Best New Zombie Tales Trilogy (38 page)

My head was ringing from a courtesy smacking Mean-Dog had given me when I’d come to his office; and Pat lips were puffed out again––but Pat was still smiling.

“So, lads,” Mean-Dog said quietly, “tell me again why I’m here in a yard that smells of pig-shit instead of at home drinking a beer.”

“Cow shit,” Pat corrected him, and got a clout for it.

“We have a new business partner, Mr. Mulligan,” I said. “And she told us that we can’t provide no more whiskey until you and she settle accounts.”

“She? You’re working with a woman?” His voice was filled with contempt. “Who’s this woman, then? Sounds like she has more mouth than she can use.”

“You might be saying that,” Pat agreed softly. “It’s my Aunt Sophie.”

I have to admit, that did give even Mean-Dog a moment’s pause. There are Cherokee war parties that would go twenty miles out to their way not to cross Sophie. And that was
before
the comet.

The two goons shrugged and went into the shed as I inched my way toward the side alley. Pat held his ground and I don’t know whether it was all the clouting ‘round the head he’d been getting, or the latest batch of whiskey, or maybe he’d just reached the bottom of his own cup and couldn’t take no more from anyone, but Pat O’Leary stood there grinning at Mean-Dog as the two big men opened the shed door and went in.

Pat hadn’t left a light on in there and it was a cloudy day. The goons had to feel their way in the dark. When they commenced screaming I figured they’d found their way to Sophie. This was Sunday by now and the cow was long gone. Sophie was feeling a might peckish.

Mean-Dog jumped back from the doorway and dragged out his pistol with one hand and took a handful of Pat’s shirt with the other. “What the hell’s happening? Who’s in there?”

“Just Aunt Sophie,” Pat said and actually held his hand to God as he said it.

Mean-Dog shoved him aside and kicked open the door. That was his first mistake because Razor Riley’s head smacked him right in the face. Mean-Dog staggered back and then stood there in dumb shock as his leg-breaker’s head bounced to the ground right at his feet. Riley’s face wore an expression of profound shock.

“What?” Mean-Dog asked, as if anything Pat or I could say would be an adequate answer to that.

The second mistake Mean-Dog made was to get mad and go charging into the shed. We watched him enter and we both jumped as he fired two quick shots, then another, and another.

I don’t know, even to this day, whether one of those shots clipped her chain or whether Sophie was even stronger than we thought she was, but a second later Mean-Dog came barreling out of the cowshed, running at full tilt, with Sophie Kilpatrick howling after him trailing six feet of chain. She was covered in blood and the sound she made would have made a banshee take a vow of silence. They were gone down the alley in a heartbeat and Pat and I stood there in shock for a moment, then we peered around the edge of the door into the shed.

The lower half of Razor Riley lay just about where the cow had been. Killer Muldoon was all in one piece, but there were pieces missing from him, if you follow. Sophie had her way with him and he lay dead as a mullet, his throat torn out and his blood pooled around him.

“Oh, lordy,” I said. “This is bad for us, Pat. This is jail and skinny fellows like you and me have to wear petticoats in prison.”

But there was a strange light in his eyes. Not a glowing green light, which was a comfort, but not a nice light either. He looked down at the bodies and then over his shoulder in the direction where Sophie and Mean-Dog had vanished. He licked his bruised lips and said, “You know, Pegleg… there are other sonsabitches who owe us money.”

“Those are bad thoughts you’re having, Paddy my dear.”

“I’m not saying we feed them to Sophie. But if we let it get known, so to speak. Maybe show them what’s left of these lads… ”

“Patrick O’Leary you listen to me––we are not about being criminal masterminds here. I’m not half as smart as a fencepost and you’re not half as smart as me, so let’s not be planning anything extravagant.”

Which is when Mean-Dog Mulligan came screaming
back
into Pat’s yard. God only knows what twisted puzzle-path he took through the neighborhood but there he was running back toward us, his arms bleeding from a couple of bites and his big legs pumping to keep him just ahead of Sophie.

“Oh dear,” Pat said in a voice that made it clear that the reality that his plan still had a few bugs to be sorted out.

“Shovel!” I said and lunged for the one Catherine had used on her aunt. Pat grabbed a pickaxe and we swung at the same time.

I hit Sophie fair and square in the face and the shock of it rang all the way up my arms and shivered the tool right out of my hands; but the force of the blow had its way with her and her green eyes were instantly blank. She stopped dead in her tracks and then pitched backward to measure her length on the ground.

Pat’s swing had a different effect. The big spike of the pickaxe caught Mean-Dog square in the center of the chest and though everyone said the man had no heart, Pat and his pickaxe begged to differ. The gangster’s last word was “Urk!” and he fell backward, as dead as Riley and Muldoon.

“Quick!” I said and we fetched the broken length of chain from the shed and wound it about Sophie, pinning her arms to her body and then snugging it all with the padlock. While Pat was checking the lock I fetched the wheelbarrow, and we grunted and cursed some more as we got her onto it.

“We have to hide the bodies,” I said, and Pat, too stunned to speak, just nodded. He grabbed Mean-Dog’s heels and dragged him into the shed while I played a quick game of football with Razor Riley’s head. Soon the three toughs were hidden in the shed. Pat closed it and we locked the door.

That left Sophie sprawled on the barrow, and she was already starting to show signs of waking up.

“Sweet suffering Jesus!” I yelled. “Let’s get her into the hills. We can chain her to a tree by the still until we figure out what to do.”

“What about them?” Pat said, jerking a thumb at the shed.

“They’re not going anywhere.”

We took the safest route that we could manage quickly and if anyone did see us hauling a fat blood-covered struggling dead woman in chains out of town in a wheelbarrow it never made it into an official report. We chained her to a stout oak and then hurried back. It was already dark and we were scared and exhausted and I wanted a drink so badly I could cry.

He unlocked the door and we went inside, careful not to step in blood, careful not to look at the bodies. I lit his small lantern and we closed the door so we could drink for a bit and sort things out.

We both turned and there he was, Mean-Dog himself with a pickaxe in his chest and no blood left in him, struggling to sit up. Next to him Killer Muldoon was starting to twitch. Mean-Dog looked at us and his eyes were already glowing green.

“Was this part of the plan, then?” I whispered.

Pat said “Eeep!” which was all he could manage.

That’s how the whole lantern thing started, you see. It was never the cow, ‘cause the cow was long dead by then. It was Patrick who grabbed the lantern and threw it, screaming all the while, right at Mean-Dog Mulligan.

I grabbed Pat by the shoulder and dragged him out of the shed and we slammed the door and leaned on it while Patrick fumbled the lock and chain into place.

It was another plan we hadn’t thought all the way through. The shed didn’t have a cow anymore, but it had plenty of straw. It fair burst into flame. We staggered back from it and then stood in his yard, feeling the hot wind blow past us, watching as the breeze blew the fire across the alley. Oddly, Pat’s house never burned down, and Catherine slept through the whole thing.

It was about 9 p.m. when it started and by midnight the fire had spread all the way across the south branch of the river. We watched the business district burn––and with it all of the bars that bought our whiskey.

Maybe God was tired of our shenanigans, or maybe he had a little pity left for poor fools, but sometime after midnight it started to rain. They said later that if it hadn’t rained then all of Chicago would have burned. As it was, it was only half the town. The church burned down, though, and Father Callahan was roasted like a Christmas goose. Sure and the Lord had His mysterious ways.

Two other things burned up that night. Our still and Aunt Sophie. All we ever found was her skeleton and the chains wrapped around the burned stump of the oak. On the ground between her charred feet was a small lump of green rock. Neither one of us dared touch it. We just dug a hole and swatted it in with the shovel, covered it over and fled. As far as I know it’s still up there to this day.

When I think of what would have happened if we’d followed through with Pat’s plan… or if Mean-Dog and Muldoon had gotten out and bitten someone else. Who knows how fast it could have spread, or how far. It also tends to make my knees knock when I think of how many other pieces of that green comet must have fallen… and where those stones are. Just thinking about it’s enough to make a man want to take a drink.

I would like to say that Patrick and I changed our ways after that night, that we never rebuilt the still and never took nor sold another drop of whiskey. But that would be lying, and as we both know I never like to tell a lie.

* * *

Historical Note: There are several popular theories on how the Great Fire of Chicago got started. It is widely believed that it started in a cowshed behind the house of Patrick and Catherine O’Leary. Historian Richard Bales asserts that Daniel ‘Pegleg’ Sullivan started it while trying to steal some milk. Other theories blame a fallen lantern or a discarded cigar. One major theory, first floated in 1882 and which has gained a lot of ground lately, is that Biela’s Comet rained down fragments as it broke up over the Midwest.

About the only thing experts and historians can agree on is that the cow had nothing to do with it.

SKN-3

STEVEN E. WEDEL

Children crowded the dirty street, some carrying bags or sacks of treats given by local residents, or stolen from other children in other parts of the borough. Older kids sat on the curb smoking pot or whatever their pusher sold them last. No mothers would call these kids home as the evening grew steadily darker. Screams filled the night, but that was not unusual for this neighborhood. Jack-o-lanterns that had not yet been smashed by the marauding children of the ghetto still glowed dully in the dirty night.

Reluctantly, the trick-or-treaters, drug users, and pushers, moved aside to let a battered old Mercury chug past them.

The long brown Mercury stopped in front of the house where Dr. Daniel Stillson had set up his medical practice. A tall white man got out from the driver’s side and a huge Negro from the passenger side. The black man opened a back door and began pulling another white man from the seat. The driver came around the car to help his companion.

The man they extracted from the car was unconscious. He was well-dressed in his tailored gray suit, though his silk tie had come untucked from under his suit coat and flapped in the gentle breeze as the other two men––supporting him between them––dragged him through the yard to the front door of Dr. Stillson’s home office. A scowling jack-o-lantern watched them from inside the window.

Once on the porch, the black man knocked heavily on the front door. A curtain in the window flickered before the door was pulled open and the three men admitted. The door closed quickly behind them.

“Bring him in here,” Dr. Stillson said, waving for the other men to follow him. Daniel Stillson was a medium-sized man of about forty-five, though he looked at least ten years older due to life in the city’s slums. He was losing his dark hair at the crown, but his eyes still burned with unspent life. Tonight they shone even brighter than usual. Tonight he was a man on the brink of revenge.

The doctor led his guests into his examination room, which was also the kitchen; it was the cleanest room in the house. White linoleum covered the floors. The many cabinets on the walls were painted white, though in many places the paint was faded and stained. The sink in the corner had rust stains around the drain, and the table where the doctor sat to talk with his patients was propped up by chipped bricks because one of the legs had been broken off by a patient who had gotten angry over a price. The only other piece of furniture in the room was the steel examination table, and it was unremarkable, except for the fact that tonight it was equipped with pieces of nylon rope tied to each of the four legs.