The Big Bad II

by John G. Hartness

  “Please,” Mayor Hollitack screamed. Shoved onto his stomach by a ghost standing behind him, he crawled on hands and knees as another pulled him by his hair. “I’ll give you anything you want!”

  Conjer threw a leg over his horse’s head and slid off the saddle. “Well, shit.”

  “You aren’t actually going to go and save him, are you?” Emma asked.

  “Have to. He’s the only one that knows about our deal.” He stalked forward, bringing both the skull of his mother and his machete. The dry night, the horrors before the revenant—it was peaceful, the way to ruin. Conjer focused on the necromancer atop the stage, still unnoticed by the foolish devil. He was halfway to his target when Emma caught up, her hair unbound and her mouth open, revealing the long points of her incisors.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.

  She marched alongside him, green eyes set ahead and her body tensed to attack. “What, I can hit your mother but not him?”

  For the first time in centuries, Conjer laughed out loud. The sound of his mirth drew The Hangman’s attention; he stopped his song and dance as the ghosts dragged the mayor of Hell’s Skin up to the gibbet.

  “Look at this,” he said with a whistle. The ghosts stopped, turning in unison toward the dead son of evil and the vampire as the pair walked their way. “As I live and breathe, Mr. Conjer comes to the fair with his bruised flower. I didn’t think your mother would leave her alive. Surprises are in abundance tonight, it seems.”

  Conjer pointed his machete at Hollitack. “You’re going to have to let him off of that stage.”

  “And why should I do that?”

  “He and I have business, and it would not do for you to impede on it.”

  “Business.” The Hangman curdled his face at the word. “For the son of evil you have certainly lost your way. Where is the mayhem? Where is the destruction? Where is the fear?”

  “In the business. That’s why it’s called ‘business,’” Conjer replied. “Now, if you don’t mind?”

  Bereft of his amusement, the necromancer placed a new noose around Hollitack’s skinny neck and nodded for his spectral slaves to continue.

  Conjer charged, his mother’s head leading the way. “Fie, fie, fie on thee, fill your step and like flesh be!” Green rays shot from the skull’s eyeholes in a wide fan, painting the first line of ghosts in a verdant light. They did not react until he and Emma met their numbers, attacking with blade and hands. The onslaught of the two creatures, one of dark divinity and the other, a she-beast incarnate, shocked the line into a staggered action, breaking the unity of their master’s order.

  Many moved to rebuff the attack, only to be cut and dashed into puffs of crystalline dust. A few simply ran for nowhere, passing through the closed doors of shops and solid glass windows. Conjer screamed above the melee, shouting the incantation over and over as the dead of Hell’s Skin poured atop of him. The world disappeared in the clouds of exploding phantasms, until all he knew was the force of his blade striking those before him, the words of his spell, and the knowledge that Emma stood nearby, ripping and tearing and biting her way forward.

  The haze cleared, the wall of crystal dust parted, and there came The Hangman. Pulling on the handle of his cane, he brandished a long and thin blade made of steel, its point lit in the same green magic shooting from the skull. Conjer knew one touch of the sword to his flesh would end his existence, no matter how close he remained to the votive still strapped to the side of his horse. Still he went on, wading through the mass of ghosts to meet his enemy.

  “Well, stories do have their endings,” The Hangman said when they met, waving his sword before him. Iron clashed with steel as the two swung at each other. Conjer deflected the necromancer’s follow-up stab, moving the point away from his face. They crashed together and separated after the first exchange.

  The Hangman backed away, his nose bloodied. Laughing at the trickle, he dabbed at it. A red stain spread in a widening splotch on the white fabric of his glove. “Oh, good show. A fair blow indeed.”

  “Shut up and fight,” said Conjer. He went forward with a downward cut, missing as his enemy stepped back into the mass of ghosts still trying to get at him. Conjer raised his skull and spoke his incantation, hacking down the spirits as they solidified from their incorporeal forms. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a flicker of black. He ducked and stepped to the side, pivoting away as The Hangman entered from his right. With his machete up at the shoulder to block a slash, Conjer was not quick enough to stand when the necromancer threw a noose around his neck.

  “Ha!” The Hangman cried, jerking Conjer onto his knees. “Goodbye, Mr. Conjer.”

  Conjer shut his eyes tightly, ready to accept the cut. He reopened them when a great cry broke the waiting silence of his mind. Emma cracked The Hangman in the back of the head with the votive-box. He fell in a heap, blood leaking from a deep gash on the back of his skull.

  “Get up,” she yelled at Conjer. He rose to his feet in an instant, his machete raised.

  The Hangman turned onto his bottom, dazed until he saw the blade held high above him. “Damn.”

  The head bounced away, and with it went the power of The Hangman’s spells. The ghosts ceased their attack, suddenly aware of their freedom. Happiness smoothed their snarling faces, and in a bright flash they were gone. The light faded in a short hiss. Townsfolk stood up in clusters, holding each other and sobbing at their liberation.

  Emma came to Conjer. Her hair was wild, tangled and twisted in sweat and dust. In her hands hung the votive-box, one of its sharp corners stained crimson. With her face dusted in crystal, her teeth and bright green eyes made her look like one of the ghosts his mother used to tell him about as a boy, a spirit who would steal away a man’s soul with a whisper and a kiss.

  “You good?” Conjer asked.

  “I’m hungry,” she said, surprised by her own answer. “I have dust in my mouth.”

  “I’ll get that fixed,” he replied, breaking away to intercept the mayor. He chuckled as he looked to the mortals gathering around Hollitack. The pitiful man broke through them, staggering towards Conjer and Emma with his hands up at his face to wipe away the tears.

  “Oh, my savior,” Hollitack cried, falling to his knees while grabbing the lapels of Conjer’s long coat. “You freed us!”

  “Yes, yes I have,” said Conjer, letting him grovel.

  Hollitack wrung his hands, relief on his narrow face. “We shall be forever in your debt, Mr. Conjer.”

  Others who had been corralled by the ghosts gathered behind their elected leader, offering their thanks. A few families came out of their homes, opening their doors for the first time to walk out to a night free from horrors. Those people, so haggard, reached forward and lightly tapped their hero, hiding disgust behind their glad expressions at the sight of his rotten visage. Only the children did not completely shy away, gazing up at him like some character from one of their storybooks, yet not the one they expected.

  To Conjer it was delicious.

  Emma pulled on his arm, confusion furrowing her brow. “He didn’t tell them, did he?”

  “John Hollitack,” Conjer called, staring down at the man kneeling in the dirt. “I think I will collect my toll now.”

  “But...” The mayor of Hell’s Skin balked, gaping in surprise. His relief disappeared in an instant, replaced by despair so deep it threatened to make Conjer cackle. “Please,” he said, drawn down to a whisper. “Just one night. Let us have peace for one night.”

  The other citizens froze at his words, looking from their leader to the revenant and back. Some stepped away, searching the area for anything they might use as a weapon. They were quickly cowed by a hard glance from Conjer, who grinned like a starving man happening upon the feast of his dreams. He took Hollitack by a handful of his jacket and placed the machete’s edge on his shoulder.

&n
bsp; “I’ll you what,” he said, “Twenty souls right now, and I’ll spare the women and children. Just line up the men.”

  “Give us time,” Hollitack pleaded. “They’re all so frightened.”

  “Frightened?” Conjer pulled the mayor closer. “Not yet.”

  Slowly the finality settled on the crowd before him. Nineteen men, just moments ago captives of a dread wizard and his raised spirits, came forward after saying goodbye to their loved ones. Whether it was the blood of The Hangman dripping from Conjer’s blade, or the exhaustion, or the fear of another nightmare ready to break upon them, there was no fight and no protest.

  “What now?” Emma asked.

  Tossing his mother’s skull in his hand, Conjer walked down the line of sacrifices, eagerly studying each one of his prizes. “I’ll take a soul, you drain the shell.”

  “I don’t know if I can eat that much all at once,” she said. Raising her chin, she bobbed on the balls of her feet like a much younger girl. “But I can try.”

  “Do as well as you can,” he told her, bringing up the skull. The eye-sockets glowed with the magic, throbbing and vibrant. “And then we can go for a walk.”

  Teacher of the Year

  Riley Miller

  “Science has made us gods before we are worthy of being men.” —Jean Ronstand

  Miss Julia Thompson arrives to school at 7:05, coffee in hand, just as she has every other morning for the last eleven years. She isn’t surprised to see her colleague Paul Smith walking down the hall ahead of her. Ever since October, when she’d winked at him in the teacher’s lounge, he’s been making himself available. Showing up in the lounge while she ate lunch. Offering his help with copier jams. Starting conversations about students they had in common.

  He slows his pace when he hears her, casually, as if he hasn’t been listening for the tap of her heels on the tile. When she catches up, he attempts a smile, but can’t quite manage it. He holds out the morning paper. “Seen this yet?”

  “No,” she lies, and reads the headline aloud: “‘Third High School Student Missing in Two Years.’” She slows to make a show of reading the article. “Oh no! They haven’t found Mark?”

  “You teach him, don’t you?”

  She gives a stiff nod, her gaze still on the paper. “I’ve taught all three of them.”

  They reach their respective classrooms. Paul lingers in his doorway, and Julia tries to think of something to say, something mundane. Not related to missing teenagers or dissections. She puts her hand over her heart. “Did you teach him this year?”

  “Mark Bell is—or was—in my junior English class.” Paul looks away. “Not always the best student, but a nice boy. He was in the middle of memorizing ‘Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night’ for his spring poetry recitation.”

  Miss Thompson sips coffee to cover her smile, no longer forced. He did go gently. She clears her throat. “I hope they find him.”

  They hover in their doorways still, Paul trying to keep his eyes away from her chest, Julia comparing him to teenage boys.

  “Nice dress, by the way. You always look so—” He hesitates.

  Julia waits for him to find his words. English teachers aren’t what they used to be.

  “Nice,” he finishes.

  She taps her freshly painted nails on the side of her travel mug and looks him over. He’s short, good looking. Crisp suit. Bright white shirt. And cufflinks. He’s been dressing better lately.

  On the way out of the room, he looks wistfully at her plaques. She knows them by heart. First Year Teacher to Watch 2003. Reacher Grant Recipient 2005.Teacher of the Year 2006 and 2009. Most Inspiring Biology Teacher, Southeastern District, 2012.

  “You’ll get yours,” she says.

  He smiles, then pauses at the door to say, “We should walk out together after school. I don’t want you walking to your car alone. Not after this.”

  ***

  Seven hours, sixty-eight students, and a hurried lunch later, Julia takes a deep breath, mentally preparing herself for her last class of the day.

  When her students file into the room, they’re more subdued than usual. Most of them wear blue. She visualizes the Twitter hashtag, #BlueForMark, and sighs. The kids can’t remember to do their homework, but somehow they have time to coordinate clothing. Typical.

  She surveys her class. Several of the girls have been crying, and their eyes are red, the skin puffy. One of the girls is slouched down in her seat and covers her face with her hand.

  Julia leans down and whispers sternly, “You hardly knew him,” then straightens and claps her hands. “You’ve had all day to come to grips with Mark’s disappearance. Now it’s time for science.”

  Her eyes wander briefly to her collection of preserved body parts. So much more fun than my students. A sheep brain, cat liver, and cow heart line one shelf—floating in yellowed solution, always ready for her to enjoy or inspect. She has some new organs to preserve. Perhaps a weekend project?

  Focus. A few students meet her eyes and then look away.

  “Not good enough, kids,” she says, her tone sharp. But she knows what will get their attention. Turning off the lights, she projects an image of a dead boy onto the screen. His torso pale, he’s naked from the waist up. His face is turned away from the camera. It’s cooking oil on the fire of their worry and grief.

  The students gasp. A few pull out their cell phones to text their mammas. A big guy with a disproportionately large head stands up so fast he knocks his desk over. His camouflage jacket hangs open, awkward. “Is that Mark? What is wrong with you, bitch!”

  Miss Thompson levels her gaze at him. “Of course that’s not Mark. And I’ll talk to you after class, Roy.” She glances at the image that looks as similar to Mark’s body as she had dared. That particular image is of an older conquest. “I wanted the class to look at this picture so we could talk about what happens to the body after death.”

  Roy interrupts her again, his eyes narrowed, his jaw tight. “Is this part of the lesson?”

  She stares Roy down until he looks away, then without missing another beat, she turns her red laser pointer onto the screen. “This mottled color shows the body is in livor mortis. That’s when the blood begins to drain to the lower part of the body, and we can see based on the coloration that this young man had been dead several hours by the time this picture had been taken.”

  The class sits, morbidly silent, staring at the screen. One of Roy’s friends helps him turn his desk upright, and he sits.

  She continues, “Next would come putrefaction and decomposition, but we’ll discuss those later.”

  The image on the screen disappears, and definitions emerge.

  “Get out your notebooks and write these terms down,” Miss Thompson instructs. “Your first term is ‘Pallor Mortis.’ You will have a quiz next Friday.”

  “That’s Mark’s birthday,” a girl in the front whispers to her friend.

  ***

  When the 3:15 bell rings the students file out of the room. Julia watches Roy slide his notebooks into his bags—slowly.

  Julia sits at her desk, crosses her legs primly, her eyes never leaving the boy. “Do you know why I asked you to stay after school?”

  His voice sounds resentful as he shuffled towards her. “Yes.”

  She steeples her fingers, and leans back in her chair. “Yes, ma’am,” she corrects.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he mumbles, still not meeting her eyes.

  “Well, let’s get on with it then. Why did I ask you to stay after class today?”

  He shifts his weight from one leg to another. “Because of my language.”

  She lifts her eyebrows.

  “I shouldn’t have said it at school, and shouldn’t have called you that.” He glances at her. “Since you’re a teacher.”
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br />   She smiles, her teeth bright against the red of her lips. “Let me tell you something, Roy.” She motions to the student desk closest to her. “Have a seat.”

  He fidgets with the strap of his backpack, and glances at the door. “I really need to go, Miss Thompson.”

  Her voice sounds harsh in the almost empty classroom. “Sit.”

  He sits.

  She stares at him a moment longer than necessary. “There’s something you need to know about people, and I’m going to share that truth with you today, Roy.”

  The highness of his voice surprises them both. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t understand about the world.”

  He glances at the door again.

  She snaps her fingers. “Pay attention. “ She uses a remote to turn the projector back on.

  There’s the boy again, pale and bruised on a table. Roy sucks in a shaky breath.

  Julia smiles, thin and unconvincing. “As you get older, you realize that death isn’t scary. It shouldn’t be, at least. It’s an opportunity to increase knowledge.” She stands, walking towards the front of the classroom again, lecturing to her class of one. Her voice grows hushed, reverent. “Certain sects of Buddhist monks meditate on decomposing bodies as a learning exercise. Each monk considers the nine stages. Life turning to death. The body returning to the earth, sloppy as it is.”

  She’s looking through Roy now. “As early as the third century, doctors dissected cadavers, seeking out the secrets of the human body. Do you think they got complaints? Do you think students whined about looking at pictures on a screen? It’s this country—this sterilized, weak culture that is disgusted by death and dying. But you know what they say? Science demands a blood sacrifice.” Her eyes glitter now. “The question is: are we willing to pay the price? I watch my students—I watch you. You curl your lip at the sight of blood. You’re nauseous from unpleasantness. You’re weak. Don’t be so uptight. Learn from death. Learn from me—I have so much to teach you.”