The Black Death

by Aric Davis

  “I did, black as an eclipse,” said Frank, and Matt felt as if he’d been punched in the guts.

  “You can see that?” Matt asked, and three heads swiveled toward him.

  “Of course we can,” said Frank. “It’s there plain as day to look at.”

  Can they see the Dark Man’s mark, Matt thought, or is this something else? Matt let the thought slide away to answer Frank, who was giving him the kind of look that only someone with a long history of working in law enforcement can give. “Yeah, I just meant that I thought I was seeing things when I noticed them earlier. I’ve never seen anyone with eyes like that before.” Or at least not that I can tell you about if I want to stay out of the loony bin, that is.

  “That’s understandable,” said Frank. “I was a bit put off the first time I saw them, too.”

  “What is it?”

  Matt watched Flo, Frank, and Lem all exchange a glance before Frank answered, and again, Matt was unsure if he was missing something or if they were just being paranoid around an outsider. “Why don’t I tell you a little later,” said Frank. “Right now, I need to get this guy in a cell, and I’m sure Lem wouldn’t mind having a talk about that broken window.”

  “The window’s only the half of it,” said Lem. “You should see my store!”

  “I will. Let me get this guy in a cell first,” Frank said. “Matt, you should just go park your keister over at Kenny’s—that’s the gas station. Right now, his tow truck is missing, but I have a feeling when it returns, it will have grown itself a motorcycle. Once you figure that out, come see me and I’ll get you your bag back.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Matt found a seat near the front door to the gas station. The door was locked, and someone—presumably Kenny—had stuck a sign on it that said, Back Soon, Thanks for Your Patience. Matt wasn’t feeling particularly patient when he saw it. The heat was only getting worse, and he wanted his bag back, along with some answers. When he sat down, though, Matt felt different. The road had been wearing him thin in ways that he hadn’t realized, and it was actually nice to just be somewhere for a few minutes.

  That wasn’t something he was concerned with now, though. Food was a much more pressing need, and even the snack cakes, jerky, and other garbage he could see through the service station’s windows looked pretty good at the moment. The noise of a diesel engine interrupted Matt’s daydream of a steak dinner with an ice-cold glass of milk. Raising his head, he saw a wrecker pulling into the small parking lot. His bike was in the back, and a man—presumably Kenny—was driving. Matt stood, hunger momentarily forgotten, and brushed his hands off on his pants. The truck stopped in front of a closed garage door, and Kenny jumped out.

  “This your scoot, buddy?”

  “That’s the one. You’re Kenny?”

  “I am,” said Kenny, and Matt shook his offered and filthy hand. “Frank said you were Mr. Cahill?”

  “Matt will work just fine. Any idea what’s wrong with her?”

  “No. I’ve got some guesses, but so far, that’s all they are. That said, if we were wagerin’ on it, I’d guess the tranny. You come back in a few hours, I’ll let you know just what exactly got fucked up and what it’s going to cost to unfuck it. You got any family around here?”

  “Nope, I was just blowing through.”

  “I’ve had thoughts of doing a similar thing,” said Kenny, gesturing with a nearly black hand at the dilapidated service station, “but I stay here and live the dream. Shoot, you only live once.”

  If you’re lucky, you only live once, thought Matt as he said, “Boy, that’s the truth.”

  “Well, in any case,” said Kenny, “there’s a little shed out back of the gas station, used to be where my granddaddy lived before posterity come to town. You’re welcome to stay there if you’d like. There ain’t nothin’ worth stealin’, and the TV works about as well as one without electricity usually does, but it is four walls and some shingles, and you can make the march to Mortimer’s if you get hungry.”

  “That’s really kind of you, Kenny. It so happens that I do need a place to lie down, and to be perfectly honest, it’s been a few days since my head hit a pillow.”

  “Well, Travelin’ Matt, here’s a key to the place,” Kenny said as he removed a green key fob attached to a key embossed to look like the American flag from his pocket. “I’d say you can go on and get settled, but you haven’t got anything with you.”

  “Much obliged. Yeah, the sheriff still has my stuff with him. I’m going to head on over in a bit and try to convince him to give it back to me.” Matt had meant the comment to be lighthearted, but Kenny’s eyes turned to slits as he spoke, and the mechanic leaned in as if to tell an old friend a secret.

  “You be careful with Frank. He don’t respect our ways as much as he ought to. He’s from around here, not like the guy who disappeared a few sheriffs back, but that don’t mean he won’t stick his nose in where it ought not get stuck. Point bein’, him and that bitch Flo can be cantankerous about the private doin’s of some individuals. Live and let live is what I say, and it’s what the Lord wants as well.”

  “Amen to that,” Matt said, unsure of how else to respond.

  “Yup,” said Kenny, who apparently considered amen to be a good way to end both a prayer and a conversation. Matt watched as Kenny opened the garage and then drove the truck inside. Seeing the broken bike on its back was actually a little sad. Matt had become more attached to the bike than he had to anything in a very long time. Giving a last look to the service station and listening to Kenny grunt with effort inside the garage, Matt walked back to the sheriff’s office.

  Flo was sitting at her desk, and Matt felt a little better about her shotgun this time around. Both of her hands were on the desk, and she was reading a Joe R. Lansdale book. She gave him a look and a nod but otherwise kept right on reading.

  “Frank’s in his office,” she said, then tilted her head and followed it up with, “through there.”

  “Thanks,” said Matt, but there was no response as he strode past her desk. There were two doorways from which to choose, but one was closed and the other had Frank in it, so Matt picked that one, rapping his knuckles twice on the doorframe before walking in. Frank gave him a nod as he entered and said, “Have a seat. I just have to fill out a couple more things.”

  There were two chairs in front of Frank’s desk, a beat-up red one and a beat-up green one. Matt settled on green and sat down. Despite the looks, the chair wasn’t half bad for sitting. After a few minutes, Frank set down the pen and leaned back in his own seat.

  “We can forgo the ID process, if it’s all the same to you. I owe you one, big time, and I’d hate to find out that I had to lock you up for something.” Frank sighed, then wiped a hand across his face. “I’ve been petitioning the DEA for a few years about the drug problem we have here in Spencer County, and all they ever tell me is that I need to document every drug case that I get. So I do, and send all my stuff in every year, both to them and the governor, and about a month later, I get a nice form letter telling me how understaffed they are and that I need to make sure to document every drug case that I come across. I can show you the letters if you’d like.”

  “No,” Matt said, smiling. “I’ll take your word on it. What I would like to know is what in God’s name was that kid on?”

  “New meth strain. We started seeing it about six months ago. Streets call it ‘the Plague.’ It’s like regular meth, but much more powerful than anything I’ve ever seen before. People who are already addicted to meth flock to it, and for most of them, it’s not a big deal, legal ramifications aside. For the average user, it’s supposed to be extremely euphoric and makes even the most basic motor skills difficult. Then you’ve got cases like the kid you kicked. For some of the junkies—and we have yet to know exactly what causes it, but my guess would be just plain old too much bad gas in a poorly made engine—they tweak out. Lem, the guy who owns the store, said t
hat Jeff was stuffing his pockets with everything they could hold, wasn’t even trying to conceal the fact that he was stealing. Lem confronted him about it—”

  “And they came through the glass,” said Matt. “I saw that part.”

  “You didn’t see the inside of Lem’s, though. His store is trashed. Insurance will make good on it, but that’s the only place around here to buy things, and people are going to be limited on what they need until he restocks and gets the place fixed up. I think if he were a younger man, he’d move. He’s fed up. Not that I blame him. He shot a kid on his property a couple years ago, and even though it was a legit kill in the eyes of the law, he had to make it good with the Redneck Mafia.”

  “That’s a real thing?”

  “Yep, silly name and all. Bunch of idiots who are leftovers from bootlegging and Klan nonsense. They control most of the meth around here and I’m pretty sure are the sole supplier of this Plague crap. Shoot, they’re half the reason I need the DEA to come down and help. You’d be surprised at how many guys around here would never want anything to do with them as far as joining but will happily take some money or other favors to give a blind eye for whatever it is they’re up to. I’m convinced that’s how they get around all of the trafficking issues. I haven’t busted anybody who could be tied to them with any real quantity of meth, ever, and the folks I do bust they’re happy to see gone—less competition and no reason for them to hide a body. Anyways, I’ve bent your ear long enough. Here’s your stuff.”

  Matt took the offered bag from Frank and was happy when he could feel the handle of the ax through it. He hated being away from it for even a few moments—the tool had served him so well against too many people corrupted by Mr. Dark.

  “Thanks for all your help, Frank. It’s much appreciated. I’ll be staying in the shack behind Kenny’s station for a little bit, assuming my bike needs more time than today has left.”

  “Good luck to you,” said Frank, “and thanks again. If you need any help while you’re here, don’t hesitate to let me know. As far as that goes, don’t take my ramblings the wrong way. I don’t talk to outsiders too often, and I was just venting. Most of the folks around here are good people. They’re just misguided at times, same as anywhere else.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Mortimer’s was cleaner than Matt had expected it to be by a fair amount, though it was as dark as most small-town watering holes tend to be. Even more surprising, and quite welcome, was the central air-conditioning and lack of cigarette smoke. Matt walked past a sign that said Seat Yourself and did just that, ignoring the bar and sitting at a table in the corner. Matt chose a seat on the wall that would let him see the bar and the door and gave a look around.

  There were three old-timers having a drink at the bar and watching baseball, and the man behind was so stereotypical bartender that it was hard to believe. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, both forearms glaring tattoos at Matt, one with the words Death Before Dishonor over a knife and the other of a hula girl. Around the barkeep’s waist was an immaculately clean apron, and when he saw Matt looking, he gave him a nod. Leaning back in the chair, Matt was fine waiting. The air was cool, and there was no angry drunk, zombified maniac, or black-eyed meth freak to deal with. All in all, pretty perfect. The bartender came by a few minutes later, and Matt read the embroidered name on his shirt: Mort.

  “How you doing?” Mort asked before setting a glass of water in front of Matt.

  “I’m doing all right. Had some bike trouble, so this might not be the last I see of you.”

  “’S all right with me, especially if you brought cash.” One of the men at the bar howled with laughter, and the bartender spun, gave the man a look that went ignored, and turned back to Matt. “Those old buggers think that retirement means you just get hammered all day. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll take the money, but it can be a little much. Can I get you a drink?”

  “I’ll take a beer—whatever’s on draft is fine with me—and I’d look at a menu if you had one.”

  “No problem. I’ll go wake up the cook and bring you that menu and a beer. Lake perch is nine dollars. I think he uses too much salt in the breading, but most of the folks around here seem to like it that way, so I let it slide.”

  Mort went back to his bar with its drunks, and Matt took a drink of the water. It was cold, but that was about all it had going for it. The water had a metallic taste to it, and though the glass was clean, it had a grit to it, as if some of the soap still needed to be rinsed off. Assuming it was an old bar trick being used by an old bartender, Matt set the glass on the table. Mort returned a few moments later, setting Matt’s beer on the table and handing over the menu. Matt took it with a nod, had a sip of beer from an unsurprisingly properly rinsed mug, and gave a look to the menu as Mort walked away. The food, just like Mort and the trick with the dirty glass, was exactly what Matt had expected.

  When Mort came back a few minutes later, Matt’s beer was empty, and he ordered another draft and the perch special. As he was ordering, three men of the type Matt had expected to see holding down stools came in and sat at the end of the bar away from the old-timers. The first of them howled like a wolf, and Mort got a cross look on his face that disappeared as fast as it had arrived.

  “I’ll get him cooking that perch, but the draft will be a few minutes.” Mort jerked his shoulder toward the new arrivals, and Matt gave him a nod back, then watched Mort walk to the men, shake their hands, and then clap one of them on the back. Matt hadn’t noticed at first, but all three men had black bandannas hanging out of their back left pockets, and all looked as if they could probably throw their weight around if they felt it necessary. Without being told, Matt got the sort of feeling he always trusted, and he knew that these men were either in that Redneck Mafia the sheriff had mentioned or were somehow associated with it. Cautious to observe without looking as if he was doing so, Matt began to gather what he could about the men. Probably going to be a here a few days, in any case. May as well give a look to the local wildlife. That look was tempered as a beer and a plate of golden perch fillets, fries, and tartar sauce arrived at Matt’s table.

  As much as he wanted to continue to observe the men, food mollified him, and Matt set to eating. For their part, the men at the bar didn’t have a whole lot going on, either. They were drinking beer, doing shots of whiskey, and watching the same ball game as the old men. Had Matt not seen the kid with dead eyes attacking people like an animal in the street, he would have thought that maybe Kenny was right and that Sheriff Frank was overstepping the odd boundaries that a small-town lawman can find all around him.

  The black eyes, though, they changed things. So did that sure feeling that the men sitting at the bar were part of the Redneck Mafia. Matt was used to that sort of sure feeling. He’d felt it before. It usually happened right before people with rotting flesh started to try to kill him and every innocent person around him. He’d known that, when he eventually got off the bike, he was going to find trouble, but he hadn’t expected it to be like this. He smiled as he folded a piece of perch into his mouth. Not the worst problem to have, too much normal. Deciding that he’d had enough perch, beer, and work as a detective, Matt walked to the bar, where Mort the bartender was talking to the three rough-looking guys.

  “I need to settle up when you get a minute,” said Matt. “The food was great, but I need to see if Kenny can give me an update on my ride.”

  All three of the men sitting at the bar turned to look at him as Mort walked away from the bar, and the one closest to him said, “What brings you in here? There are definitely better shitholes out there, and I mean in any given direction. Right, Mort?”

  Matt was holding his bag under his arm, and he could feel the ax handle inside it. It was comforting in a small way, but the ax in his hand would have been a measure of security that was almost incomparable.

  “If I could have picked a spot, I’m not sure where I would have landed,” said Matt, “but something on my bike died
and said I was going to be stuck sitting here for a bit.”

  The man nodded. The other two had already lost interest and gone back to drinking and watching baseball. Mort came back to the bar and slid a handwritten bill across it. The paper was set in a little plastic dish, and Matt dropped a twenty in it.

  “You can keep the change,” Matt said to Mort, then turned to the other man and said, “You fellas have a nice day. I’m going to go see if my engine trouble has been diagnosed.”

  “Best of luck,” said the man, turning and winking at Mort, “and if you get bored while you’re waiting on that moron to fix your wheels, have old Mort here give me a call. My name’s Free, and I can set you up with a few different versions of a good time.”

  “That sounds good,” said Matt, “real good, as a matter of fact. I’m Matt Cahill, and I’ll see you around.”

  Matt was almost stammering the words as he backed away from the man. Only the timing of a home run in the baseball game kept attention from being set upon him. When Free had turned toward Matt, he could see that a small tendril of rotten flesh was creeping up his neck. The exposed and raw skin made several of the tendons in the man’s throat look broken and ruined, and Matt knew that no matter the condition of the bike, he was going to have to find Free again.

  ***

  There was undoubtedly evil in Free. Matt could see that, and probably even somebody without his unique vision could, too, though not as vividly. But the nastiness infecting Free’s soul hadn’t consumed him yet. There was a chance Matt could still save him, or at least prevent Free from doing something awful to someone else.

  It would be nice if Matt didn’t have to kill him.

  Matt pondered the thought as he made the short trip to Kenny’s garage, crossing in front of the sheriff’s office, his heart still racing in his chest. It seemed that if it was possible, then perhaps he was arriving before Mr. Dark’s assimilation was complete. Kenny calling to him made Matt jump, and he headed toward the voice and the gas station.