Zanesville: A Novel

by Kris Saknussemm

  A moment later they were coming down the stairs of the hotel, armed. Wiggler stood in the street with Walt Whitman. On top of the courthouse, the LOCO FOCO flag flapped in the breeze. There was no breeze.

  “All right.” Wiggler shrugged, struggling to contain his irritation. “I can see that you think you’ve made up your minds. Well, it’s time I told you—although you may find what I’m about to say especially hard to accept.”

  “Especially?” joked the Marshal. “Lay it on us.”

  “You can’t leave the Canyon,” said Wiggler. “Because I am the Canyon. To use a word you like so much—this isn’t real and neither are you. You’re inside my mind.”

  “Fuckin’ hell,” Maggie gagged. “Yoo jes doan let up!”

  “I’m sorry but this is all a psychic projection.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Think about it. Isn’t that the simplest explanation for the sudden changes in architecture—for the side-by-side existence of Neanderthals and robots—mythological beings and scientific monstrosities?”

  “So what are we?” Clearfather asked.

  “Psychoactive medication—a form of sophisticated biosoftware I’ve invented. This is an experiment to reprogram myself. All my attempts to counter APPARATUS have become corrupted. The problem is that there is corruption within me. I’m trying to win the war by staging the last battle inside my own mind.”

  Maggie’s face twisted with anger. “Yoo sayin’ I’m some kine a-drugg?”

  “Deep-mind therapy. Think of yourself as a construct, a character.”

  “A kairacter? Like in a movie?”

  “Why not? The Marshal believes he used to be a character on TV. A star.”

  “But I wasn’t just a character—I was a real person, too,” Brubaker insisted.

  “I thought a star was something you never stopped being?”

  “Well . . .”

  “How would I know you’d said that if I hadn’t invented you?”

  “Whot kine a-story would I bee a kairacter in?”

  “You’re the untutored but shrewd voice of pragmatism. You’re meat and potatoes—nuts and bolts—Earth Mother as street waif.”

  “Why do we have memories?” the Marshal asked.

  “Augustine said all reality lurks in the memory. I’ve given you just enough for you to believe in your own reality. That’s how the potency is measured. I know the medication is active because we’re arguing now.”

  “Mister, wee ’bout to doo a lot more ’n argyoo,” Maggie said pointing the shotgun.

  “Go ahead,” Wiggler said. “This body is just a construct. If you pull the trigger, the construct will react like a body . . . but it won’t mean anything. I’m outside this system—or rather you are inside me. Why don’t you shoot yourself and see what happens?”

  “Howa cum yoo backed up when I pointed the gun at yoo?”

  “I only appeared to back up.” Wiggler smiled. “The construct is a monitoring link. It will behave just as you do to sustain the illusion.”

  “All right, mister. Yoo doan think I got the balls to blast yoo?”

  “No, Maggie!” Clearfather called. “It is really him. This is no dream, and we’re not constructs. But don’t make a mess. Please.”

  “Why ’n hell not? Hee deesurves to bee blown away!”

  “It’s not our place to judge or punish him. The world may never see his like again. If he’s abused or confused his gifts—or simply failed in a great task—I still don’t want to hurt him—in the hope that he finds a way to save himself.”

  “Bravo,” Wiggler said with a smirk. “One for all . . . and you’ve all got a lot of gall. Now you think you’re going to hike back to civilization like good campers?”

  “Are you going to try to stop us?” Clearfather asked—and he realized he was holding the H&K.

  “I’d be remiss not to see you’re trying to leave without even taking any fresh water. It’s a long haul to the Screaming Eagle Diner. Don’t forget, you’re not well.”

  Clearfather pointed the pistol. “Don’t I have free will?”

  “Oh absolutely.” Wiggler smiled. “State of the art. But it’s overrated.”

  “You don’t think I’ll shoot you?”

  “No, frankly, I don’t. But I confess I can’t be certain. If I could predict with certainty what you were going to do, you wouldn’t be able to do anything interesting enough to warrant attention.”

  “So it’s a standoff,” the Marshal said.

  “Hm,” said Wiggler. “Perhaps we could turn this impasse into a sporting proposition.”

  “What are you suggesting . . . some sort of shootout?” scoffed the Marshal.

  “What a good idea!” cried Wiggler. “But of course the Marshal, being a real TV star, has the advantage of me. I may need assistance.”

  They turned around and waiting in the middle of the main street was a figure casting a giant shadow. He was an old man, but very tall, dressed in leather chaps, spurs, and boots. Down low on his hips he wore a leather gun belt studded with silver, carrying two big Buntline Specials. On his head sat an impossibly tall black hat with a diamondback rattler band, out of which poked an eagle feather. Beside him stood a luminous white coyote as large as a male timber wolf.

  “My God!” gasped the Marshal. “That’s the Deadwood Kid!”

  “Who’s that?” Clearfather asked.

  “A legend. He was a phantom obsession of Wild Bill Hickok—a gunslinger who was so fast on the draw, he lived into very old age. But that can’t—”

  “Show them your speed draw,” Wiggler directed, flipping a silver eagle dollar into the air. The ancient gunman’s face came to life. The eyes lit up and although the old man had his hands poised to draw, they never moved. Instead a thin beam of light shot out of his pupils and smote the coin in midair. Clearfather caught it when it fell, hot to the touch, a perfect hole dead center. The great white dog let out a howl.

  “Nice shooting, eh?” Wiggler grinned. “So let’s be clear on the proposition. You win, Marshal, and all three of you are free to go. You lose and we’ll bury your body—I promise not to recycle it in any unconventional way. Ms. Kane and your friend, my ungrateful son—remain. Deal?”

  “No!” said Clearfather. “It’s not a deal. We’re leaving whether you send werewolves or androids. We’re not going to fall for some kind of stunt—”

  “Are you afraid your dear Marshal will lose? Are you afraid, Marshal?”

  As he spoke, the old gunslinger advanced, with the huge white coyote stalking beside him. Maggie planted her legs to let rip with the Harrington & Richardson but the Marshal pushed in front. “No,” he said. “This here’s my fight.”

  “Yoo doan stand a chance!” Maggie whined.

  “What about it, Wiggler?” the Marshal asked. “A fair fight—with guns.”

  “Of course!” Wiggler nodded at the robot, who made a whirring sound—and faster than they could see whipped one of the Buntlines from its holster and flipped it toward the Marshal.

  “Don’t do it!” Clearfather pleaded—but he saw it was hopeless. Wiggler’s accusation about courage had closed the deal.

  “I have to, youngster,” the old imaginary lawman answered.

  He was just under twenty yards away from the Deadwood Kid and had his Buntline stuffed inside his belt. The luminous coyote stood loyally beside the cyborg gunfighter.

  “All right,” Wiggler announced. “When I count three. One. Two—”

  The Marshal wrenched the cumbersome revolver from his belt and shot the enormous white coyote in the head. Pale blue piezoelectric fire spasmed over the animal’s body before it exploded in a burning bush of optical fibers, graphite, and tensuron. The gunslinger seemed to stop—and teetered—then fell facedown in its own long shadow.

  “Splendid!” Wiggler quipped, struggling to smile. “Why, if you hadn’t cheated, you’d have been fried in your boots! But how did you know to shoot the coyote?”

  “I don’t know,” the M
arshal admitted, amazed himself. “I just had this idea that I was lookin’ at one creature not two and that it was the coyote that did the thinking.”

  Wiggler turned to Clearfather. “You told him.”

  “Hee dint say nothin’!” Maggie bellowed, defending the Marshal’s valor.

  “Not with his voice, perhaps. But he has powers he doesn’t even know about. In any case, it’s time you recognized that we play my games here or we don’t play at all.”

  “Then we don’t play,” Clearfather exclaimed. “C’mon!”

  CHAPTER 6

  I Am the Door

  Clearfather led Maggie and the Marshal behind the mill house, heading for the steep path cut into the Canyon wall. He was hoping to reach the rope bridge that he’d seen the Harijans crossing when they arrived. After that he wasn’t sure. With the Neanderthals and who knew what animals to get through, he didn’t think their chances of escaping were very good. Not unless he used his powers, which he wasn’t really sure how to do. And the idea of hurting any of the inhabitants of the Canyon wasn’t one that appealed.

  They arrived at the mobile home graveyard, the Marshal and Maggie both panting. Wiggler’s words about all of them being sick came back to him. The Marshal gripped the Buntline, Maggie lugged the shotgun, and Clearfather carried the old damaged Winchester. The pistol he’d set down on the boardwalk when the Marshal had handed him the rifle. He couldn’t think what good it would’ve done anyway. They were potentially facing an army—a handgun wasn’t going to save them.

  Wiggler pulled up in a rickshaw drawn by two saber-toothed tigers. His green eyes had a mad dilated gleam like disturbed pools of phosphorus. A nauseated-looking Walt Whitman snuffled after him, flatulent and contrite.

  “How very ungracious!” Wiggler called. “I’m disappointed and, to be honest . . . hurt. We have so much to do.”

  “I’m sorry,” Clearfather said. “I’m doing why I think is right.”

  “Right?” lamented Wiggler. “Hm. Let’s take a vote, shall we?”

  He clapped his hands and from out of the wreckage there appeared what looked like a mob of him—all naked except for white Nikes. Maggie gaped at the sight of the clones and then almost sagged to her knees when they began marching forward—for they seemed to change sex and shape with each step. What first appeared to be a muscular Wiggler suddenly developed gigantic breasts, morphing before their eyes into a beautiful woman—while a voluptuous young female version turned into a hulking male bodybuilder in a matter of a few feet.

  “I told you you shouldn’t oppose me. You see—I’m a bit unstable!”

  “Jesus Christ! What are they?”

  “They’re outtakes from my hormone trials,” Wiggler snickered. “Didn’t I say I experiment on myself?”

  “It’s—it’s—” Clearfather stuttered, trying to think what it was.

  “It’s proof that old legends about shape-shifting may have a basis in fact. I discovered a secret mutational ability. The problem is, it can’t be controlled.”

  Boom! Maggie pulled the trigger on the 12-gauge and made a goopy splatter. But the blast seemed to have little effect on the wounded creature as a whole, for it reintegrated. Maggie let off another round but they still kept coming. She reloaded and the three refugees retreated, circling back behind the ghost town. They broke through a tangle of creosote bush and old gas station signs and were confronted by a monstrous miniature congregation.

  “Meet the rest of the family!” Wiggler beamed, reappearing in the rickshaw.

  “Mother of God!” the Marshal exclaimed.

  “Your adopted children? The ones Felatia—”

  “She poured gasoline over them and set the helpless things alight when she found that even though she had legal custody, they still wanted to live with me. I was only able to save them through deep cellular engineering, but the damage was too extensive. But I got even with her—as you will see.”

  “Yoo sick!” Maggie spat, staring in horror at the unfortunate beings in their all-terrain miniature wheelchairs. Then she saw the Creature that was with them—the one Clearfather had glimpsed at twilight.

  “Auuggh!”

  “Meet the great Wynn Fencer!” Wiggler announced—as the despicable-looking thing puffed out its bright bubble of throat. “Forgive him for not offering a traditional hello, but he hasn’t had a tongue or vocal cords for many years. The throat fan is his means of communicating—which he finds annoying, don’t you, Wynn? Particularly since his two servants, who were the only ones who could understand him, went missing. We suspect Wittgenstein got to them.”

  “But—who—or what’s that other . . . thing?”

  “That’s the somewhat doctored—or should I say butchered—remains of Felatia, grafted onto Wynn so that he may never be lonely throughout his punishment, which I intend to last as long as my magic and my science can possibly ensure.”

  “But . . . she’s deddd!” Maggie groaned.

  “And has been for years.” Wiggler smiled. “A great technical achievement.”

  Maggie fled. Clearfather took off after her with the Marshal hobbling behind. They didn’t get far before they were completely cut off. The Canyon had narrowed. Behind them came the Wiggler clones and the loathsome stepchildren, while ahead of them, blocking their way and advancing, were the dripstone pillars Clearfather had seen earlier guarding the tepee village. They were now animate and lumbering forward, like living statues—horrid, towering sand-castle women.

  “Another tribute of mine,” Wiggler informed them, climbing out of the rickshaw. “Can you see the facial similarity to Felatia? I told you you couldn’t escape. Now give up this foolishness and let’s go back to the house and have some coffee and a nice Bundt cake.”

  “Holy sheet!” Maggie screamed and blasted off one of the rock creatures’ heads.

  “Everything is alive at some level,” Wiggler remarked. “The trick is finding out how. Now you’ve pissed them off.”

  “Good grief,” wailed the Marshal. “We’re trapped!”

  Clearfather scanned the area as an unsettling noise went up from the Neanderthals, who’d gathered on their ledges to watch the confrontation. The meat-slurping clones and the monolith women were converging. Overhead was an overhang with a pronounced crack running through it. The creatures were almost upon them.

  “Give me the shotgun!” Clearfather cried, dropping the rifle and wrenching the 12-gauge out of Maggie’s hands. He fired dead on the crack of the overhang, and shards of stone and dust streamed down. He fired again. There was a tremor and larger chunks began tumbling—then the ledge gave way.

  The granite platform crushed the backs of the sand-castle women, raising a cloud of dust and grit that mingled with the protean gore of the hormone soldiers so that they began to collide, their morphing meat becoming entangled in a nightmare traffic jam.

  “Run!” Clearfather shouted as more boulders loosened and pounded down, smushing the mutants.

  He and Maggie got past before the worst of the avalanche—but the Marshal, who was behind them, was struck and covered.

  Maggie shrieked and Clearfather pushed at the pile—flinging rocks away, trying to find the Marshal. It was too late. The old man’s legs and pelvis had been crushed—his chest nearly caved in. He was still alive and breathing when Clearfather finally dragged him free but just barely. The rest of the creatures lay buried in the rubble—one slithering appendage waving between the boulders.

  “Now see where this foolish rebelliousness has led you!” Wiggler chided—but just then his chest seemed to blow up. He coughed violently and clutched the air, impossibly surprised—and crumpled to his knees.

  Behind him, puffing out his throat wildly, was Wynn Fencer . . . holding the H&K pistol that Clearfather had left behind.

  Wiggler’s robe was stained with blood but he struggled back to his feet and turned. “Ah, Wynn,” he gasped. “Bravo . . . bravo . . . bit of spirit left in you after all . . .”

  Fencer seemed stranded be
tween heinous excitement and total disbelief—but he didn’t get to enjoy his marksmanship for Walt Whitman ripped into him with savage force. Wiggler staggered and fell. From the hole in the white robe oozed what looked like offal and incredibly fine, organic optical fibers. The eyes went dark. Clearfather heard a hiss, like the bursting of the seal on a vacuum pack, and the eyes opened—but from out of them shone two pale beams of light, which joined to form the eidolon of a tiny figure that stood on his chest, wavering and blurry.

  “Sheet!” Maggie screeched as she pointed to the mess of meat and circuitry that even as they looked was healing.

  Clearfather swatted his hand through the grainy little hologram, which disintegrated and then re-formed. Then he rushed to the Marshal, who was having trouble breathing. “I’m sorry, Marshal . . .”

  “No . . . youngster,” the Marshal wheezed. “Iss all . . . right.”

  “Can’t yoo help him?” Maggie sobbed.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Clearfather cried.

  “Doan yoo have magic powers?”

  “I . . . don’t know,” Clearfather stammered. “Not like . . .”

  “What good are yoooo?” Maggie screamed as the Marshal coughed up blood.

  “No . . .” The Marshal groaned softly, holding up his hand. “This . . . was . . . meant . . . to be. I won . . . a real shootout. Now I’m with . . . my friends . . . my family.”

  Blind Lemon appeared, led by one of the Harijans. He began strumming his guitar and singing “The Streets of Laredo.” The Marshal’s breathing slowed and then stopped. Clearfather eased the old eyes shut.

  Furiously, he turned on Wiggler, whom he expected to rise at any minute, fully operational now that his gunshot wound had almost closed.

  “What are you?” Clearfather snapped.

  “I don’t know,” the ethereal little Wiggler said. “I thought I was one thing. Now I’m something else. And I’m dead.”

  Blind Lemon moaned low, fingering “St. James Infirmary.” Maggie continued to cry. The Marshal lay still.

  Crows flapped down to drink from a pool of fluorescent algae. The little eidolon fluttered like a Lilliputian ambassador on the Gulliver-prone body of the dead meat-robot that Clearfather had just started to believe had given him life.