by Jake Bible
“You don’t have a butthole,” the woman stated like she was informing him of something he didn’t know.
“I didn’t say they could put anything up my butthole, just that that’s what they’re yelling they want to do,” Morty replied. He waited, but the woman didn’t say anything. “Yeah, so I’m Morty, a grotesque as you already guessed. And you are . . . ?”
The woman looked like she wasn’t going to answer then shrugged, set the barrels of the shotgun to rest against her shoulder, and gave Morty a look like she was doing him the greatest favor ever in the history of favors. “Shandra,” the woman replied. “Shandra Holt.”
Tall, thin, with deep-brown skin, narrow eyes and fine cheekbones, Shandra was a very attractive woman. Even with the long, pink scar that cut from her left eyebrow, down across the bridge of her nose, to the right corner of her upper lip. Wearing a denim jacket, jeans, flannel shirt, and heavy-duty, mud-caked work boots, she could have walked right off a construction site.
“Good to meet ya, Sandra,” Morty replied.
“Shandra,” Shandra corrected. “S-H. Shandra.”
“Oh, sorry about that,” Morty said, waving a hand. “All you human names sound the same.”
Shandra’s eyes narrowed even more. “You’re one of them.”
“Excuse me? One of who?” Morty asked.
“One of the grotesques who doesn’t really care about humans, only doing his job,” Shandra said. “I’m not a ward of yours, so whoopty shit, right? Who cares what happens to me?”
“I obviously care,” Morty said, his tone coming off as less than sincere. He coughed and tried to grin. “I’m here, aren’t I? I saw you crash and followed you in.”
“You saw . . .” She trailed off and shook her head. “You came in here for a different reason than to help some human.”
“Yeah, I needed cigars,” Morty said and pointed at the cash register behind Shandra. “You’re kind of in my way.”
Shandra looked over her shoulder and Morty made his move. He crossed the distance in the blink of an eye and was about to grab the shotgun from her, not wanting to risk taking another blast again since the first one had impossibly stung, but he never made it.
One second he had his hand out, fist about to snag the shotgun, the next second he was flying all the way across the bar, out the bar, across the casino, and slamming into a row of slot machines, sending them falling like dominos as he lay on the floor, totally trying to figure out what the hell had happened to him.
“Ow?” he said, not quite sure if he was even hurt or not. His whole perception of reality had taken as hard a hit as his body. “Wasn’t expecting that.”
“You may leave,” a quiet, confident voice said. “I grant you this opportunity to save yourself. Be grateful.”
The voice filled Morty’s stone ears despite its low volume. It was rocks in a river, stones being tumbled into polished gems, the smooth rattle of pebbles in a soft surf. Morty struggled to get to his feet, pain stabbing in areas that he was fairly certain had never felt pain before, but he stood and turned toward the voice.
The space between him and the voice was a mass of shattered machines. Broken video screens and severed handles, piles of loose change, and stray gears. At the far end of the mess, standing in the shadows of the bar entrance, was a figure almost a foot taller than Morty and easily a foot wider. It stood there, arms loose at its sides, items gripped in both hands. Its head moved almost imperceptibly.
“Leave now, grotesque,” the voice said. “No more warnings.”
“Listen, pal,” Morty said, patting himself down for a cigar stub he knew he had hidden in one of his cracks or crevices. Finding it, he jammed the two-inch nub between his teeth and pointed a stone finger at the shadowed figure, the owner of the voice. “I don’t know who you think you are, but you’re in my casino, you hear me? This place is mine. Been coming here for years before you showed up. All I wanted was to grab some cigars before heading back to the supplies I need to get to the sanctuary.”
“Smoking is a bad habit,” the figure said.
“For you, maybe,” Morty replied. He chuckled. “Or maybe not? I saw you drive the truck into the building. I know what you are, pal. Ain’t no reason for us to fight. I just want to ask a couple of questions, fetch my cigars, and be on my way.”
“You will be on your way, yes,” the figure insisted. “This place is ours now. You will leave with your life intact. Be grateful.”
“Yeah, yeah, you keep saying that,” Morty responded. He rolled his neck then spread his wings wide, knocking over the last few standing slot machines around him. “But damn if I’m going to be kicked out of a place I staked claim to. That just ain’t gonna happen, pal. You hear me?”
“I hear you,” the figure said and stepped from the shadows. “You heard me. You wasted your last chance. Now you die.”
The laugh that was going to come from Morty’s lips died before it reached the cigar nub.
“Well, holy shit,” he whispered as the figure’s own wings spread four feet wider than Morty’s. His eyes went from the wings to the obsidian blades that the figure held in each obsidian-gloved hand. “You ain’t from around here.”
“No,” the figure said as it grinned, showing teeth and fangs of black glass. “I am not from around here. And neither shall you be.”
The figure, the creature, the huge grotesque, leapt at Morty with one powerful push of his wings. Morty sighed and braced for the impact.
9
IT WAS THE obsidian that had hurt so much. Morty figured that out as he dodged the first swipe of one of the blades, but caught a fist to the gut for the effort. All the breath was knocked out of him, which was quite the accomplishment since he was made of stone and didn’t technically breathe.
Morty doubled over and knew the second blade swipe was coming, so he kept his momentum going and rolled his shoulder into the huge, muscular legs of the new grotesque. The creature bellowed as they fell into a heap of stone and ferocity.
Grabbing onto one of the creature’s wrists, Morty yanked the arm back and cleared a path for his fist to land a hard jab to the thing’s jaw. Its head rocked back, but the blow barely fazed the grotesque before Morty was greeted with a dazzling smile of glittering glass.
No, not glass. More obsidian. The damn thing had obsidian teeth. Morty could smell the power coming off the fangs and teeth. Hell, he could smell the power coming off the creature’s entire body. It was unlike anything he’d ever come across. Not even Artus had that much power stored up back in the day.
Too much thinking.
Morty’s own head rocked back once, twice, a third time before he was able to get his fists up to block the fourth blow. The world around him rang with brutal gongs and piercing bells. If he could have seen himself in a mirror he was fairly certain he would have seen cartoon birds and stars circling his head.
Then he was flying once more.
He covered most of the casino, his body skidding to a stop only a foot or two from the crumpled bumper of the truck. In the back of his mind, Morty knew he was in trouble, but the front of his mind couldn’t quite grasp why. He was a G, he should have been able to hand the creature its ass. Except the creature was a G, too. And armed with some serious obsidian. Way more than that possessed idiot with the jacked-up rebar.
A G with obsidian gloves, swords, and teeth. Impossible. But the pain that wracked him made a compelling argument against the impossibility.
Morty’s own perception of himself as impervious to harm warred with the actual evidence that he was getting his butt kicked. None of the possessed had even put a scratch on him in all the years he’d been scavenging. And not once had he ever had to defend himself when inside the casino. Everything happening went against what he knew as truth. It grated his gravel. All he’d wanted was some cigars.
When had it crossed the casino? Morty shook his head and tried to focus. He had to focus.
“It’s hard when your ego realizes you aren’t invulnerable,” the creature continued. “Takes the ego some getting used to. Personally, I wouldn’t know. My ego is fine.”
There was movement above Morty. Arms being lifted. Morty, barely able to get onto his hands and knees, turned his head and looked up to see the creature holding a single blade two-handed, the other having been placed back in its scabbard. Morty knew that stance. It was an executioner’s stance.
“Stop!” Shandra cried. “Tom! Stop it!”
The obsidian blade hesitated.
“Why?” the creature, Tom, asked.
“He said they have a sanctuary,” Shandra said as she came running up to the huge grotesque that stood ready to end Morty. “A sanctuary, Tom. Safety. For her. Real safety.”
“You can’t possibly think that—” Tom began, but stopped as the look on Shandra’s face was one of harsh warning. “Shandra, this is our last stop. Not some sanctuary. Especially not a sanctuary we don’t know actually exists.”
“It exists,” Morty grunted as he tried to stand up. A well-placed kick to his side knocked him back down and it was all he could do to get onto his hands and knees again. “Knock it off, dick. I’m not going to fight you.”
“I know,” Tom said. “You are going to die. Here. On this floor. Now.”
“No,” Shandra said. Her voice was calm and barely raised at all, but it kept Tom still. “We take her to the sanctuary. That’s an order.”
“Oh, for crying out loud,” Tom said and sheathed his blade. He turned and stalked off, slamming a fist through a plaster-covered steel column. There was a groan from above, but Tom didn’t seem to notice as he took his frustration out on a faux wood kiosk to his left, turning it into nothing but a cloud of dust and particle-board splinters. “Come on! No fair, Shanny. You can’t give me an order like that when everything is on the line! What in the hell are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that maybe this isn’t our last stop,” Shandra said. “I’m thinking that this isn’t the place where we die or she dies.”
“But she is dying, dammit,” Tom bellowed.
Morty shook from the force of Tom’s voice. The G had some serious power inside him. Instead of trying to stand again, since he guessed that Tom could close the distance between them and knock his ass back down, Morty shifted and sat with his back against the truck’s bumper.
“Y’all want to tell me what you’re talking about?” Morty asked. “Maybe I can help.”
“I’m hoping you can,” Shandra replied. “That’s why Tom isn’t killing you.”
Morty gave her a thumbs-up and a wink then patted himself down. “Now I really am out,” he said, waving a hand back toward the bar. “You wouldn’t want to fetch me a fresh stogie, would ya?”
“Not yet,” Shandra said.
“I didn’t think so,” Morty responded.
Shandra moved in close, the barrel of the shotgun pressing against Morty’s chest, letting him know that making a move against her was not the best idea, even if Tom hadn’t been pacing and fuming only a few yards away. From the way the last blast had sent him soaring across the bar, Morty guessed it was obsidian buckshot inside the shells. Great.
“Do you have a doctor at the sanctuary?” Shandra asked. “We need a doctor.”
“I wouldn’t call him a doctor, so much as a medical savant,” Morty said. “The kid hasn’t had any formal training, but he’s probably the best medic you’ll ever find.”
“What the hell does that gibberish mean?” Tom asked, stomping a few feet toward them. Shandra held a hand up and back and he stopped. “Whatever.” He went and punched a slot machine, pulverizing it without much effort.
“This medical savant, can you get him here?” Shandra asked.
“What? Bring Highlander here?” Morty chuckled. “Not gonna happen, lady. He doesn’t leave the sanctuary. Not just because if he did, he’d probably end up possessed within the hour, but because that kid doesn’t barely ever step outside the cathedral, let alone leave the sanctuary grounds. Sorry, but you are shit out of luck on that.”
“See,” Tom said. “This grotesque is useless to us. Even if he isn’t a rogue, and there is a sanctuary, we can’t get her to there before she dies. You know that. This is it, Shanny. We’re done.”
“Who are you talking about?” Morty asked. “Who’s dying? What do you need Highlander for?”
“My daughter. Desiree,” Shandra said. “She’s hurt. Bad. We barely escaped our last refuge. The possessed had guns. Lots of guns. She caught a bullet in the chest, and it’s been all I can do to keep her alive. She can breathe, but she’s bleeding too much for that to matter. I can’t stop the bleeding, I don’t know where the bullet is. I need help.”
Shandra crouch-walked out of Morty’s reach before she broke down into tears. He gave her credit for her instinct of self-preservation before falling apart. The lady was a survivor, that was for sure.
Morty diverted his gaze from the crying, sobbing woman and looked at Tom.
The grotesque was huge. Easily seven feet tall and half as wide. He was carved from granite like Morty, but there were thick veins of quartz running throughout his body. He was formed into the likeness of a huge samurai, down to the intricately patterned armor and the obsidian gloves. The two blades strapped to his obsidian belt completed the picture. Morty knew what they were called, but couldn’t quite recall the exact name of the blades due to his head feeling like quicksand.
“Who the hell carved you?” Morty asked. “Mr. Miyagi?”
“Are you honestly going to spew that Euro elitist bigoted crap at me right now?” Tom responded. “Are you?”
Tom placed a gloved hand on the hilt of one of his blades.
“Say it again,” Tom taunted. “Do it. Say that racist bullshit one more time.”
“Tom, stop,” Shandra pleaded, sniffling loudly as she wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “This doesn’t help anything.”
“Sorry, pal, I was only trying to make a joke,” Morty said. “We’re all carved by Stonecutters, all equals here.”
“You are far from my equal,” Tom said. “You are weak. You desire human pleasures instead of paying attention to your duty. Cigars? No self-respecting grotesque would debase themselves by assuming a human affectation such as that. You are disgusting.”
“Now, come on, tell me how you really feel, pal,” Morty replied. He shifted his focus back to Shandra and held up his hands, palms out. “Not to sound cruel, not my intention at all, but I get the feeling you want Desiree saved not only because she’s your daughter. There’s another reason.” He tapped a finger against his stone ear. “I’m not usually wrong about this.”
“Could be your first time,” Tom said.
“Tom. Be quiet. That’s an order,” Shandra said.
Tom’s entire form shook with rage, but he didn’t make a sound. Except for the crunching of the casino floor as he left divots in the concrete when he turned and stomped away, his fist smashing everything within reach.
“You control him,” Morty stated as the terrifying realization hit him hard. “Shit. You control that hunk of angry. How? How can you do that?”
“There’s a way,” Shandra said.
“Did you carve him?” Morty asked urgently. “Did you? No, you couldn’t have. There hasn’t been a Stonecutter alive since the middle of last century. How are you ordering him around?”
“You’re wrong about there not being a Stonecutter since last century,” Shandra said. “My father was one. He made Tom.”
“Tom? The guy looks like a Kurosawa reject,” Morty said. “And your
dad named him Tom?”
Shandra smiled. It was a kind smile. Pained and exhausted, but kind.
“He was named after the famous Japanese artist Tomioka Tessai,” Shandra said. “That guy was a painter or something in like the eighteenth century. Maybe nineteenth. I don’t know, I never paid attention. He was my father’s favorite artist even if he wasn’t a sculptor.”
“Huh,” Morty said. He flexed his fingers and Shandra casually brought the shotgun up to bare on Morty. “Chill. I’m not going to try to hurt you. Tommy Boy there would be on me faster than I could blink.”
There was an answering smash and Morty waved at the raging grotesque who had turned back to watch them while also crushing slot machines between his hands.
“What do they call you?” Shandra asked.
“They? What they?” Morty replied.
“The people at your sanctuary,” Shandra said. “What’s your name?”
“Morty,” Morty said. “Mordecai, but humans like the nicknames.”
His thoughts raced and he shook his head.
“Your dad was a Stonecutter?” Morty asked, trying not to sound too excited. “So that makes you one too?”
“No,” Shandra said, shaking her head. “I didn’t inherit the gift. Sometimes it can go generations before reappearing. Sometimes it only skips one generation.”
Shandra paused. Morty waited for her to go on, but she only stared at him.
“Okay,” Morty said after a couple of seconds of silence. Well, not so much silence since Tom was busy destroying anything he could get his obsidian gloved hands on. But there was no talking. “You sure you can’t get your daughter to the sanctuary?”