dished us each out another minor card, and I had to fight to keep my face still. Six of pentacles - this was more like it.
Wormwood said nothing, nodded. He looked at me. “I’m good,” he said. “Stand.”
I swallowed another shot of whisky and poured again. My palms were itching so bad I wanted to scrape them on the side of the table until they were raw. Three of a kind was good, but this was Wormwood I was playing and tonight I was playing for everything I had.
“Card,” I said, dropping a useless three of swords face down onto the table.
The dealer pushed a new card to me across the table, and I gently eased it up and into my fan. Six of cups! That gave me four of a kind. I nodded, trying and failing to keep my left eye still.
“Stand,” I said.
“Trumps then,” said Wormwood.
The dealer slipped us each a card from the slim deck of major arcana. You can’t change your trump card, once it’s been dealt. That’s the “fate” part of Fates. I gently eased mine up and peered at the corner of the card. It was the motherloving Tower again. I cleared my throat.
“We agreed no raising,” I reminded him. “This is it, Wormwood. What’ve you got?”
He raised an eyebrow at me. “Challengers first,” he said.
I shrugged and laid my cards out. Four sixes and the Tower was a blinding hand, and I knew it. A smug smile was starting to creep across my lips even before I saw the wide-eyed expression on Wormwood’s face.
“Four sixes?” he whispered. “”You’ve got four sixes, you wanker?”
I nodded. “Looks that way,” I said, unable to resist twisting the knife. “It ain’t your lucky night, Wormwood.”
The look of surprise vanished from his face like someone had thrown a switch.
“Yeah it is,” he said.
He turned his cards over, one by one. The little arsehole had a royal flush and the Devil, the top hand in the game. The unbeatable hand. He looked up, and he met my eyes.
“Gimme,” he said.
I lifted the Burned Man up onto the middle of the card table. My hands were trembling, and for once not with drink.
“You want this, Wormwood?” I asked him. “Have it then!”
I spoke the deep, guttural, pre-Roman druidic words the Burned Man had taught me and snapped the tiny iron chains between my fingers. The fetish on the piece of sacred altar wood crumbled into ashes and collapsed onto the discarded playing cards as though it had never been there.
Wormwood stared at me. “You didn’t,” he whispered. “Tell me you didn’t!”
There was an overpowering stench of sulphur from the piece of ancient oak where the Burned Man had been chained. For a moment, nothing happened. Then Wormwood screamed.
He reared up to his feet, throwing the card table over on its side and scattering the cards and my drink and a confetti of cigarette butts across the floor. Wormwood shrieked. He burst into flames a second later, his filthy hair burning like a torch. He lunged at me, mad hatred flaring in his eyes even as they liquefied and ran down his stubbled cheeks. I stumbled backwards out of the way and he crashed face-down onto the floor, burning and screaming. His minder took a step back, gave me a wary look, and exploded.
I gagged as ragged chunks of meat splattered against me. The ceiling of the club caught fire, and fell in. Everyone was screaming now, running for the stairs in a mad panic. I stood amongst the burning devastation, and slowly shook my head.
“You’ve had me, haven’t you?” I said, but there was no reply. “You little bastard, you’ve had me good and proper.”
I crossed the room, dodging burning rafters as they fell from what was left of the roof, and pulled back the heavy, smouldering velvet curtains that covered one of the windows. I looked out at London, and shuddered. Whole city blocks were burning already, huge flares roaring up into the cloudy sky. I could just make out the gigantic, shadowy figure of the Burned Man, standing as tall as the sky. It strode through the hellish waste, setting fires wherever it passed.
“Burn!” it roared, throwing its mighty arms wide.
The night sky flared crimson, the flames racing towards the horizon in an ever expanding circle of blazing fury.
I could only stare, wide eyed with horror, as I watched the world begin to burn.
STEPHEN “B5” JONES
Fly the Moon to Me
Stephen “B5” Jones takes full responsibility for his short story collections, Elf Tales and Other Psychotic Events, Space: Time: and other Improbabilities, and Just So Odd Stories. He has other projects in the works, including at least two full length novels. He lives in New Mexico with his family, visits old Mexico, and drives a school bus. Other works by Stephen “B5” Jones can be found at his Smashwords page.
Fly the Moon to Me, his story for this anthology, proves some things never change. They are as solid as the ground beneath our feet.
6.
FLY THE MOON TO ME
by Stephen “B5” Jones
“Timo,” Weist, the mechanic, said. “I put an extra layer of sealant on your ship. You should be completely airtight now.”
Timo Azimuth looked up at his ship, a patchwork special. It wasn't exactly top of the line, but there was no line, not anymore. For that matter, there was no top, not since the Earth blew apart. The ship was a two-seater, but he never had anyone in the second seat. It had a big cargo bay for whatever salvage Timo could find. He had only actually filled it once.
“More airtight than last time?” Timo had to ask.
From the outside, it looked like an old warehouse with the nose of a small jet sticking out of the front. Actually, that wasn't far from the truth. Weist always built ships using spare parts, and he continued to fix it the same way.
“Where are you headed?” Weist asked.
“I thought I'd swing by Jupiter,” Timo said. “It's been a while since I've been out that far and I could use time away.”
“A long trip,” Weist agreed. “Come'ere, let me show you something.”
Weist led him up a catwalk, pulling himself hand over hand, until they were near the nose of his ship. There was a chalked-in square a couple of yards above the air lock.
“What's that for?” Timo asked.
“Emergency exit,” Weist said. “It opens to the air duct. If you need to, you could climb out through there and follow the zip line into the airlock. Without a suit it would hurt, but it's a short haul and you might come out alive.”
“You think I need it?”
“You know how people are,” Weist said.
“Yeah,” Timo had to agree. “I'll tell you what; if I get lucky this time out and find something worth anything, I'll have you put that in. I can't spend what I don't have.”
“Okay,” Weist said. “I have the parts. I'll set them aside and see if you want them when you get back.”
“Fair enough,” Timo said.
He gave Weist most of his money, and was on his way.
***
Timo checked his heading again. It was off. Even if the instruments didn't show it, Jupiter was a small sphere up ahead, and he kept watching it as it slowly slid to the right.
He pulled out an old tennis ball, something he had salvaged a year or two ago, and placed it carefully between his face and the control panel. It drifted forward, down and to the left.
There was definitely something out there, something large-- or heavy.
It had taken him a month to skate through the asteroid belt. There was lots of gravity pulling from every which direction, and hardly any salvage at all. It made him uneasy to compensate for small sources of gravity. The math made his head hurt, and he could nev
er get the numbers to turn out right.
Computers were in high demand, but they were hard to find intact. Jeenie had found a computer once, actually five, along with a dozen or so cell phones still in their boxes. She'd stumbled on the remaining corner of a computer store. The eggheads wanted to make her a national hero.
Even being her friend hadn't bought him a chance to buy one. It was business. He understood.
This gravity felt like it was coming from a single direction. He wasn't close enough to be running across one of Jupiter's moons, and he'd made sure he wasn't going to cross the Trojans.
Timo should have adjusted his course and kept going, but he had tried so hard to avoid everything. Something deep in the back of his mind wondered what this was.
Besides, he decided, he could use whatever it was for a free gravity assist. If he could get the math to come out right -- or close to right -- he could get some extra momentum before he got to Jupiter. It might even take a couple of hours off the trip.
Timo turned into the gravity. Half with an old calculator he'd bought, and half with guesswork, he put himself in a curve to get close enough to the gravity center to swing him around.
At first there wasn't anything to see. For a brief moment, Timo worried that he might have found the final resting place of the heavy object that had destroyed the Earth. It could have been slowed by the impact with the planet. It would be just his luck, to die in heavy gravity or be swung out of the whole system.
That's when he saw it.
“Holy...” Timo said. He wanted to say more, but he couldn’t think of anything to say.
It was the Moon.
***
The Earth didn't really explode. The eggheads thought it might have been a piece of a neutron star, or something like it. It had fallen right though the Earth and left in its wake an ever expanding donut of debris.
Maybe half a million people on the planet survived the initial impact. There were a few dozen more in space ships or on the Mars expedition -- most of them survived. The people who happened to be in some kind of sealed environment and who had found some form of sustainability were the lucky ones. If one could call it luck.