Black Treacle Magazine (Issue 4) (2 page)

Of course,
there are always those who feel there is a gray area. Hell is
filled with them, particularly the disreputable creature called the
computer hacker. Among them was Carlsbad Boorman, a wunderkind from
Germany who had the unfortunate habit of smoking in bed.

Carl made
child’s play of the recently deceased Kelly Llewellyn’s encrypted
computer files and traced her email back to Maryland
Penitentiary.

Gary the Guard
had little trouble convincing the now attorneyless Tomas Grandon to
consult with the late Kelly Llewellyn’s law partner, Mr.
Brimstone.

The empty
visitation room held a series of long tables sparsely populated
with other prisoners and their respective guests. My nose crinkled
and I looked around. The room smelled--clean. Almost holy.

A door opened
and Gary the Guard escorted his charge into the room.

Grandon
shuffled along as best he could, despite his manacled ankles and
wrists. He was unremarkable, with short brown hair and the sallow
complexion of a man acquainted with misery. His ratty orange
coveralls had seen better days, the state penal system evidently
uninterested in updating the attire of a soon-to-be-freed prisoner.
His dark brown eyes watched every movement as a potential
threat.

“You said you
knew my case, right?” Grandon spoke in a soft, almost reserved
voice with Hispanic undertones. His mouth twitched into a crooked
smile as he sat opposite me while Gary stood a respectful distance
to the side. “You’re Kelly’s partner, right? Funny, she never
mentioned you. Shouldn’t matter, though, right? I mean, really,
it’s all just paperwork from here on out, right? The DNA results
are in and the damned wheels of justice are creaking forward. All
you have to do is dot the i’s and cross the t’s, right?”

“Right.” I
smiled, my perfect white teeth again entirely human. “Absolutely
correct. Dot the i’s and cross the t’s. However--” I focused on
another prisoner who had just entered the room. Motioning for Gary
to come closer, I nodded toward the newcomer. “Who is that?”

“Valentine
Pendergast,” answered Gary. “A nobody.”

Pendergast was
a large man, with a thick clot of black hair. He’d cut the sleeves
from his coveralls to display a latticework of green-tinted prison
tattoos. His eyes were gray as a morning mist and a trace of
spittle dotted his beard as though he suffered from
hydrophobia.

“I doubt
that,” I said. “He’s in prison. He must be somebody.”

The lethargy
I’d felt earlier intensified with Pendergast’s arrival, a holy
foulness out of character amongst the stifling press of unwashed
human filth within the prison walls. Opening my valise, I produced
a scroll duplicate to the one my master possessed and quickly
scanned through the names. “Valentine Pendergast is not on the Soul
List,” I remarked.

“Are you
sure,” Gary blurted. “I mean, Pendergast is a convicted rapist and
killer.”

“Yes, so
you’ve already said.” My lips stretched into a mirthless smile. “A
nobody.”

Gary stepped
back from my glare.

Grandon
slapped the table with an open palm. “What’s this crap about a Soul
List? Answer me, or I’m gonna get me some new lawyers, right?”

His petty
demand robbed what little humor I had left. “Answers are
forthcoming. The question is, who would willingly trade their DNA
and take the blame for such a brainless twit as yourself? Satan
will not be cheated, understand? He will have his due.”

“S-Satan?”
Grandon looked to me, then to Gary, and then across the room to
Pendergast. “Satan,” he repeated.

Pendergast
rose to his considerable height. His lawyer, arm extended, remained
frozen in time like a mannequin. “Leave Grandon alone,” Pendergast
said in a calm baritone.

Smiling, I ran
a hand through my hair. I liked having hair. “Greetings, Nephilim.
I wondered when you would reveal yourself.”

“Nephilim?”
Gary placed a hand on his sidearm.

“Wait a
second. You guys know each other?” Grandon pivoted his head as if
trying to keep us all in view. “Right. The deal is off. Look, it
was all his idea.” He thrust an accusing finger at Pendergast. “He
said he could get someone to plant some of his hair with the
evidence, and with DNA testing today, I’d be set free. He said he’d
even confess if they traced it back to him, right.”

I whistled.
“And all from the kindness of his heart. This made sense to
you?”

Grandon
shrugged. “Well, I had to promise to stay clean on the outside,
but, yeah, it was worth a shot.”

Pendergast
strolled towards us. Surrounding him was a light golden aura so
beautiful it hurt my teeth.

“You’re an
angel,” whispered Grandon.

“Not quite,” I
said. “He is Nephilim, the child of a fallen angel and a human
mother. Not quite holy, but not quite evil. Gray area in the truest
sense.”

Pendergast
barked a mirthless laugh and his golden aura tarnished to an
unhealthy bronze. “It’s too late. Like the man said, the wheels of
justice are already in motion. There is nothing you or
Morning
Star
can do. Besides, why would you want to? You’re smarter
than your masters, Imp. Join us in our new Order.”

Gary held his
pistol out before him. “What’s he talking about?”

“Revolution,”
I said with near reverence.

Gary blinked
ignorance.

“Think about
it,” I said. “Grandon, guilty of murder yet unrepentant of his
actions, allowed into Heaven on a technicality. By tainting the
evidence with his DNA, Pendergast has completely absolved Grandon
of his murderous sin thus removing his name from the Soul List.
Imagine the turmoil when certain trouble-making pseudo-angels
reveal the manipulation of His law.”

“Yes.”
Pendergast grinned lunacy. “The whole system will come into
question, possibly even bring about the End.”

“The End?”
Grandon rose from his seat and shifted towards my side of the
table, mistaking me for the lesser of two evils.

I, too, rose
and welcomed him in a warm embrace. “Yes. The End of everything.
Armageddon. Let me guess.” I gave Pendergast a pained expression.
“You and your ilk are bored with the way things are run and think
you can do a better.” I yawned dramatically. “Thank you for your
offer to join your cabal, but I must decline.”

The angel
frowned. “Decline?”

“Since my
arrival to the
Outside
I’ve found myself in a bit of a funk.
Putting facts together as I see them, I’ve come to the conclusion
that this scheme of yours is at the heart of my malaise. A rift in
the balance, a break in the universe, whatever the reason, in all
likelihood as time passes I’ll find myself weakened to the point of
extinction. But you knew this already, didn’t you?” I moved close
enough to stand toe to toe with Pendergast. “When this world ends,
it will be my lord Satan’s doing, not a gaggle of half-wit wannabe
angels.”

Pendergast
snarled. “You’re the fool, Imp. Very well. Share your fate with
these mortals. It’s only a matter of time.”

“Exactly.” My
grin was perfectly malicious.

“Something is
wrong.” Pendergast’s face twisted into ugly perplexity as his aura
dimmed to an autumn sunset. “I don’t feel right. I don’t
understand.”

“Allow me to
explain,” I said, my arm wrapped protectively around Grandon’s
shoulder. “Due to Ms. Llewellyn’s untimely demise, our friend here
is without legal counsel. With no one to dot the i’s and cross the
t’s, the cogs of justice might never turn. Any attorney Grandon
aquires in the future will be faced with delay after legal delay.
Oh, Grandon could try to represent himself, but we have a saying
where I come from, anyone who represents himself is doomed to an
eternity of torment.” I squeezed Grandon’s shoulder and he
whimpered from pain and terror. “As for the DNA evidence, well, a
leopard can’t change its spots, right?” Taking Gary’s pistol from
him, I shot Pendergast four times in the chest and once in the
head. “Mortality sucks, doesn’t it?” I said.

The Nephilim
looked entirely disappointed as he collapsed into a bloody lifeless
heap.

“Here, hold
this.” I shoved the pistol into Grandon’s startled grasp, then
reached into my inside breast pocket and pulled out a yellow
highlighter. Taking the Soul List, I read near the bottom of the
scroll. “Ah, Pendergast, Valentine. Rapist and murderer.” I covered
the name with a thick slash of luminescent lemon. “As for you, Mr.
Grandon. Your fingerprints are on the gun. Gary will testify that
you disarmed him and shot Pendergast. A lover’s spat, I should
think a sufficient excuse.”

“No!” Grandon
pointed the pistol at me. “You think I’m stupid, right? I’ve been
paying attention. You killed Pendergast, not me. DNA will prove me
innocent.”

“To Him, yes.”
I pointed to the ceiling so there was no mistaking who I meant.
“But your mortal justice system will find you guilty as sin. You
can await your reward of eternal salvation on death row.”

“I’ll say you
did it,” said Grandon.

“The
devil-made-me-do-it defense?” I shook my head in mock
disappointment.

“You--”
Grandon pressed the butt of the pistol against his forehead as he
weighed his options, his expression a reflection of his pathetic
life. “I was so close,” he whispered. “So damn close.” He pointed
the gun at me, then Gary, then back to me. A thin keening escaped
from his pale lips. “Ah, screw it,” he said. “Now, or later, what’s
the difference, right?” With that, he stuffed the gun barrel into
his mouth and pulled the trigger.

“Finally.” I
sighed. The unfolding drama had nearly exhausted my patience.

“I don’t
understand.” Gary nudged his pistol away from the pool of blood
spreading beside Grandon’s head.

“Suicide.” I
beamed with undisguised self-admiration. “Grandon was right. He
would have been found innocent of killing Pendergast, but
committing suicide, that is another form of damnation. A messy
improvisation, I admit, but,” with a flourish I swiped at the Soul
List with my yellow highlighter, “a satisfying result.

“Clean up this
mess. It’s high time I returned home. And Gary...” I splayed my
fingers toward my eyes then pointed at him. “I’ll be watching
you.”

Just then,
Pendergast’s lawyer blinked rapidly like a man awakening from a
dream, or in his case, a nightmare. With his horrified screams
ringing in my ears like a trumpet’s herald, I gave a final longing
look at the
Outside
, and returned to Hell.

END

Originally from Kitchener,
Mike
Rimar
now lives in Whitby, Ontario with
his two daughters.

Despite its
contrary spelling, Mike pronounces his last name as rhymer. Beyond
that he is a man of mystery, even to himself. That he writes at all
is most baffling. He can barely spell, grammar makes his head hurt,
and the sciences are far from his best subjects. He is a taco
puzzle wrapped in a tortilla shell enigma.

He is also a lord (in the Scottish sense), and associate
publisher of
Bundoran Press
(in the small press sense).

You can find his work in
Orson Scott
Cards InterGalactic Medicine Show
,
Tesseracts 15
,
Writers of the Future XXI
, and more recently in
Masked
Mosaic: Canadian Super Stories
,
Black Treacle
,
When the Hero Comes Home 2
e-version and
On
Spec
.

Social Media: twitter
@mikerimar
,
website
http://www.mikerimar.com
.

Christopher
Keelty

Nell watched a
beetle trundle past her shoe. The white lady gurgled like a
backed-up sewer, and then she was quiet and there were only the wet
smacking sounds of Grandmother eating.

The white
lady’s gun lay in the dirt. Nell thought about taking it, but it
was too heavy and too long--at least twice as long as the rifle
Mama was teaching her to shoot. Instead she dragged it into the
shadows and hid it beneath some scrap wood. The spyglass on top
looked valuable, but Nell didn’t have time to salvage it.

Nell raised
her head to scan the wooden walls of Fort Jefferson. They were in
terrible danger this close, she knew, but Grandmother got the
woman’s throat before she could raise an alarm, and the rest of the
fort was still and quiet. It wasn’t the first time Grandmother’s
hunger had got them out of trouble.

Grandmother
dropped what was left of the woman and shuffled toward the river,
leaving a trail of blood droplets in the dirt. Nell thought about
hiding the remains, but she took one glance at the wet mess of
ripped up flesh and clothing and had to look away. She couldn’t do
it. Instead she’d have to hope they moved fast enough to avoid
detection. It was dawn, and the long shadows and sun glare would
make them hard to see as they snuck past, but they had to be gone
before anyone found the body.

They followed
the river, the rising sun smoldering on the horizon ahead. In
places the shore gave way, trying to drop them into the fast-moving
current. Before he died, Nicolas told her to follow her
grandmother. She remembers the way, he said. For two days they
trudged through swamps and briars, stopping when Grandmother needed
to eat. She was always hungry.

“I hope this
is right the way,” Nell said as she pulled her foot from the black
sucking mud. Grandmother didn’t look back, which was all right. Her
eyes were too angry.