Widowmakers: A Benefit Anthology of Dark Fiction

by James Newman Benefit Anthology

  I gulped for air, tasting as much blood as oxygen, and pulled myself to my knees. Glass crunched beneath me, shards impaling my shins. I cradled Sharon to my unwounded side and grasped at the remnants of the dresser to pull me to my feet. The appearance of a face I knew stopped me cold. My heart sputtered as I looked to the wooden frame that lay in the detritus beside me. I felt my cheeks warm as adrenaline filled my veins with furious energy. I snatched the picture up.

  Jonathan Williams smiled at me from the photograph.

  Darkness gnawed at the edges of sense and I was suddenly lightheaded. The photo blurred in and out of focus as I stared at it, desperate to have imagined him, but the bastard remained. Why was he here? As I pondered that, an echoing thought in the empty well of my mind, I noticed the people with him in the photograph. A young man sat to his right, the killer’s hand on his shoulder. There was no doubting the lineage of the boy, their faces a perfect match for one another.

  The girl with them was a few years younger, her hair pulled into a tight ponytail that brought her face into focus. Sharon wriggled in my arms, the sounds of crumbling stone echoing around us as I stared. Memory flickered to the woman in the street, frantically trying to reach her baby. She was the young girl in the photo. The realization stole my breath away.

  In my arms was the grandchild of the man who’d murdered my family.

  I slumped back into the wreckage with a sigh. Sharon whimpered, and I could hear her mother screaming for her outside. The building continued to tremble, ready to crash down any moment, but I didn’t care. Arafal had set me on the path to damnation.

  A wet chuckle slipped loose at the thought. I stared at the squirming child and all I could see was the face of a killer, the man who took my family from me. Images of what he did played out across the screen of my memories. Blood and cruelty filled my head, my poor boys covered in the gore of their mother before they had their turn beneath the butcher’s knife. My stomach roiled, and I tasted the bitter acid of my past life rising into my throat. They had deserved so much better.

  I glared at Sharon, knowing the blood of her grandfather ran in her veins. Her family would live on while mine had come to a violent, brutal end. Jonathan Williams had taken everything from me, and in my hands was an opportunity for atonement fitting the crime. A single bullet had exacted justice, but there’d been no satisfaction. He hadn’t suffered as I had; his family hadn’t suffered.

  The ceiling shuddered as I stared up at it, casting my spiteful gaze toward the heavens. “Is this why you brought me here?” My shout startled the baby. She cried as I lifted her up before me and stared into the dark swirl of her big eyes, tears spilling silver across her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Sharon. You deserved better, too.”

  There was only one thing left to do.

  * * *

  Brilliant light enveloped me, fading by degrees until I could see beyond it. Arafal floated before me, the green of his eyes piercing my soul. He said nothing for a long moment. The heat of his gaze withered away as he drifted aside so I might see what I’d wrought.

  A body lay face down upon the street, a small cluster of people surrounding it. Blood pooled under its torso, a wet trail leading from the crumpled apartment building steps from where it had been dragged, staining the asphalt a darker black. There were no tears in the eyes of those who hovered about; no wails or sorrowed cries. There was only the somber weight of silence.

  The people turned from the body, leaving it where it lay. They clung to one another as they departed, and I spied the limp bundle in the mother’s arms. She walked toward us, though I know she couldn’t see me or the avenging angel at my side. Sorrow masked her features as she approached, its shadowy touch mirrored on the faces of the others. The group shambled right before us, the young woman’s gaze falling to the motionless child.

  Her sadness fell away.

  The child giggled as they passed through us, stirring up tracers of our ethereal essences. Sharon’s eyes found mine for just an instant, and a smile crept to her lips. It remained there until she faded from my sight.

  “Come, Michael,” Arafal said. “Your family awaits.”

  Moonshine

  By Brett Williams

  Brett Williams is the author of HIGH OCTANE DAMNATION, FAMILY BUSINESS and FROM MURKY DEPTHS. A member of the Horror Writers Association, this multi-genre author writes horror, crime, erotica, and anything else he damn well pleases. His short stories have appeared in Thuglit, Delirium Books' Horrorwired Vol. 1, and Fifty Shades of Decay, to name a few. He lives in Kansas with Eddie Blue, a Jack Russell terrier.

  Brett’s most recent books are THIRD EYE HIGH and LEGEND OF KILL CREEK WOODS from Comet Press

  Find out more at BrettWilliamsFiction.com.

  Those Pixley boys didn't think much of the law. There were a whole mess of 'em. Girls, too. All rough as cobs. Back in those days, the 50s, that is, none were rougher than Bodean and his younger brother Clint. Both were smart as whips. In and out of trouble growing up, it didn't come as any surprise when the pair wised up and put their talents to use. Neither one could pass up the lure of easy money, nor the thrill of cooking and running moonshine.

  'Course they weren't the only ones in Damon County with that idea. Hell, no. The Bowman clan had been running 'shine for generations. And the two families had a legendary (in those parts) feud going on. An intermixing of blood had taken place and a shotgun wedding held and someone got shot and killed. Depending on who you asked, it was either a Pixley or Bowman who died. Not that it mattered none. The end result was the same: one had shot and killed the other and now both families loathed each other. Which, on this night of nights, put the Pixley boys on edge. And rightly so, as blood would be spilled before dawn.

  Bodean and Clint Pixley finished uncovering their submarine still. It had been hidden under a pile of branches and fallen leaves but now stood clear of debris. While Clint tended to the gas burners under the boiler, Bo filled the thumper with beer mash.

  The brothers remained all business during the onset of the night's cook. The mash had been mixed a week earlier and now, fermented, awaited distillation. Clint, the more talkative of the two, broke the silence as he inspected the still. He said, "Goddamn, I hope those Bowman sons-a-bitches ain't plannin' no trouble tonight."

  "Wouldn't be the first time, or the last."

  "They're out there. The woods are too quiet."

  "Maybe so," Bo said.

  "Cain't you feel it?"

  "Until I smell 'em, I ain't gonna worry."

  "Yeah, well, me neither."

  Bo noticed his brother pull his revolver and inspect the cylinders with a slow spin. His own .38, tucked down the back of his denim jeans, provided a little comfort. He didn't like packing heat; he'd never draw on the law. That could get you killed. A Bowman, though, remained an entirely different matter. He tried to take his brother's mind off the Bowmans while the mash heated up. He said:

  "How's Annie doin'?"

  "Aw, she's doin' fine. Don't care much for me leaving her home alone at night. You know how it is."

  "No I don't," Bo ribbed. "You know I don't run with the same gal for long. So how would I know any such thing?"

  "Well, you oughta. You find a girl sweet as Annie, you'll know right off. Then you'll get married."

  "Maybe someday. No time soon, though." Bo grinned, which made Clint grin. The shadows dancing across his face from the lanterns and burners cast his profile in a sinister light. His brother was right; the woods were quiet tonight. Not many insects or critters causing a ruckus but Bo chalked that up to the nights turning chilly. The next time they cooked a batch of 'shine, they'd have to build a campfire to stay warm for sure. Something neither of them wanted to do.

  "Those Bowman boys," Clint said, more to himself than to his brother, "they're a lazy lot. Rather shanghai someone else's batch than make their own. It's only a matter of time 'fore they try an' jump us."

  "I know, I know."

  "Also a matter of time 'fo
re you mess with the wrong man's wife. Either way, you're cruisin' for a bruisin'."

  "I ain't afraid of a few bruises."

  "Well, you're fixin' to get shot."

  "Now that isn't a pleasant thought."

  "Hell, no."

  "If I found one good as Annie, I'd likely get hitched. Until that day arrives, I'm happy skirtin' trouble."

  "Chasin' skirts is more like it."

  "Okay, okay." Bo waved off his brother and busied himself with checking the boiler. It still hadn't reached a high enough temperature to start evaporating the alcohol which would then settle in the thumper, an extra chamber designed to filter impurities before its final cooling and condensation in the coiled copper tubing leading to the mouth. The thumper was an extra step that most moonshiners didn't bother to use, but it helped to remove poisons created in the process. Of course they could simply toss an initial amount of the distillate but the thumper helped create an overall higher quality product, and the Pixley boys took pride in their work. Quality was one of the reasons they used coiled copper instead of a rinsed-out automobile radiator. A radiator could also introduce other undesirable poisons into the alcohol.

  Clint, unable to keep quiet, sat down on a stump next to the mouth of the still. A clear glass jug sat nearby. Cases of empty Mason jars, enough to fill the trunk of their modified car, a 'shine runner, awaited only a few steps away. Clint said, “Annie's been tryin' to have a baby.”

  “No shit?” Bo looked at his brother. “Well, I reckon that's what married folk do.”

  “True. We ain't been married but, what, six months, though.”

  “Kinda hard to believe it's been that long. Seems like just yesterday the two of you got hitched without the help of her daddy's shotgun.”

  “Yeah.”

  “My little brother, a daddy.”

  “Hell, like you ain't got a kid or two shittin' diapers somewhere.”

  “It's possible.” Mrs. Johnson, who was married to a traveling salesman, sprang to mind. “But none that I claim or have to feed. There's a big difference.”

  “Ain't that the truth? You're gonna call me pussy, but on nights like this, when I get that danger vibe, I start thinkin' maybe I should get a regular job instead of risking my ass out here.”

  “You're right.”

  “I am?”

  “Yeah,” Bo said. “You are turning pussy.”

  “To hell with you.”

  “Hey, now, I'm just funnin'. But seriously, you've got a job.”

  “Pumpin' gas ain't no job.”

  “Old man Jones lets you work on cars sometimes, don't he?”

  “Yeah. Sometimes. More often would be better.”

  “Gotta start somewhere, kid.”

  “Who you callin' kid? Hell, I'm old enough to drink.”

  “Like age matters when you make it yourself.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “Don't worry, Clint. You're a great mechanic. Look how you modified that flathead Ford. Ain't nothin' can catch that car when it ain't loaded with 'shine. And with its stiffened suspension and helper springs, not to mention the extra shocks, shit, nothin' the authorities have can catch it loaded down. A year from now, Jones will be keeping you too busy fixin' cars to pump gas.”

  “You think so?”

  “Hell, I know so. I'll have to find myself a new partner.”

  Clint smiled. “Let's not get ahead of ourselves, brother. Annie ain't pregnant yet, and I'm still pumpin' gas. I just wanna be ready if Joe Bowman and his brothers try to jump us tonight.”

  “Not that they know where we keep our still, but yeah, they could have went huntin' for it while we were gone. That's definitely a possibility. Some of the other Bowman boys, but not Joe.”

  “Why not Joe?” Clint said.

  “You didn't hear?”

  “Here what?”

  “Joe. He got bit bad.”

  “Bit by what?”

  “Dog, from what I heard. Some big-ass dog bit the shit outta him. Ripped up his arm. If any Bowmans decide to jump us, I doubt Joe will be with 'em. He wouldn't do them a lick of good.”

  “You don't say. When did this happen?”

  “'Bout a month ago, give or take. I'm surprised you didn't hear.”

  “Shit, Bo, I got more important things to think about when I'm not out here makin' 'shine.”

  “I hear ya, brother. Hey, speakin' of 'shine, where's that tin cup?”

  Alcohol had started dripping out the mouth of the still. Bo found the cup hanging by a wire from the spigot. He let it fill before tossing the liquor in the grass for safe measure. Then he collected a little more distillate before Clint lit it with a match. The flame burned a healthy blue. Bo then slipped the glass jug under the spigot to let it fill. That would be his own private jug of 'shine to last until their next cook. He'd tend to the still and burners while Clint filled Mason jars. But first he wanted to sample their product. He didn't wait until the jug was full. He placed it to his lips and upended it.

  Trees had lost most of their leaves and an autumn nip bit through Bo's flannel shirt but the backwoods gold warmed him on the inside. He could see through the bottom of the jug, through tree branches to the full moon shining down on them. The glowing orb wavered as he spied it through the clear sloshing liquid. Then from somewhere in the distance came a mournful howl. The sound made Bo's skin crawl and he stopped drinking. Once the howl had stopped, he lowered the jug to finish filling it.

  “What the hell was that?” Clint said.

  “Coyote or stray dog, I reckon.”

  “'Course it is.”

  “You are gettin' soft, little brother, letting a sound like that get to ya.”

  “Nah. Just caught me off guard, is all.”

  “Sure. Let's get to work. Move those Mason jars closer. I want us loaded up and well on our way to St. Louis by daybreak.”

  Now those boys, they kept busy stirring the mash, filling jars, stacking cases. Neither one let on that they were scared, and by most folks' standards they weren't scared. But in their own way they were cautious. Overly cautious the way a man would be if he knew something or someone was out to get him. And rightly so. See, I'll tell you now, because I know, while Bo thought that howl belonged to a wolf, a not entirely rare occurrence in those parts back in those days, but I'm telling you now, Bo wasn't entirely wrong.

  Of course he had more to worry about than just that, because he likely figured it would keep its distance and if it didn't he had the .38, although a rifle or shotgun would prove more useful if he came face-to-face with wildlife. No, he had to worry the authorities could show up, or just as likely be waiting for them back at the car. The fact of the matter remained that their biggest threat, Joe or no Joe, was the Bowman boys lookin' to beat or kill them for an easy load of moonshine.

  See, cookin' moonshine was easy. Getting it to market, well, with shootouts and car chases, hillbilly feuds, and shady gangster types, that there is the rub, ain't it?

  Later in the night, after a couple more silence-shattering howls, the Pixley boys had just about filled all the Mason jars with illegal, tax-free liquor. Only one case remained.

  “Bo, you take over and I'll go get the car.”

  Bo accepted an empty jar as he took his brother's spot on the stump. They had followed this same procedure in the past and Bo didn't think anything of it. Clint, the youngest, always went for the car. With their car parked about a mile down the road (the still was hidden about a hundred yards off the road on public land), splitting up would buy them time.

  Clint headed off toward the road carrying a flashlight. He walked sure and steady, not making much noise. Bo watched his brother's silhouette disappear over a slight ridge. They had selected this spot specifically for the concealment that ridge offered. As soon as Clint topped the ridge, the sound of his footsteps disappeared.

  Bo had filled two jars when the nerve-rattling howl sounded again, this time much closer. Not exactly in the direction Clint had went, but the direct
ion he'd be headed once he started toward the car. They typically kept to the woods but followed within eyesight of the dirt road. Parked alongside the road, the car would draw attention. Parked near a known fishing hole and make-out spot, nobody would think twice.

  He was topping off a third jar when a gunshot rang out. The crack caused his heart to seize momentarily in his chest as he launched himself off the stump.

  “Goddamn Bowman bastards.” He set the jar on the still and, grabbing a lantern, rushed off in the direction of the gunshot.

  Two more blasts rocked the night. As Bo topped the ridge he heard his brother cry out in pain. The chilling sound echoed through the hills, masking its exact location.

  What the hell was happening? It hadn't sounded like return gunfire, just his brother's own .38 blasting away. Bo thumbed back the hammer on his drawn snub-nose revolver as he scrambled through low limbs and over rocks, logs, and other debris. He knew he shouldn't alert any potential Bowman boys to his presence with light, but he also knew they'd already be on the lookout for him. If they shot at him, they'd have to hit a moving target, and besides, he'd douse the light before he got too close.

  He reached the road without issue, cranked the lantern until the kerosene-fed flame died. Then, by the light of the full moon, began picking his way through the woods toward the location of the car. He had went maybe twenty-five yards when he spotted a glow from what could only be Clint's flashlight.

  Carefully, after scanning the terrain as best he could, Bo approached. When he had covered half the distance he noticed what appeared to be a body lying prone on the ground. In its shadowed state, he couldn't see much, so he set the lantern down and retrieved the flashlight. What he saw caused his jaw to drop, his blood to freeze in his veins.

  He could tell an animal had done it by the shredded clothing, ripped flesh, blood-splattered leaves, and spilled intestine steaming in the night. The corpse of Clint Pixley, god rest his soul, stared blindly at Bo Pixley, the gory scene blurring through tear-filled eyes.