The Case of the Pitcher's Pendant

by Tee Morris

  “I figured you’d drive, and the detective and I would talk on the way. If what he says is true, then you were planning to off us all, so we can get rid of him however you planned for the rest of us. If all this winds up a lie, we can still send him for a swim once we’re in the air.” He took a few steps closer to Archie. “I’m just gonna grab the pendant, and then we can discuss our future together. Oka—”

  The simple question suddenly erupted into a scream accompanied by a hard crunch, the grinding and snapping of bones mingling with a sound of something thick tearing apart. Miles probably didn’t know the cacophony of gore, but I did. I could have gone my whole lifetime without hearing it again.

  Riley toppled and fell to the ground, the gunshot ripping through the momentary silent shock that had fallen across the room. The echo didn’t linger for long as a howl erupted from Archie, the sound nudging a few paintings off their hooks and rattling the glass in its panes. Turning towards the sound also meant turning towards the smell, the smell of fresh blood and exposed flesh.

  Archie’s mouth was stretching open so wide, it resembled an insect’s mandibles. The jaw muscles stretched his lips to form a square orifice, the delicate skin there splitting under the abnormal strain. There was no blood to fall from these numerous slits as his heart was no longer pumping, but still his mouth dripped with it. Blood. Bone. Sinew. Meat. His open maw showed all this, and none of it belonged to him. It had once belonged to Riley. The unnatural bite had torn completely through Riley’s ankle, too much for Archie to consume in only three chews.

  Not bad for a guy who’d been dead a few minutes ago.

  The Pendant of Coe knows no boundaries to what it blesses upon its bearer, so long as the desire is strong and no doubt lingers within.

  The Pitcher’s Pendant knows no boundaries. It seemed this included the boundary of death. Archie’s desire to know what the hell was going on and who it was that had played him like a centaur’s lyre must have been strong. I’d make a wizard’s wager that the desire for payback when he learned his pal, Riley, had killed him, was even stronger.

  Miles was trying to keep it together, but failing miserably. I was willing to give Riley a wave-along as he had good reason to fall apart. He only needed to look over his shoulder to see his right foot still remaining where he had been standing. Riley’s sweat-kissed brow wrinkled as he stared in fascination at how the bones of his lower shin just reached up to nothing. It wasn’t every day you got a chance to see what your skin encased, and for Riley this was a last-in-a-lifetime kind of experience. Both of them, though, were seeing something that I had hoped I wouldn’t see in this world: a creature of the undead.

  The undead, I had noticed in my ventures through the library, were a reoccurring theme in this world’s “scare the piss out of folks” literature. Problem was, no one was really getting the undead right. At least, that had been my opinion until last Halloween when I had dared Gertie to find me a good scare. (Bit of advice: Never dare anyone from New Zealand to anything. They play for keeps.) From the library archives, she unearthed six magazines that had rolled off of Gutenberg’s gadget a few years before I arrived. The “publication” (using that term loosely) looked no better than those silly rags Mick reads.

  Gertie wasn’t letting me judge this particular story by its cover. This six-part tale was entitled “Herbert West, Reanimator”. It was written by some guy named Lovecraft.

  I didn’t sleep a wink that night. Or the next.

  Ol’ Howie P. didn’t miss a beat. In particular, there was one aspect of the undead that other horror authors glossed over, but that Lovecraft nailed harder than spikes into a coffin top: The undead’s penchant for violence. He had quite effectively captured what happens when a rational being is reduced to the most primal of states. Had he my experiences, he would have added two more details to West’s serial. The first would be speed. It was a misconception that the undead walked heavy-footed, with eyes vacant and mouths agape, wandering as the eternally damned in search of fresh flesh. Try again. The undead, because they knew they were eternally damned and wouldn’t be getting back to their dirt nap for quite some time, were cranky, hungry, and ready to make a ruckus. That kind of motivation makes you move. Fast. The undead were some of the most fleet-footed opponents on the battlefield.

  The undulating sound coming from Archie’s throat reminded me of those sabertooths that Goblins occasionally used as battle-cats. Riley looked numb with an over-abundance of memories, sensation, and fear as the pallid, deformed thing he once knew as Archie leapt from its corner of the sitting room, easily spanning the distance in one bound. It landed on top of Riley, pinning him to the floor by his shoulders. Riley would have probably preferred to go into a stunned state of shock, but instead he was retching from the putrid stench that wafted from Archie’s abnormally wide mouth.

  I wished the second bite, the one that took the right half of Riley’s chest, had finished the job. It hadn’t. It was Archie snapping Riley’s neck that finally stopped the screaming.

  Miles must not have been too broken up to see his sweet little buttercup lose a portion of his rib cage, because he summoned up the courage to reach for Riley’s piece as Archie’s head rocked back and forth, working the heart out of its nest of muscle, arteries, veins and nerves. He braced the gun in his grip, drawing a bead on the dining undead.

  Archie’s head rocked slightly as the slug entered into his scalp and exploded out the right temple.

  Archie went still for a moment, and then the head craned back to consider Miles Waterson. A strand of blood, textured with bits of muscle and artery, dripped from his chin and drizzled a strange pattern on a small clean patch of Riley’s dress shirt.

  Yeah, good job, Waterson. You just pissed off the undead.

  This was the second detail Lovecraft would have captured, if Lovecraft knew the undead as well as I did. The undead, as I’d mentioned before, were cranky, hungry, and fast, reduced to the most base of instincts. If your undead is re-animated soon enough after its demise, though, the intellect will sometimes stick around. This means you’d have an undead killing machine that was cranky, hungry, fast, and sporting a terrific memory for names and faces.

  Especially for the dinks who had double-crossed them.

  “Mmmmmmiiiiiiillllllllllleeeeeeessssssssss,” Archie groaned, his benefactor’s name ending as a serpent’s salutation. “You look upset.”

  Miles pulled the trigger again. This time, he took out an eye, the force of the gunshot snapping Archie’s head back. It didn’t stay snapped back for long. Archie craned his head from side to side, as if to work out a kink.

  “I’m sure we can talk about this,” Archie’s grating voice said assuredly. “You know, get those pesky details in order so we’re all working together to the same goal. You remember saying that to us?”

  Another gunshot. Square in the chest.

  Archie took two steps back, Riley’s fresh corpse threatening to topple him. Instead, he righted himself and asked, “What’s wrong, Miles? Cat got your tongue?”

  He knelt down and pried Riley’s mouth open. We both heard something rip, and then Archie stood up again, offering Miles what covered his open hand.

  “Here. Have Riley’s. He doesn’t need it anymore.” And then the bloody Undead Archie smiled.

  When the undead smile, I want to hide. There wasn’t anywhere for me to go right now, but I wondered for a moment if I could blend into the furniture. Archie’s beef wasn’t with me, and for that I was thankful.

  Then again, once he finished snacking on Miles, there were no rules saying I wasn’t going to be the after-dinner mint.

  Keeping that thought in the forefront of my mind, I made my move toward my haversack. The world suddenly tipped over, and I was lying face down against the floor. It’s not like I was dizzy from the smell of gore. Hell, I had plenty of adrenaline going through me to keep me wide awake and alert. Not even a pot of Mick’s strongest could snap me awake like this. No, I had tripped on someth
ing.

  I looked back. Correction: Something had tripped me up.

  Riley’s hand was now locked around my ankle, and he was trying to lift himself up into something like a sitting position. I was going to take a guess the missing organs, ribs, and muscle made finding his center a little difficult. Just in leaning up, he groaned, spitting up blood that was in his mouth on account of Archie’s recent desecration.

  So shall the brothers and sisters within the bearer’s reach—physical and spiritual—also rejoice in its power.

  Great. Just great.

  “Ooooooohhh, look at what I did,” Archie grunted, motioning to Riley. He looked at the tongue in his hand, shrugged, and tossed it aside. “Now here’s a thought, Miles. You fucked me over, but only as a business partner. With Riley here, it’s a bit more literal.” His entire body convulsed as he chortled. “I think he’s going be a lot angrier than me, so I’d better not kill you. Not right away, anyway.”

  Riley tugged at my ankle. He wasn’t necessarily pissed at me, but that didn’t change the fact I was the closest thing he could grab for a quick bite. He was now rocking back and forth, attempting to rock on top of me, maybe so he could chew on my thigh as easily as a king would sink his choppers into a turkey leg.

  I wriggled on to my side so that I was able to see him. My other leg was free, and I cocked it back as I saw the mutilated head and torso begin to roll toward me. The sole of my shoe connected with his face. His hold on me tightened and he came in for a second try at my leg. This time, I caught him just under the chin. His head slowly came back to look at me. Again, my foot shot out. With each kick, I repeated a mantra to give my leg a bit more power.

  Fuck. Kick! You. Kick! H. Kick! P. Kick! Love. Kick! Craft.

  My shoe was just stomping into ground beef that once was a face by the time he finally let me go. With my ankle free of the stinging vise-like grip, I pulled myself over to my haversack.

  I heard another gunshot. Six. Miles had just bought his last bit of time.

  Riley was moving for me again, but instead of falling on my leg he fell toward the head of my battle axe. He was still not able to control his center, so his free arm flailed in a pathetic attempt to either stop his fall or knock away my axe. It didn’t accomplish either. My edge connected with his forehead, slicing through the skin and skull like a cook’s knife through tender lamb. The bottom half of his brain splattered out against the floor while the top hit the couch.

  Wow—that damn couch was ruined now.

  Click. Click. Click.

  Miles was staring at the pistol trembling in his grasp. Click. Click. He kept looking between the gun and Archie, trying to will bullets into the cylinder.

  Undead Archie stopped advancing for a moment, crouched back, and then slipped over to Miles’ left. “Boo,” he taunted.

  Miles let out a little scream and tried to pistol-whip Archie, but he was gone. Archie now appeared behind Miles, giving a soft brush of his fetid, stale breath against Miles’ nape. This time when the .38 came around, Archie was waiting, smiling that seriously creepy smile that made me want to hide.

  The wet crunch ripped through the sitting room. Miles Waterson had some power in those arms, some stock in that frame of his. Maybe he wasn’t as hard as a seasoned warrior, but he had enough power in that swing of his to knock Undead Archie off balance.

  This was Miles’ chance to make a break for it, his moment to bolt for the door. While the undead were a pain-in-the-ass to kill, it was possible to give them enough of a whack to disorient them. Miles didn’t know that, of course, but he should have recognized his chance for flight regardless.

  When he finally did recognize it, it was too late.

  Undead Archie grabbed the back of Miles’ neck, lifted him off the polished marble, and planted the jeweler square in front of him. Miles was trying desperately to breathe, but what he was looking at defied reason and rationality. Hell, it was just plain wrong. Archie’s head was now resting with an ear against his shoulder. Again, my ears filled with the wet, gurgling sound of bones rubbing and snapping against each other as this head righted itself, to glare eye-to-eye at Miles.

  “Ow,” Archie grunted. “That stung.”

  You think that hurt, pal, I thought as I let fly my battle axe, This’ll leave a mark.

  The axe was spinning laterally, cutting through the air as a discus would. Its whine was getting louder the more it spun, its glow growing enough to cast faint shadows behind Miles. Archie’s abnormal mouth had opened once more to its widest; but as he heard my weapon, he turned—or at least started to turn—to the sound. His head was suspended in mid-air for a moment, its end-over-end tumble interrupted by the rest of his body. Somehow, it remained standing.

  I heard Miles Waterson’s high pitched scream over the whine, and then heard it end abruptly.

  The weapon’s chocolate-leather handle clocked the jeweler so hard on the temple that it knocked him out cold. Good thing, too, as he landed next to Archie’s headless corpse.

  I stared at my trusted weapon now buried deep in the far wall. An aching ripple passed through me as I realized how much effort it was going to take to dislodge it. I slumped down to my knees. With a slightly lower perspective, I could now take in the carnage surrounding me. Riley had been hacked up worse than a prize buck by a butcher’s apprentice. Archie was hardly in any better shape. He had five slugs inside of him; the first having been the one that had killed him, while my axe had finally taken him down.

  And there was Miles, out cold, sporting a knot on his temple that would be looking mighty angry come this afternoon.

  I took a deep breath and pulled myself back on my feet. When I finally closed this case, I was going to sleep for a year.

  Since there was no neck to keep the chain in place, the Pitcher’s Pendant was now between Miles and Headless Archie. It was a real shame: Miles was finally within reach of all that power. Swing and a miss. Strike Three. I picked up the blood-stained talisman and caught the whiff of electricity now mingling with another coppery scent. Looking at it up close like this, I was treated to a memory of that night on Death Mountain. Faces, names, and voices now seemed to echo in my head. I wondered what that kid Sirus was up to. Hopefully, he’d started that forge like he said he would. And that Elf. Kiah was her name. She was a dish. A redhead, skilled with both bow and blade. Nice tits, too.

  Turning the pendant over, I was treated to an etching of sunrise across the Shri-Mela Plains. Yeah, that’s right, Plains Humans forged this talisman. On the human-settled end of that Acryonis expanse, Coe was a village dedicated to the control of magic, attempting to discover the nature of sorcery. How did it corrupt souls? Could the corruption be reversed? Was Light truly in equal opposition to Dark? My eyes studied the etching, and sure enough, I could see the clouds moving and the sunlight disappearing into their patchy embrace. I’d forgotten how beautiful the sunrises were back home.

  Something tickled my cheek. I reached up and wiped away what I thought would be blood. When I looked at the pendant again, the etching was still. Goddamn magic inside this trinket was picking up on my own needs and wants. It knew within moments of my touch. Goddamn magic.

  What really bothered me was that I knew I was going to need its power. I took another look around me, and nodded for my own sake, for my own validation.

  “Okay then.” I held up the Pendant of Coe so I was eye-to-talisman with it, “but let’s get something straight: I’m calling the shots here. Not you. We do this tonight, and then we find someplace better suited for a trinket like you.”

  I glanced at the clock showing the wee small hours of the morning, then turned to Miles Waterson. “We’re on borrowed time here...” he had said earlier.

  “Let’s see if I can’t pawn this pendant here for just a few minutes more,” I muttered to myself.

  Chapter Twenty

  For the Love of the Game

  A ballpark is a beautiful place to visit on a warm, summer afternoon, especially if the breeze
is strong off the Great Lake and the sky is clear. Those days reminded me of many a pleasant trek through Acryonis. Me and my boys would be on our way to carry out some assignment, a gentle, steady wind sweetly kissing our faces. We would make record time to our night’s camp, rest easy, and then at daybreak, do what we were hired to do. Those were great days to be alive.

  Today, though, was the other kind of day.

  I got out of the cab, and the rain was still coming down. It was heavy. It was miserable. It had effectively rained out the final game between the Mariners and my beloved Cubbies, a final game that, at this rate, would never be played. The brim of my hat bobbed up and down as pellets of water struck it hard, but I looked defiantly upward, daring my Stetson to fall off my noggin. With a featureless grey sky behind it, Wrigley Field looked more imposing than inviting. Even though I could hear in my ears the cadence of raindrops against my raincoat and hat, I didn’t like the quiet. Not at all.

  Days like this, when dressed in infantry armor, battle axe at the ready, soaked clothing adding a few more stone to your weight, tended to make you cranky as hell. When you’re cranky and facing a platoon of Ogres, the smart money is on the cranky Dwarves. This added ferocity is not for Emperor, for the lands and loves of Gryfennos, or even for Family Name. It was knowing that the sooner all this shit was taken care of, the sooner a pint of the brewer’s best and a raging fire in the hearth awaited you at My Friend’s Cousin. That was the tavern of choice for the Stormin’ Scrappies; and when the brewer was at the top of his game, the keg’s bounty rivaled that of the Emperor’s Private Stock.

  And let me tell you, the brewer at My Friend’s Cousin was always at the top of his game.

  Days like this one made me homesick for my stomping grounds. Especially when I could feel that oppressive tension in the air.

  The pounding deluge was amplified in the entranceway of the prettiest diamond in Chicago, a diamond too big to fit on a dame’s finger. I wanted to find that comfort I always felt when I came here for an afternoon’s diversion, but it wasn’t going to happen today. I wasn’t a stranger to this place, but I was hardly used to the seats I was heading to. My feet scuffed against the stairs as I started my climb to the private office, an overlook that I could tell would offer a particularly breathtaking view of the ball field. It would also, I had no doubt, give a good view of the bleachers, so one could get a bird’s eye view of how many backsides were taking up space. An informal method of keeping an eye on the peasants, making sure they were still interested in the games and the gladiators involved therein.