Unwillin’ly selectin’ this place o’my cotton platen ill suits t’pursuit o’debts old ’n’ futures bold. Better lives’n mine sick’n’ past t’way o’ reckless radburns ’n’ here me wi’out a scrap o’ modesty ’gainst ’em. Contrawise, t’painen my bones is sharp ’n’ bright ‘swell as t’rads. E’en closed I spy t’yoovee rads through m’lids.
Blood trickl’t through dust so thick as t’clothe its sweet sap in velvet white. T’blood were my own ’n’ t’glass dust layer’d o’er m’body entire. Near blind un’er t’big rad ’n’ t’little ’un too—t’pair o’m cruel bright ’n’ slow cross t’perilous sky’t pale’d near t’ flat’t o’ blue. T’sky lies o’er The Seven Year Mirror liken’t a knife ‘gainst t’white throat o’ t’glassdust’s h’rizon. I wonner t’were all ’bout t’earth knuck deep ‘n’ clung t’cursed world liken’t m’skin. Rads burn t’prickly hair ’pon my dustshroud arms, ’n’ legs no less. Flat outen my back ’n’ naked—ment’ly cursin’t temerity o’ my sichation. T’p’sition’s suit’ble t’watch vulks flocken darken spots ‘pon t’white o’ t’sky above. Rads ’n’ t’beatin’ I took ache me through tip t’tip. I’m tired o’ t’ironnie sweets ’tween my teeth, them losen t’sockets. I’m tired o’ tallyin’ up’t total o’ m’own sap spilt; where’pon I let my parched throat swallow m’very own blood ’stead ’o t’glassdust.
Countless scarsen my skin tip t’tip, ripplin’ burns ’n’ sphinct’r puck’d scabs ’n’ t’long white o’ knife learnt lessons ’n’ t’stacatto o’ needful pain. T’world ain’t kind t’much—’neath glassdust t’scars mostly healed ’n’ reigned intestine moany t’my d’termination. I pick t’scab most recent ’til’t shines oasis red ’n’ slow trickles s’more dark ir’gation through t’white atop my skin. Ashen glass, aloomnum dust ’swell, all apart’o The Seven Year Mirror. My right hand whitesen agony, numb as cold ’crete floors, as I dip dippin’ blood t’brush ’neath m’eyes ’til relief o’ t’rads is spread dark red ’round em. ’S hot, ’s burning ’gainst my ass, ’n’ diamond crabs wait patient fer my meat t’come scavenged. T’side, I spit t’red slick out my mouth. Dry ’gain ’n’ pain sharpen stabben t’ribs, ’swell t’guts ache deep.
Puzzles The Cat laughed ugly when he slung me outta Petro Hill t’rad noon ’n’ sloburn death. Doubtfilled he figured me for new folk, ’stead took me a newcomb lately undergrinder. T’won’t be t’burn for me, but I daresay t’boiled blood may deehide rate me t’my end. T’black petrofried rock o’ t’Hills shimmers in’t radlight ’n’ reeks o’ t’smog o’ dead gods. It poisoned ’n’ rotted alla minds o’ t’maze o’ tunnels carved in’t ’nother petroblack corpse eeyons past ex-pirate shunned, bared by t’winds o’ time t’doobyus habit. T’world were scatter’d w’death. ’Cross The Seven Year Mirror’s glassdust ’panse, ev’r’one came t’mad end, wanderin’ saints sunk ’thin t’god gas whilst lizard eyes seekin’ fortunen t’mines o’ its solid iffied petro mindlost soon after. T’petro miners all crazed fast, but these were ’spec’ly deepmented on account o’ t’gasses. Here lies Chary me as Chary does, t’onen only, t’ponder ’pon t’sequens ovents as paved path t’my present condition.
I weren’t born Chary, not in t’start o’ breathin’ this poison air. I were born meat, s’far’s my parent saw it. Names weren’t gave t‘meat, ’n’ I fetcht fair trade t’cannibals. I were a useful tool s’far’s t’cannibals saw it. Names weren’t gave’t tools neither, but I sure’s well were traded fair for proper meat, t’kin’ Viktor s’plied, which don’t talk back. Viktor ’n’ what’er his needs o’ brutality c’manded ’n’ most all I was t’kill, t’killen worse fer his ’musemen. Names weren’t no good for killin’ either.
Thing ’bout cannibals, ye’ can learn a lot from ’em. Mostly I learnt t’starve. T’great lengths o’ time ’n’ distance ’n’ agonies t’which a body can suffer were t’main lessons o’ t’cannibals. Bein’ apart a group twined by t’mutual ’greement t’consume onen othern t’most desp’rate o’ times were a pow’ful lesson but weren’t only one. I learnt how t’sleepin’ small secret placen how not t’be heard nor seen. I learnt walkin’ fer hours ’n’ days ’thout end ’thout food nor drink. Precious few trinkets worth carryin’ in t’big empty under t’rad noon sky ’n’ few places worth stayin’ much times. ’Tween tiredness ’n’ vorac’ty were a thin thread o’ silk, ’n’ t’were a necessity o’ life wi’ t’old folk that raised me. T’know when a person’s ’bout crazed, or t’see t’last flicker o’ reason, meant survivin’ ’n’ t’next meal.
I learnt t’parts o’ t’body such’s best safe t’eat, t’soft homes o’ agony ’mongst t’flesh ’n’ t’married ways o’ killin’. I spec gettin’ too good at killin’ ain’t no more usen total loss o’ t’faculties o’ reason. Leastways, could ’splain wherefore t’family I’d made in t’years o’ wanderin’ one day uppin’ turnt me out t’Vik ’n’ his menagerie. Thought I were hot shit ’n’ no one’d touch me I didn’t want. Vik sat up in t’pile o’ ’crete in t’old musty cage o’ beasts in his throne room wi’ all his favored killers lined up still. I told him right there I were gonna eat his guts out, make a hat outta his face ’n’ all kinds o’ threats. He waited me out ’n’ stuck t’knife o’ his mind in’t my brain. That’s when I knew I were wrong, on t’rough floor o’ t’decay’d ’n’ dusty village o’ menagerie cages. I learnt on t’stone t’places I could still be hurt, ’n’ t’were t’start o’ m’livin’ nightmare fer somethin’ near or far from ten years. Vik was a bad ’un. He were real bad.
That were t’life I met Whip, ’t only one Vik couldn’t leash up. T’knife o’ Vik in my mind, I were whate’er he shaped me. I weren’t Chary nearly, but moved howe’er he whimmed, spoken acted ’n’ felt only on his say so. Nothin’ could e’en do, t’knife o’ his mind weren’t nothin’ like I ever knew. T’were only whilst he slept as I had m’self’t m’self alone. Whip ’n’ me found onen other, per’haps he found me more. Weren’t no one ’round held two shits for t’dawg Vik couldn’t cut t’mind. He kept Whip ’round fer t’musemento torturin’ ‘n’ cagin’ somethin’ free. Neither one o’ us alone were strongern Vik ’n’ all his cronies. But t’Whip were a strong ’nough mind, ’n’ I were fearsome o’ body. Whip’d comeback all covered’n sick silver blood ’n’ brused or broken limbs ’n’ each time I was there t’bring him from t’brink.
I were Chary as I could t’night we set ourselves loose o’ t’clutches o’ Vik. I were Chary t’killer. Chary t’god thief, t’godeater ’n’ traitor t’Gravestone Rivers. Twen’y years, near half m’life it took til I were worth a name—it’s me ’n’ mine own cause o’ t’path paved m’self. Me ’n’ Whip went our sep’rates, t’best t’were fer t’both o’ us. T’sick red o’ my thoughts ’pon’t idea o’ Vik still suckin’ air were no place a free dawg ought linger.
I’d patted Whip’s wide shoulders, that last evenin’, his long ’n’ narrow head, ’n’ t’silverdrops coatin’ his fur dripped bits on t’gravley earth ’fore scaverpedes ’n’ acidslugs consumed ’em swift. Uncert’nty rose from his mind t’mine, worry ’n’ his great big ol’ head’d push’t me body ’n’ soul. Yet I were resolv’d t’see ’im t’freedom out there in’t big empty. As he bound off from t’little cave on his way t’find ’nother pack o’ merc’yotes, I watch’d til he merge in’t’horizon heatshimmer. Merc’yotes all hunten plains sight, t’silver sleek o’ their coating like doublerad noon heat ’til t’was too late. Snap snap, I’d hoped high fer his future.
T’was I thought t’last I’d see my yearslong caynine partner’n crime ’n’ torture. Saw t’deep dark o’ m’future ’n’ struck’t Tombstones. T’high ‘n’ chant’d slabs o’ ’crete lined ’pon lined even’ as squares can be. ’Twere comb’d in holes innen outside, layer o’ glassdust ’thin darken terriers. ’Crete stone ’n’ wire ’n’ ’special rare shards o’ glass ’n’ scraps o’ metal all free fer taken t’trade.
Waged yearsen’ Tombstones t’procure a ugly l’il crankpistol ’n’ a tolerable sharp blade ’fore my leave. Put t’broken gray teeth o’ Tombstones in t’horizon behind me, t’rows ’pon rows o’ ’crete left o’ertime ’fore t’big rad. They shaded o’erlong my travels, called comp’ny o’ moisture farmers, such as t’was who walked silencen t’shade wi’ their c’llectors open ’n’ slowed drip water in’t can’sters. I’d ’mired their life ’dapted t’half ’tween burnen black, grown t’deep humps ’long their backs. T’waken walk t’same worn paths daily ’n’ pursuit o’ little ’nuff moisture t’live, t’was adm’r’ble o’ em. T’was not t’path carved fer me, though sure ’nuff mine was no less setten circ’lar’n theirs. T’arc o’ my rage curves e’er towards blood.
Better t’sleep or rest midst t’double rads noon, though I near ’nough could do’thout. ’Long The Laugh Track ’side t’Earthly Delight river canyon was bare edge o’ The Seven Year Mirror, hardly shade t’seek out ’n’ take leave o’ t’burn. Maybe ’neath a braintree if I’d a wish o’ death, though once out o’ debts privation I holed up in a pitviper. T’poor thing near pinned me ’n’ I had’t choke its life away. ’Tween that ’n’ a mess o’ coppertips, couple needles, figure I’d a nice collection o’ barter. Many late a’night I’d spent kracken t’mult’tude o’ slender legs ’n’ t’worthless exposed skelt’n offa coppertip t’slurp t’bitter meat rawn wet. T’Earthly Delight flowed deep petro from t’sourcen Lisa Frank Gulch some kees off. Chatter voices laughed ’n’ long’d from t’rainbow sheen depths o’ t’canyon. T’were’t petro ’n’ all t’lost minds o’ t’dead gods decayed with’n. Minds weak or burncrazed walked eagerly’t their hunert mile depth in’t toxic sludge, though’t nothing t’mine. I braved ’n’ burned ’n’ scarred up’n down moren t’worse trial o’ t’psychic dead.
Such was t’long ways t’bloody end as washed me ’pon t’doobyus haven o’ Petrol Hill, as t’was only shaded sight t’see ’cross t’glassdust horizon. City limits marked t’eyes ’n’ gawpin’ mouth o’ t’mighty corpse half buried ’neath t’glassdust. Within t’onyx pate I shook t’white cake free o’ my woven shoes n’ poncho ’n’ lichenthatch widebrim hat. My eerie descent eyes adjusted t’gloom o’ t’skull ’n’ t’yoovee rad icelight glitterin’ veinways ’long t’carved walls. ’Cross Gravestone River sometimes we watched gods ’n’ demiurges tumble down t’navy sky, Whip’n’ me, tryin’ t’figure any closenuff t’reach wi’out gettin’ cut by Vik, which ones his crew’d be out for. Vik ate ’em, steady diet o’ sickening control ’n’ growing deepened decency, but two could play, indeed. They all came here, above or below, all t’dying ’n’ dead, all gods ‘n’ men, monst’rs ‘n’ prophets, dyin’ onen t’same.
T’fumes ’thin t’air o’ t’god weren’t toler’ble. I were dizzy’d, wi’ bright head, but need smuts, so I took m’deeper depth cross t’gnarled black brain pan ’n’ down t’carved out bullneck. There in’t narrows t’floor was mucked wi’ petrosludg’d glassdust, tracked by t’hundreds inout t’days or nights. It seeped t’wet my toesen toxicatin’ my blood. T’sickly treacle ’ready full o’ t’dead gods rotted soulmeat, no matter ’nother pound o’petriflesh. Side t’side alcoves ’long t’bare’lit path moan’t tease my lonesome. Hereabouts bodies press’t gather c’mfort ’n’ lifer ’nother day, exhangen fluids ’n’ scorched pleasures ’thin room but fer one cotton ’pieces.
Hithercome voices cross’t lone chambers, t’promise no pain’t t’my soulitude. “Stays pel’t me, loven time t’rest yer weary’d,” or suchlike sweetern words’n I’d know t’call ’tween my thin cracked lips. T’pulchered tuben’s forms tempted, some soreless, t’skin there seen through ’n’ glassy from t’petro toxinfication, t’other longen pale ’n’ lush wi’ spines for deepen t’mines, morov ’em dyin’ o’ t’petro’n new folk. Fine sorts o’ cocks ’n’ cunts ’n’ strange ’splayed’t temp’t trav’ler suches m’self t’wonder what’d be liken’t be touched ’thout painer grief. P’raps t’feel gentl’ness ’n’ kindo’ saf’ty in t’arms ’f’nother.
Maywell’ve taken t’offers if I’d trade fair for’t, but ’stead bid sad farewell t’pleasures ’n’ found m’way ‘round a corn’r two ’n’ soft matten blanket—t’was but a ha’needle more’t t’door. T’eyes o’ t’prytress reflected ’neath heaven mat’d dark hair ’n’ her body drapped o’erno’er wi’ petro’d hide. She ’flecked ’pon me, ’sif I weren’t mor’n a shade in passin’. I weren’t god nor petro. Tattered weave o’ my clothes ’n’ shrouded in mirrordust, I ’ppeared more a hole tore through t’matters o’ greater comfort.
T’fumes were mighty pow’ful in’t flop ’n’ moreso off her. “Keep t’rself ’n’ t’drinksen marks t’west o’ here. ’Tisextra two needles t’bedaways wi’nother, or ’haps one o’ t’fine coppertips ye’ carry. Pitfight’n a few hours, fer t’altar o’ Leather Jim ’n’ we rec’mend yer ’tendance.” Her voice was low ’n’ deepen made me yearn all t’more for a night accomp’ny. “Thank,” I sadden took t’matten blanket ’pon which I took sleep ’chanced not t’dream.
Hope’s vanity as e’er, t’eyes dark lidded called up’t timesen Vik’s cold gaze, t’knife o’ his mind cleanen sharpen mine. T’sound o’ his animals ’n’ other humans all slaved t’godflesh given wil’o’t’mind. Vik I ‘member his hands were t’softest I e’er felt, sickin’ as a newborn maggot. Vik pain ‘n’ drained ’til naught remained but t’scraps. T’scraps I cov’t’d e’re’s’much ’n’ ’yond t’othermind o’ Whip. Whip’t merc’yote soothed t’sore cut t’mind ’n’ I splitten shared t’scraps ’til t’day we broke, me ’n’ my dawg fled cross’t rivers ’n’ t’big empty. Whip seemt stillen my mind. His calm, his sharp anger ’n’ danger, his heavy silver sheen guidin’ me out o’ t’black o’ memory t’Chary freedom. I woke’t tears in’t glassdust o’er my face, salt tracks o’ whiten t’white, bare dark b’low. Eyes mine own look’t me ’n’ resolved t’gleaming petrigod wall, sheert gloss black ’nough t’count my haggard features. T’matted scales o’ hair, t’hatchet ’n’ broke nose, t’starved cheeks ’n’ neck vined wi’ long treks. I’d gazed ’pon m’self but few times ’n’ more wasted ’way each look. Yet alive, mind swirled wi’ memories ’n’ plans fer revenge—slowen method’cal ’n’ mapped cross t’whole empty. I’d live t’forty t’find his fungal soft skin ‘neath m’knife, e’en fifty, p’r’aps ‘ever.
I c’llected t’matten blanket ’n’ ’turned it t’prytress. T’wide walk’t trade ’n’ barter was iced t’my bonesen t’dark o’ dead gods walls dript toxicatin’ conned ‘n’ station. I breathed slowen light from t’petro gasses. In’t wide theater o’ trades I sharped my blade fer a pitviper stem, sh’lacked my hatten resoled my shoes. T’while I shooken shivered ’gainst t’cold ’n’ linger in’pression ’pon my mind o’ Whip. ’Twas only right t’let’im free run ’n’ no-ways a merc’yote ’longed t’march a path o’ ’venge siden side wi’ Chary me. ’Swellen all t’know t’right o’mind ’n’ not yet ease’t sharp sting o’ swallowin’ my sorrows at e’ry thoughten memory o’ that dawg, t’great beast he were t’bring down t’cruelen merciless wi’ brutish talons whilst I made quiet work o’ t’other dangers as haunted our trail. T’months’pent ’neath blackbarks ’n’ lichen-shaded hot shale we kept ahead o’ Vik’s wheel’rs ’n’ mindlost soldiers. Whip kept t’vile reach o’ Vik’sykey a’ distance way ’til daysen hidding came fewer ’n’ slower b’tween, til’t day Vik sounded no trace.
T’market next, I found filter’ble drink ’nough t’lack it o’ t’arid descent petro mix, dried meats ’n’ fungus’t tide t’next travels over. I’d ’nough o’ t’miserable cold o’ Petro Hill ’n’ pause’t take my leaves, happenin’ ’pon t’crook letter sign fer t’Oil Cant barren’rena. Therein offered foment tails end wi’ so called divine ’musements, ’swells chancey games w’thin. I tightened my trove ’n’ slid t’sheet metal entry open t’warmthen noise o’ many live folks in a state oven easy nation. ’Twere all sure ’nough gassed ’pon their breath but no less merry fer it, though I kept tight gript ’pon my pers’nals in t’pack o’ bodies. T’bar as such were a slab o’ petrofied god ’n’ t’offerins were a size’ble cup o’ hide ’n’ a single brew o’ choice.
“Two needle,” offer’t bartender, after inspectin’ my new repair’d shoes ’n’ fresh stock o’ t’mart t’steepin’ price accord’n’ly. He were one o’ t’new folk wi’ coppern wire skin ’gainst t’big rads, ’n’ had broad muscle rolled tallen wide ’nough t’consider what all elsed ’neath his woven dress, but I took my draught o’ fire peaceably ’n’ shuffled ’round t’raised ring o’ stone at t’proximate center o’ t’room. Ne’er mind t’looks m’dusted ’tire drew, or t’many stares applied t’my under skies’d lack o’ famil’rarity t’experience.
O’er t’edge were a pit hewn some lengthy meet o’ distance ’neath floor level through ’t petroflesh, wi’ nothin’ much t’speak of ’sides t’pale mud ’n’ woven youvee webs ’long t’sides. Next t’my ashburnt fingers set a pair o’ greatly sized hands blue as t’night ’n’ dotted wi’ diamonds twice’s bright all o’er ther midnite skin, up ther arms ’n’ broad shoulders ’n’ wide tits draped in net o’ creepin’ vines, the’ said, “Never seen yer face ’round ’fore.”
“Ne’er been ’n’ not long for it.” I specked up up’t ther moonlit eyes in awe t’power ’n’ beauty ’fore me.
Unmov’d by my worsh’p, the’ nodded t’pit belown up t’balcony ’bove, closed in red curtains wi’ polished railin’s. “Leather Jim runs’t ’vine sacr’fice. You’ll hoon see t’show ’n’ t’state o’ t’Hill.” The’ tapped fingers ’pon stone, cast ther eyes at me under deepen heavy lids. “He runs’t Hill, Jim. Calls t’voice o’ god ’n’ keeps t’mines run ’n’ trades free o’ complaints.” Ther sharp smile grac’d me wi’ irony fair. “’Side from complaints ’bout hisself.”
I’d no time t’wonder at t’direction o’ discussion as t’curtains parted ’n’ a man o’ many skins set forth. His face ’n’ arms dangled wi’ tanned flesh from myriad creature ’n’ per’aps men, nearen distinguish’ble t’curtains. His arms outstretched wi’ dramatic sway o’ t’skins ‘n’ gusts o’ winds there’pon sewn as may well not matter where t’man ended ’n’ red begun. He pr’claimed, “We’come all’t divine sacrifice, t’light shown wi’hin t’god ’n’ coun’ry, our lives’n good he’th, our home! Petro! Hill!”
T’crowd ’bliged wi’ faint sound enthus’d, ’n’ t’beauty ’side me who rolled ther eyes. Petrogas whirle o’erhead, a’lifen a ways I sure coulden faith-hum. T’petro tightend emma tearily ’round Leather Jim liken t’weave ’em whole t’dead god, ’n’ Jim lash’t up masses o’ folks in ways o’erfamil’r t’me.
Leather Jim’s voice boomed, “Raise up hi’er fer t’home,” ’n’ return’d one’r two further cheers, t’damnashun o’ fain sprays. T’fury on Jim’s face look’d t’split ’part a ripe spray o’ juice whilst t’others round’t tables past careless looks. “Raise praise or rain fire,” he ’xhort’d, wi’ t’foul scent ’pressive ’n’ fit t’choke, t’voices raised satis’fact’ry praise.
“T’new chal’ger, from t’far re’ch o’ The Empty, weighin’ a hunert se’n’y fi’ kee, t’chal’ger, t’Crystal Sawbones!” Wi’ almighty clatter, belown t’pit entered a ’specially ’normous diamond crab. Clear ’nough t’me from t’blue frothen its mand’bles ’n’ dull col’ration ’n’ slow moves ’twas starven hurt. ’Spect ’twas caught wi’ no small dif’culty, per’haps injured in’t taking. T’beauty ’side me shook ther head. ’Twere t’grip o’ memory froze m’legs ’n’ spine, not Vik’s knife, t’foresight o’ t’past readin’ t’future o’ cruelty ‘n’ malice ’bout t’unfold in t’pit. Times past were me in t’pit or scrapin’ t’mess o’ t’brutal outcome, no diff’rence ’tween ’em ’cept what side o’ t’blood I were on.
“And t’return’ cham’yin! Undead feated inna ha’dozen divine sacker fights! Weighin’ a mi’ty hunert twen’y e’en keel, yer favurt ’n’ mi’, play yer bets now ’pon t’winner or loseren t’call t’vine o’ t’Hill—” his arms ’n’ lips swung dramatic, his layers o’ skin fluttered o’ their own accord “—Silverrrrrr Toooothhh!” Heard t’shout lashed ’roundwide from ceiling high, but I’d no mind’t it. Below in t’pit circled out a famil’r form, a memory I thought past fer good. A merc’yote lumberin’ forth, pow’ful forelegs ’n’ shoulders tracen arc’t narrow ’n’ agile hind legs. He were a shape called from t’dunes ’n’ worn rock o’ Gravestone River, wi’ t’fury o’ his long muzzle ’n’ retract’ble teeth at t’front.
His four tiny black eyes near slitted t’vanish in terror ’n’ t’call o’ his mind in panic’d fear reached me, ’n’ once more saved us both. No cleaner sense o’ direction forthcomin’, I climbed o’er t’edge ’n’ dropped t’mud below. My starry sky beauty eye shocked t’stillness in t’moment o’ my downward decision makin’, t’last sight o’ heaven ’fore all vanished inna blur o’ time.
“Whip.” His darken bright eyes rolled t’my sudden ’pearance ’n’ his mind washed o’er mine, t’joyen t’recognition ’n’ t’relief, tinged wi’ fear b’low.
I wrapt him rounden my arms ’n’ scattered silver ’bout muddied surface whilst tight squeezed. Tears ’pon my face ’n’ how’d come t’place, later times. Fer now... I lower’t ground ’side Whip ’n’ freed m’blade, backside out. T’crab were close but plenty stupid un’er t’best o’ times. No matter t’size, diamond crabs were shy t’fight ’n’ took scav’gin’ as t’better part o’ valor. It backed wary from t’pair o’ us as t’fur rose ’pon Whip’s shoulders ’n’ his teeth lengthen’d.
“Puzzles!” Leather Jim ’sclaimed off t’balcony. “Remo’e this inner lober, wi’ e’er s’much phys’cal vi’lens as ye’ care t’mus’er. Shorty! Dead Harold! See t’cham’yun ’n’ t’chal’ger back t’kennel!” He swept his arms inna fury o’ fumes ’n’ myriad folds o’ leather curlt up ’round him like’t he were taken flight.
From t’walls a portcullis drew up t’unveilen old harvest ’quipment. ’Thin t’broad chest o’ t’machine were a’crazed oil hog, stumblin’ ’round t’kennel o’ t’machine mind. Puzzles rolled on treads out t’me ’n’ I ’fess up’t takin’ leave o’ my sense’t strike ’pon thick steel wi’ only t’butt o’ my blade ’n’ bare fists. Not e’en t’first machine I foughten my lapse o’ mem’ry in’t moment were rapidly brought wise wi’ stern knowledge o’ t’metal pincers o’ Puzzles The Cat. T’lesson were pounded in’t m’headen gut, ’swell t’my legsen arms. Partic’lar ed’catin’ ’plied my hand ’n’ t’bones therein. I heard mor’n saw t’snarl o’ Whip ’n’ pained yelp t’follow.
“Bastards, basserds, bug fuck’t nanny sucklin’ shits!” I cursed ’round t’blood fore t’eloquent teachin’s o’ pain felled me t’mud. Puzzles quite t’educator, he took c’mendable pride in t’quality o’ his work.
Wi’ such teachin’ much ’pon t’mind, I lay in t’mud wi’ little else but anguish t’my credit. Heard ’n’ felt some sadden sound from Whip ’n’ couldn’t move fer t’size o’ t’achen my head. Per’aps ’twere a zombie wranglin’ t’crab I seen whilst Puzzles drug me through t’o’erfamiliar ter’ty o’ cages crowded ’n’ thick air flav’rd wi’ menagerie o’ unkempt spec’mens t’meet their end at t’beckon call o’ Leather Jim. T’world o’ past ’n’ present colided t’gag my throat—I puked my addition’t putrid air ’long my path.
All I’d left t’me were my eyes ’smuch they’d roll socketwise. Up’t walls ’n’ bars o’ t’kennel I specked biolight fungus, wi’ youvee rads ’bove through rickety grids o’ walks. T’path were smooth gravel, wet slick, drip o’ moisture wi’ t’mirage o’ black water aside me, cool ’pon my burnin’ fract’d fingers. Animal sense ’n’ water lapt faded, round stone turnt sharp, scraped ’gaist t’callous blisters o’ my hands. Warmth liken too close’t rads o’ daylight het my cheeks, carried ’pon light o’ blood or t’radscrapet horizon. T’were unlike I’d seen, aglow wi’out youvee, rads, or lichen.
T’scent o’ sharp petro stuck next at my nose, wi’ grinden scrape, echoin’ shouts cut short by a sidestep t’near dark. Speckled spots o’ youvee rads marked many a path. I sicked ’pon myself o’er t’dizzy spin o’ t’min’ral stars ’n’ windin’ ways up in down in crosswise ’til my erstwhile educator heaped my mortal form ’fore a carved stone desk.
T’wiff o’ spice ’n’ rot ’n’ chem’cal tan were Leather Jim’s fanfare ’n’ mixed fit t’sick’n ’gain t’copperen bitterness in my nose. He slid ’round t’monument t’ancient papers same as a stack o’ fresh skint mirror wasps, better t’inflict ’pon me his carrion ex’alations, ’n’ flict openshut a square o’ metal. Open’t, pr'duced flame. Closed, were snuffed. T’were all I could do but stare at t’spots ’pon my eyes.
“Seem you’re no’ from ’roun’ ‘ere,” he said, t’which I slurred t’firmative. T’metal square slipt ’thin his folds.
“Yer choice o’ com’ny ver’ pecul’r, fer a stran’er. Might cal’t more’n coin’idens as t’were g’n yer inner vent sun t’vine sacrifice.” His eye ’n’ folds o’ flesh were close up t’mine own, doubled ’n’ tripled ’n’ doubled ’agin t’my spinnin’ sights.
“Want... muh dawg,” I said, pullin’ m’self far up outta my heap as I were able. “Mine.” Blood ’n’ t’sick o’ drink congealed ’tween teeth ’n’ tongue.
T’were wrong what I told him. No sooner’n I heaved t’words up ’n’ I could even see spinin’ three ’round t’spression o’ disbelief. My best effort t’suck breath were thwarted ’neath t’heels o’ his petroplast shoes ’pon my burnin’ swollen broken fingers.
I howled, bowed t’his boots, wi’ my free hand all a bird’s wing ’gainst Jim’s ankles.
“Wha’ dawg? Ye’ spoke plen’y’t freak o’ t’rads. Spec I fool as ye’ spread’t rumors, spec I’m fool’t i’nore t’plots, t’con’piraseas aboun’. Ye’ spe’k o’ t’plots ’gains’ me or spe’k none.”
Black pain crept ’pon my eyes, redden anger ’n’ dizzy ’nough t’slowly empty t’last dregs o’ t’night. Jim’s nails were filed sharp. He stuck fingers ’tween my lips ’n’ pressed t’points ’gainst my tongue. Mis’rable it were t’blood ’n’ spit pourin’ o’er my lip ’gainst my better wish. T’whole while weren’t a thing t’do other’n choke ’n’ shake my head ’n’ feel ’nails pressin’ slower in’t my tongue.
His eyes bored gray t’mine for ages o’ pain, not near so far’s t’worst o’ my life, little as it mattered. Come a certain point, t’pain ye’ live through far exceeds t’pain ye’d give all t’stop. T’weren’t worst by far, don’t mean it didn’t hurt.
“Hmm.” On t’floor at Jim’s feet, t’pain o’ my hand blazed ’n’ my mouth stung, but he’d sated t’burnin’ questions o’ my daliance.
“We’ll le’ ye’ off wi’ a war’in’—all yer p’ssession be’ comp fist gates, but ye’ ke’p yer life. Don’ was’e it ’pon le’in’ us see yer face ag’in.” An’ from this ugly decl’ration ‘n’t mechan’cal laugh o’ The Cat, I were hurl’d, naked as t’day I presump’ly was born, t’place o’ rest ’pon which I first came t’cotton plate t’past or so day. I’d be taken as mad t’consider a return ’n’ maddened were my state at’t treatment bestowed ’pon my dawg. ’Twas becomin’ a certainty o’ his fair return, no matter else t’me. I was become a certainty o’ doom t’Jim ’n’ his ilk.
B’hold t’clear ’bove, glittern wi’ sweeper swarm ’n’ dartin’ black flocks o’ vulks fixin’ mimic t’clouds I only seen oncen my life. Few coppertips, wi’ minds too curious fer their britches, dashed from t’snipen snap o’ more regular size diamond crabs. I slid my arm long’t burnin’ glassdust ’n’ t’scav’ngers backed aways, perferin’t take my scrawny corpse only’n s’good ’n’ dead. “I can’t die,” I told ’em, good air spent fer bad ’vice.
Fer all’t times I spit t’words in anger, lowered ’em as a curse, I wondert if t’were any truth in ’em. Seemed t’me logical ’nough - I weren’t dead t’spite t’rads ’n’ t’years o’ bad road. I been shot ’n’ stabbed ’n’ dragged b’hind t’wheel’rs ’n’ stung ’n’ bit by all manner o’ beast ’n’ cannibals et my flesh a couple places ’n’ had my brain cut wi’ Vik’s blades o’ t’mind. My skinen hair weren’t like t’old folk ’n’ I heard some can’t see t’yoovee rads. Per’aps I well ’n’ true can’t die, per’aps I’ll dry ’n’ shrivel ’til I’m naught but shamblin’ black sticks ’cross t’empty. Per’aps my brain’ll dryen t’pan o’my skull ’n’ my eyes’ll rattle round like graveldusten t’sockets. Per’aps ye’ll get off yer ass ’fore t’glassdust cooks it tender fer t’crabs, I chats sized m’self.
T’rise were a catalog o’ agonies ’n’ all t’cries o’ pain affirmed t’whole o’ my parts t’were morror less attached. Advent’rous ’pedes leapt fer t’dust from my bloodied facen eyes whilst I presently found a small relief from t’rads ’tween t’god glass fingers o’ t’Petro Hills. Once more in’t fumes, I reviewed t’options open. T’big empty weren’t among ’em, not s’long as Whip was held ’gainst his freedom. First among ’em were t’wait ’til laten dark ’n’ ’scapen t’stary sky wi’ Whip. ’Twould be safern bloodless ’n’ easy ’nough as I got t’sense neither Jim nor his ilk were much for strat’gizin’. Suchen un’erhanded approach sat poorly in m’gut. Easy ’n’ safe ’n’ quiet. Bloodless.
That just wouldn’t do fer t’likes o’ these fella’s, t’sort who’d run down a freen happy merc’yote ’n’ ’other animals, lock ’em up t’make’m kill fer t’musemento ’nother. I weren’t gonna do ’em quiet. It were gonna be loud, loud ’n’ bloody ’n’ I’d carve my namen mem’ry. ’Twas plenty o’ blood ’ready dried deepen t’my hands, but I reckon ’twere room yet fer more. Ain’t no one mess wi’ my dawg ’n’ laughs ’bout it. I med’tated on t’greatly wide grin I’d cut from Jim’s jaws.
One o’ my hands were a constant presence o’ t’mind wi’ t’pain ’twere ’xpressin ’thout sir cease. I gandered t’swollen ’pendage ’n’ t’digits askew. ’Twere no route but t’path o’ pain I always walked ’n’ no time but fer t’living. Musterin’s much courage as I could ’n’ subs’quently swayin’ wi’ t’flashen my head, I lined t’fingers up mostly in t’proximate correct direction, set palm ’pon battered palm ’n’ leant in wi’ my full weight so’s t’flat—
T’sky were still ’light, but not s’much as two rads a’noon. Seemt t’dark o’ t’mind e’en blacker’n midnight fell swift ’pon me ’n’ took me unawares t’depths below pain.
T’big rad hung nearer’t horizon ’n’ t’little ’un were cross from it t’west I guessed. My ears rung wi’ pain ’n’ jaws clenched. My hand’s ache travelt up t’my elbow, but t’digits were some measure o’ straight. Might e’en imagine usin’ ’em again someday fer my own purposes. Asides all’t trouble o’ regainin’ a sense o’ order in my fingers, seemed I’d lay undisturbed.
“Thought fer sure ye’ were near’t expiration.” My starlit beauty spoke a’perched ’bove me. Some might draw parallel ’tween ther skin ’n’ t’glossy black o’ t’petrofied dead god. Such paltry meter fours I found lacked luster, as t’depths o’ ther beauty were curved softly ’gainst onen other t’shape a form mightily pow’rful in t’face o’ brutal petromad mining ’n’ dead gods service. If t’petro were a whirlpool o’ rainbow chems, ther form were rather t’sun ’n’ t’lichen ’n’ clean deep water in’t altogether.
“Better men tried t’kill me ’n’ worse wi’ closer successen some ol’ jumped up petro miner wi’ his head jammed backways.” I stood my lesser aches ’pon two legs ’n’ wasn’t shy t’catch ther eye ’praisen up my pounds o’ flesh.
“Brought some o’ yer gear. Thought ye’ may like t’see it.” The’d t’sharpen shooter ’n’ my belts aside folded ’round ’em, past t’me down t’hill. “Figure yer takin’ leave o’ t’Hill now.”
“Don’t count ’em so quick.” I wraped my unclad body suches I could ’n’ hung t’knife ’n’ t’crank pistol. “T’fellow Jim got my dawg ’n’ more asides.” T’knife’d ease’t task ahead, per’aps e’en t’prep’rations I’d ’vanced t’plan. Shooter were useless ’til suchtime as I got bullets. “I mean’t ’mpart my fill o’ softy ’pon his waitin’ flesh ’n’ leave him choke’t lesson in blood ’pon his walls.”
The’ slid down ’side me. “He’s full cooked on t’petro, long past due ’cept for known t’hole he crawls’t bedways, ’n’ howe’er his cronies come t’call so fast.” Ther eyes gleamed ’n’ ’thin t’depth pale’d t’deep p’rple ’n’ blues, fixin’ me ’pon t’spot I stood. The’ were t’world o’ mine for a spell o’ eternity all full o’ need ’n’ unfamil’r hope.
“Don’t matter none,” I said, ‘n’ t’weren’t pain’t caught my breath. “He dragged me all t’way down’t his lair. Ain’t no trouble’t find m’way back.” Per’aps I were still dizzy, or per’aps were’t heat that gave me sense t’lean closer’t ther curves. I let t’scent o’ ther sweat fill up my nose ’n’ lungs sure as my eyes drank in ther fleck’d skin. The’ caused me great awarenes o’ t’years long past since I lay wi’ another by choice.
“Wima Breaker,” the’ said. I were by nomeans short ’n’ still were lower’n ther shoulders. “Leather Jim’s fer t’chop,” the’ said. “T’rest o’ his gang’ll fall in line, cep’t’three. ’Tween us may’ap could remove said obstacles—Puzzles, Shorty, Dead Harold. All’s need fer you t’show t’way.”
“From which yer nexten line t’altar ’n’ divine sacrifice?” I didn’t make no minda my name.
“May’ap less cruel a worlden my hands.” The’ briefly looked ’pon ther own armsen hands. “T’petro don’t trouble me none’s far’s I know. Jim’s unawares. T’rads neither, he’s no mind t’outside o’ t’Hill, inward myopic.”
Thoughts o’ those hands, less cruel or otherwise, set part o’ me t’wishin’ we could stay ’thin ther arms, find a spell o’ peace in ther bosom. Such hopes as them weren’t ne’er t’be free o’ t’scent o’ shattergrass thrown in a corner for waste ’n’ t’scent o’ entrails that used t’send me off t’sleep.
’Fore any deeper consid’ration, I’d mine own plots’t ’ply. Eye cast about ’n’ soon found t’yoovee trail ’n’ glow o’ a pitviper, lurken wait for it’s next misstep victim.
Miles ’way, t’low keen o’ whistle drops mysterious flight echoed cross’t deepin’ blue-gray sky. “I owe dues t’Puzzles fer t’laughter. T’beatin’ I taken no affront, but weren’t no cause t’laugh. Jim I reckon owes a debt more’n t’blood in his body. Gentle hands or other, I’ll be collectin’. Me ’n’ my dawg’ll take leave ’n’ don’t make no offer temptin’ otherwise. Can’t say I e’er been forced t’say no t’such a beauty as yerself, but I turned ’way overmuch tempten m’life. Me ’n’ m’dawg ’n’ t’blood ’n’ we’re done.”
Puttin’ a smile ’pon ther face filled me all up wi’ pride, e’en if t’smile were more suggestive o’ huntin’ than fuckin’. “Ye’ terms agree well ’nough wi’ t’sight I seen o’ t’future. Though much a shame t’see ye’ part ways w’out a turn ’bout o’ fair play. The’ lay ther hand ’pon m’sun blister’d breasts ’n’ stared down open ’n’ lustful at m’gnarled jerky I thought surely weren’t much t’see.
Yet ’thin m’self I found t’strength t’pull free ’n’ scout t’pitviper. Ne’er could make a scrap o’ sense t’why t’pits were so brighten yoovee rads, but I were grateful t’luck o’ it. Tip o’ my blade pulled t’roots from ’neath t’glassdust ’n’ dumped t’maw o’ t’pitviper t’closen spill inside itself. Some brown ’n’ white thick skin or ’normous cupped leaf, filled wi’ sweet ’n’ thick sap, like t’drain t’will’ve all manner o’ beast. All ’long t’surface t’fangs o’ t’viper pr’truded wi’ their beads o’ toxicity. Cut m’self a ha’dozen ’n’ left t’pitviper t’pullin’ itself outta its own guts. A cut o’ belt cloth wrapped my hand up tight ‘n’ held t’ven’mous spines t’m’knuckles.
“I can take ye t’where t’bastards hid,” I said.
We return’t t’Hill, ’n’ I led us past tradesen longsides t’flop ’n’ near t’arena. All through t’carved paths o’ Petrol Hill hardly a single patron or miner or all else were stirin’. Rathermore, they set about lacken luster on their mats or ’thin t’bar or curled up in t’walkways. Gas ’n’ wretch’d drink ’n’ tense hunger were spread thr’out, t’dead god havin’ gone un’filled. Wima shook the’ head when t’bartender glanced ’pon us. T’were a moment o’ consideration ’tween’t two—whether t’more profitable course o’ action were loyalty t’Jim or t’leave histr’y take its course. He returned t’spit cleanin’ t’petro from his cups, allowen chips t’fall in May.
Our path crosst ’bove a small lake o’ water, surely poisoned wi’ petro ’n’ still bein’ drunk I spec.
“Down ’side t’lake,” I point’d ’n’ thereafter followd Wima in t’ever narrowin’ circuit t’wards Lizard Jim. From’t shores o’ t’corrupt waters o’ t’Hill, soon found t’path o’ my broken body. Stone smothed from t’water, cool underfoot. Ahead a passage’t furnace ‘n’ forgin’ what little malle’ble material as they had in’t more useful end evers. Shards fresh chipped t’fire’t forge littered as we turn’t other route, onwards.
Several treks ’tween t’mines ’n’ t’forges Wima ’n’ I spent ’fore we spy’t trick o’ t’walls. They were cleverly o’erlapt such t’fool eyes unaware, further disguised wi’ a narrow petroplast door.
We crept our way ’long t’cavern o’ starlight. I gathered o’er t’reg’lar curses Wima had no sight o’ t’yoovee rad.
In t’dark we came ’pon a deeper black shape ’gainst t’speckled lights. T’voice were deep ‘n’ whistled. “Who’s hidin’ ’n’ cussin’ in’t dark?”
“Shorty,” said Wima.
“Wima?” said Shorty.
“He got t’middle o’ his legs amp mutated ’n’ eaten by cannibals. Plus he always losin’ bets ’n’ owes e’eryone.”
“Awful rude t’say, Wima, who’s else aside ye’?” His tone were friendly but t’snap o’ t’crankpistol spring weren’t near so much.
“Shorty,” Wima said, “Ye’ know Jim’s past due. Ye’ know his brain’s shriveled up in his skull. All ye’ need’s t’step away.”
“It’s dark,” said Shorty. He stept t’greater dark, wherin t’shape o’ him weren’t e’en clear by t’yoovee rads. “But I can see ya both a’right.” He were movin’ ’bout t’room, ’n’ I couldn’t tell no ways he were near nor far.
Wima spoke b’hind my ear. “Ye’r a thrice fuck’d bast’rd cow, Shorty.”
T’dark shape o’ him swam ’tween t’starlight. I stillt m’thoughts, I took breath slow through t’nose ’n’ left mind’t dwell ’pon t’meat ’n’ t’mult’tude o’ swill ’thin. Couldn’ve said if t’breath Shorty let out meant a choice fer better or worse, only that he were near ‘nough. I stuck t’pitviper stems in’t his body. He died soft wi’out light, real fast ’n’ I let him slide quiet in t’pool o’ his own piss. Guns weren’t for t’dead ’n’ as such I aided his journey in t’next world by procurin’ his crankpistol t’aid me in t’present one. Per’aps it e’en held bullets.
One more dead body I step’d ‘cross ‘n’ not a bit more a matter. Light shone at t’end o’t tunnel for t’livin’ alike t’dead. Room’s were hacked from t’dead flesh o’ t’pelvic gurdy. Bare petro lamp showed beds, chairs, tables, ’n’ other such unheard o’ luxuries hoard’ ’thin. I spy’t desk where Jim’d brought me low ’n’ cruel. T’last room on t’left were lit bright ’nough t’show t’others, spillin’ forth t’sounds o’ merriment in company o’ smoke o’ t’wicks. Wima ‘n’ I stayed hid as best able whilst speckin’ t’occupants.
Puzzles The Cat were rollin’ round inside a dumpster o’ combined bed ’n’ office. Rotted bones ’n’ half full cups o’ mold ’n’ crusted yoo tent stills sprinkled lib’rally, piles o’ grease crusted pillows wi’ stained mattresses all wadded in corners. All this ’n’ Puzzles rushin’ ’round screaming in code whilst t’pigen his brain were squealing audibly.
Dead Harold were t’first t’notice our little ensemble. T’walkin’ dead man raised a club o’ bone wrapt wi’ petroplast ‘n’ drew ’tention’t our intrusion by way o’ an angry sing’lar statement o’, “brains!” t’which no one paid no nevermind. O’er in t’corner o’ t’mess I could spy Whip. His eyes were half lidded ’n’ he was pantin’ fiercely, wi’ a slow trickle o’ merc’y puddlin’ ’neath his open mouth ’n’ long, narrow tongue.
Better swift ’n’ silent in t’dark, but all visible in t’moment were red ’n’ t’blood yet still unfairly within Leather Jim.
“Beg yer pardon sirs,” I said in t’fine tower o’ silence we cultivated so careful. “What in t’fuck you done t’my dawg!” I shouted it down so hard Leather Jim spilt off his chair. Puzzles The Cat went fer me, squealin’ as his hogbrain bounced ’round inside his chest, splashin’ pools o’ liquor all ‘bout. I were more prepared ’n’ a shade more calm. I wrap’d ’round his big ugly rivet iron left arm, scrambled for purchase ‘round wi’ my own bare dusty form, ’fore I got a good grip ’n’ let m’self swing wide.
Round ’n’ round t’room, I saw Wima holdin’ Dead Harold’s club, smackin’ it ’pon his face wi’ a mighty unsatisfyin’ whack. All’t same, Dead Harold went t’ground wi’ putrid sewage seepin’ from his cracked skull. T’smell o’ it were hateful. Where he lay seepin’ t’death, Dead Harold’s left leg pathetically tried t’right his body.
None o’ that were t’forefront o’ my thoughts, as I was oc’pied. ’Tween his drunken hog ’n’ mine earth all from swingin’ ’pon his body, he went crash t’floor. Ain’t no old mining ’quipment that clever wi’ a drunk oil hog brain, ’n’ I had time fer some real good hits t’chest glass. It were child’s play t’pull it up once it broke, but t’hog were fast ’n’ slippery ’n’ ran off. I made sure t’ new matics ’n’ other wires I found were good ’n’ tore up ’fore turnin’ ’tention t’Leather Jim.
All t’leath’ry flaps o’ skin whipped ’pon my face, t’spin me round dizzy. I struggled t’keep my arms ’tween my face ’n’ t’whipsnap o’ his flesh, a bare trade off o’ pain fer pain whilst I grappl’d wi’ his flesh ’n’ deep inside. He were all dried up in t’folds, ‘n’ my search were easier for it. Blood free flow’d new ‘n’ old, but a graspt my goal, t’small flat prize o’ my fresh pain.
Wima hit him in t’head wi’ t’club.
He tried t’whip, but the’ stomped his foot ’n’ hit his arm subs sequins likd. T’buffeting o’ wings faltered ’gainst me, ’nough t’produce m’crankpistol ’n’ fire.
It weren’t my best effort, yet were more’n empty chamber. T’shot ript in’t folds, did no harm t’Jim yet stilled his flailing skin. Wima swung hither’t his legs ’n’ he went t’kneeling. Went up a hand t’yield ’n’ Wima spun his outstretched arm t’wrong way ‘round.
T’motions o’ Jim’s good hand call’d t’heavier smell o’ gasoline as t’steam o’ t’corpse rush’t its master. Wima curst. T’were easy fer steams t’snuff life out o’ mere mortals. As t’shade o’ condensed matter fell close ’pon us, I flick’t t’square open. Fer all t’pain o’ takin’ it from him, t’outcome were o’ little consequence. T’square were listless e’en t’my shaking it. T’gas were chokin’ ‘n’ Jim were laughin’ ’n’ my eyes were waterin’ but I spied t’minute crank o’ t’device. Smaller’n m’fingers, slow’t turn, eyes watered, I spun’t crank wi’ my thumb.
Blue flames, ’n’ green purple ones, felt ‘cross t’roof ’n’ throughout ’t’ steam. It’s sound were like air cross a narrow cave ’n’ t’ceiling smold’r’d black smoke whilst fires sputter’d. Jim scream’d, alight, hurlin’ arms back ’n’ forth as t’flames consum’d his thin flesh eagerly.
T’cries o’ pain were no pleasure o’ mine’t hear. I bled from many a cut ’n’ didn’t fuss near’s much. T’were in my reach at last, Jim’s neck, all I needed t’make t’scales o’ justice fair.
I shoved him t’floor ’n’ kicked, kick’d ’til he roll’d t’flames out.
What creature o’ blood ’n’ melted flesh were t’which I held ’gainst his own desk. No mater, I hit him ’gainst t’corner a couple more times fer emphasis, ’n’ couldn’t hear what he said anyway. Couldn’t hear nothin’. Shame it was too, I’d like t’know what baragain he placed ’pon his life. I tore t’leathers from his arms one at a time. They were soft ’n’ dead white skin hung off t’blood red dermis.
Some point in t’haze Wima touched me ’n’ my skin didn’t feel like fire. I could hear Jim ‘gain but he weren’t sayin’ nothin’ ‘cept please. I broke his left thumb, considerin’ how many bones were left t’go. It weren’t any difficulty no how.
Wima said, “He ain’t goin’ nowhere. Why doncha sit a spell wi’ yer dawg.”
T’weren’t so, I knew. Red thoughts plauged m’head anew, trembl’t ’thin m’arms. This were no place t’lay my blood, no home fer a dawg t’run free. There were so much ahead t’do, ’n’ Vik yet wait’d, curled ’thin t’corner o’ my mind liken t’malicious black wasp, shudderin’ wi’ t’sick need t’poison m’heart further.
The’ touched m’shoulder, turnt me ’round, ’n’ spoke. “Sit wi’ yer dawg. Ain’t askin’.”
“Yeah.” I set myself up. Looked like I broke both o’ Jim’s ankles ’n’ I musta smashed up his feet real good wi’ t’bat. I set next t’Whip ’n’ lean’t hug but he snapped t’touch ’fore he whined at me. I could feel t’sharp pain o’ t’kicks, t’ache o’ breath. I sat awhile ’n’ he came t’let me feel ’round his chest ’n’ sides. Still whined but didn’t never bite.
I stayed in Petro Hill. Not fer’ver, but I stayed a minute, sufferin’ t’poison o’ t’air ’n’ drinkin’ t’dead god poison water. Sweat out dark oil t’streak long round t’dust ’pon my skin. Wima came t’see me once awhile, ’n’ lyin’ ’thin ther arms were all I’d dreamt ’n’ more. The’ didn’t e’en mind t’nightmares.
Vik loved t’act smart, like he knew secrets. I know he didn’t have no secrets, just booksen archives ’n’ shit. I learnt how t’patch up inj’ries t’his favorites for abusin’, ’n’ I learnt stupid useless shit, like t’body is mostly water. Or like t’liver is a filter. ’Spose t’weren’t all bad.
Wima left a leaky clay jug o’ toxic water like per usual. Whip was lookin’ loads better ’n’ startin’ t’get tired o’ bein’ cooped up. I spec t’same were true fer me. I wondert if it were ’cause o’ knowin’ Vik were still out there, or if it were just t’nature o’ m’self t’wander. I swapped out t’little cup o’ blood from under t’makeshift filter I made outta cloth scraps, ’n’ Whip near bowled me over for it.
“Good dawg,” I said, rubbed silver drops off his fur while he lapp’d. Didn’t start nor whine, just t’feel o’ his ribs heavin’ wi’ t’laps o’ blood.
Leather Jim got a whole corner’t himself. I spec he wanted t’scream or shudder at m’proach, but weren’t no way t’make much sound. Not since I cut his mouth t’mandible, ’n’ took his tongue t’boot. Per’aps it’d be a kinder act t’snap his spine, but ’tween ol’ Vik ’n’ them cannibals what raised me, I learnt a live body were useful in ways a dead one weren’t. ’Sides, he weren’t goin’ nowhere—I made sure t’break all t’bones o’ his arms ’n’ legs good ’n’ proper.
Still, Chary ’n’ my dawg gotta eat ’n’ t’liver’s probably t’best we can hope fer cleanin’ up t’petro. Wima seemed well ’nough ’n’ ’parently the’ even caught t’oil pig. The’ were keepin’ it as a pet fer now. I looked at Whip. Who knows, maybe the’d keep it longer. I move’t tourniquet up Jim’s leg ’n’ got t’cuttin’ off dinner for Whip ’n’ me. Jim gurgled quietly like always. I thought ’bout lettin’ ol’ Jim know we’d be leavin’ soon, but I spec he won’t much care fer t’generosity o’ our partin’ gift. I figure he oughta get t’same mercy he lent me.
Whip looked at me, his chest huge ’n’ wide, great claws on his front legs, slopeback t’short ’n’ narrow back legs wi’ his long waggin’ tail. T’warmth ’n’ promise ’n’ shared history o’ sorrow lay o’er us both, carried crossway on whate’er mutation worked wonder in t’merc’yotes. T’past weeks were bloody work, ’n’ loud too, but this were just t’warm up for me ’n’ Whip. Twere long kees ’til Vik, ’n’ we weren’t fixin’ t’allow delay.
I set t’jug o’ poison water drippin’ t’tube in Jim’s mouth, ’n’ opened an artery for a trickle o’ fresh blood, ’fore sittin’ t’wait. A couple days I figure. Then we’d go. I hoped Wima got a friend s’good as m’dawg someday. Nothin’ ever set ’tween me ’n’ my dawg.
E. Lois Martel is a trans woman in upstate New York, where she lives with her nonbinary wife, other partners, and the cats.