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  From Waste to Waste

  By Marshall Norman McCarthy

  Copyright 2014 Marshall Norman McCarthy

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design by emokidnap. Find more of her work at: https://emokidnap.deviantart.com/

  Introduction

  From Waste to Waste the sparks of hope flicker where they should sputter and die, defiant to the last; yet in the core of even stalwart hearts Waste lies in wait.

  These ten stories each in one fashion or another touch upon the theme of Waste; some are purely thematic, while others read more heavy-handed.

  I hope that you, Reader, find something within these digital pages to entertain and maybe - just maybe - find something a little deeper.

  I leave the judgement up to you.

  Table of Contents

  One Last Salue

  Five Steps from Home

  Goodbye Ronnie

  The Storm, Wall

  The Man Who (Unwittingly) Sold the World

  ‘For My Own Sake’

  In Search of Payday

  A Happy Burden

  Tragedy in Mr. Dead’s Wood

  The Danger of Following Dreams

  Afterword

  One Last Salue

  A Story of Battle out in the Waste

  Bates knew by the way she walked - hips sashaying and eyes hunting - that trouble followed the woman in the black gown. From the bar, neat-whiskey tilted in his hand, he watched her pass by the other louts filling the tables and chairs in Buntin’s Refuge. Her face was rigid in confidence, but he noticed how she clutched her handbag as if it was her lifeline.

  To his surprise – and grinning delight – the woman in black sidled up to the bar, beside him and ordered a drink.

  ‘Rum, spiced and on the rocks. And another rye, for my friend.’ Without looking, she waved to Bates.

  Smirking, he downed the last of his drink and slid the cup back to the old barkeep. ‘Much obliged, Miss?’

  ‘Evelyn,’ she glanced at him and Bates was warned by azure eyes.

  'Evelyn?'

  Those eyes narrowed on him and the warning deepened. 'Really?' she turned to her drink, sipped it with delicate purpose. 'I was told you were an old hand at this; you should know that names have power.'

  ‘Well, thank you all the same, Evelyn,’ he winked. ‘Curious though, how’d you know that I was drinking rye, and not that southern garbage?’

  Her mousey face turned to him and she considered him pointedly. ‘Never mind that,’ she countered, glancing around the roadhouse. ‘I’m told you can handle a pistol.’

  He was intrigued now. ‘Got a problem?’

  ‘Many,’ she sipped at her drink, thinking. ‘Unfortunately only one that can be settled with a bullet. But,’ she took another sip and chanced another glance around the roadhouse. ‘I'd rather not discuss it in such a public forum.' She settled a meaningful look on him.

  Snatching his hat from the bar-top, Bates settled it atop his head. ‘Come on, I've got a room.’ He grinned past the wide brim, winking once more.

  And once more it passed by without the bat of an eyelash or the crook of a smile. ‘Very nice.’

  Damn, this one’s as dry the grave. Right. Well, here’s to trouble.

  * * * *

  The room Bates paid for amounted to only slightly more than a closest and mattress, but he did what he could to make his guest comfortable. He let her have the bed while he stood with his back to the door.

  ‘So, what can I help you with?’ He studied her face from above crossed arms.

  She looked worn-out, burned-out, now that they were alone. 'I need you to kill a dragon.'

  'What?'

  Evelyn sighed. 'I don't how much clearer I can explain it to you. There is a dragon, and I need you to kill it. Do I have to spell this out for you?

  Bates bit back a filthy retort, chewing it into a grimace. ‘No ma’am, that’s just fine,’ he assured her through gritted teeth. ‘Just not something you hear every day is all.’ He wiped at the sudden sweat beading on his brow. ‘Look,’ he pushed away from the door, searching the tiny room for the right words. ‘I don’t know what Dudley told you about me, but let me put rumours to rest: I ain’t never took on a dragon, and I don’t know that I’d be any good to you if I did. My Colt can’t pierce its hide.’ He shrugged.

  Something devious crossed pouty lips. ‘No,’ she reached into her handbag and pulled out a weapon of shining steel and polished ivory. ‘But mine can. I just need a man who can shoot the damn thing.’

  She held the pistol out to him as if it would bite. Before it slipped from her fingers, Bates took it, revering its touch. A gentle tremor worked its way from his hand, up his arm and into his chest, his heart. ‘Mother Mary; what is this?’

  ‘Salvation…'

  His gaze pulled down from Evelyn's face, tracking the lamplight caught in the pistol's steel. The reflection seemed to dance, as if he could see the magic that was promised. Enough to take out a dragon. Hell, if it can take out one of those bastards… Bates needed this gun, always had and he felt that need echoed in the weapon's vibrations. He lifted eyes to his client's face, gauging her. It was no good in her hands, she said as much already…

  ‘When do we leave?’

  ‘We don’t,’ Evelyn stood and before she continued a sound like screeching thunder ripped the air outside the roadhouse.

  ‘It followed you?’

  ‘Remember Bates,’ trouble crooked a grin, ‘you’ve just the six shots.’ Evelyn winked and was gone. Vanished. Poof!

  ‘Just your fucking luck, Bates…’ He scooped his hat back onto his head and turned in the moment the roof was sheared off by the dragon’s wintery breath. And there she was, big as the sky and twice as angry as all hell.

  Rising from his crouch, Bates sped towards the window. Glass smashed as he threw his body out. Hitting the ground in a roll he was glad for his first floor suite.

  The dragon’s call filled the air, spooking man and beast. Patrons poured from the roadhouse even as horses peeled away from the stables. But Bates’ old nag charged right for him, either out of loyalty or looking to pay him back for the harsh tones he too often used on her.

  Bates hoped it was the former, reached out for the beast’s mane and hurled himself onto her back. ‘Go go go go!’ he needlessly urged the terrified animal. Glancing over his shoulder he saw the great lizard swinging around, and he swore it looked right at him.

  Hurry up Nancy, before she heads us off at Malcolm's Ridge.

  But the dragon’s speed was superior, and icy death flowed from between man-tall teeth. He turned back to the plains ahead and spurred his mount, desperate for more speed as cold bit at his back.

  Nancy screamed and bucked when the dragon's breath caught her hindquarters. Below him she fell away and Bates hit the ground hard, cursing as the shadow of the dragon passed overhead.

  'Jesus,' he barked, seeing Nancy's body frozen and broken in half. Organs and intestines, rimmed with frost, spilled out from her, glittering in the sun like morbid jewels. Bates swallowed a wad of vomit.

  The dragon's roar
– a triumphant call – stole his attention. It sailed over the plains, between him and the spine of the ridge a mile away. Numb hands fumbled at Evelyn's pistol as he watched the beast gliding towards him, bellowing a goodbye.

  Standing, Bates felt awareness become distant.

  One last pass, one last salue.

  One last roar from the dragon’s maw. Without thought, without worry, without haste, Bates squeezed the trigger before the dragon cried out – in surprise – and fell from the sky. He watched it crash onto the dusty plains, skidding to a stop twenty paces removed, amazed. One clean shot.

  ‘Not bad,’ Bates said, admiring the six-shooter before putting it away and winked at the dragon's corpse.

  Five more shots. He turned to the pink horizon. Got to be five more dragons out there.

  Five Steps from Home

  A Story of Wasted Love

  Five steps from home: that was all that was left of Sucheta’s journey. Five dripping red steps. Across two pave-stones, up two concrete stairs and one more across the greying porch to the door, but all Such had left in her was drenching the flags behind her. Pale blue, the paint dressing its face faded and chipped, the door stood in mocking regard, teasing her with its proximity.

  Teetering on her feet, legs gave way and, grunting from the jolt, she looked up at the door from hands and knees. Vision blurred, threatened to blacken, but Such bit down on her bottom lip until she tasted blood. See, I still have some left. Blood remains pumping life and I will not fail, not yet, not when I’m right here.

  Pain gave her strength, clarity, and if she could not walk to that contemptuous door, she would crawl. Shaking hands dug fingers past cool grass and into soil. A curse broke out when she pulled her numbing body across the second-to-last pave-stone, turning slate-grey to dark-red. Again she reached for a handhold and dragged her carcass forward, and again a sound erupted from her lips as pain raked through her arms, her chest, ending at her waist. She felt nothing below.

  ‘Almost made it, Sweetheart.’

  Sucheta nearly whimpered when Lusatia’s throaty voice sounded from behind and above. A growl rumbled her throat as she struggled, fought to turn over and face her killer. Strong hands grabbed at shoulder and side, doing the work for her unkindly. Such coughed up red and felt it rain back down her face as she tried to stare up at the woman. Vivid memory filled in the blackness devouring her gaze.

  Lusatia was tall, thick and prone to taking weeks between baths. Greasy strands of dirty-blond hair fell around a face that was young, yet haggard by harsh lines. Blue eyes stared down on Such with cold assurance.

  ‘You made a promise, you know. To me, to the others: you swore to give this meaningless life up.’ The thick heel of Lusatia’s steel-toe boot dug into Such’s wound, driving an anguished scream out of her. ‘Scream, Such, no one’s gonna hear you. I made sure of that.’ Such’s killer’s smile was a vulture’s own.

  Take me, Black. I’m done, finished; I’m ready to come home.

  ‘Oh, you won’t be leaving us all just yet.’

  Fire erupted from the wound, burning through veins and into her heart and mind. Such screamed again, long and tortured. The Black came for her then with its vow of peace, but as her life with Lusatia and the Cabal had been, it was all a lie.

  ‘You betrayed us…’

  * * * *

  Sucheta started awake ready to alight on her feet and fight, but steel dug into her wrists and tape muffled angry words. The backseat of the world-weary sedan jostled her as the car rumbled over a train crossing. She let out a frustrated growl when she smacked her head and thrashed against the cuffs binding her hands at her back.

  ‘They gave us love,’ Lusatia continued from the driver’s seat, sounding as if she was holding back weak sobs. ‘They gave us a new life, filled with pleasure and power. They gave us meaning, Such. And you threw it all away!’

  The old Chevy swerved onto the shoulder in answer to Lusatia’s wheel-slapping outburst, throwing Sucheta into the door beside her when the car was viciously righted. ‘You threw it away for both of us,’ Lusatia growled from the front seat, frantically wiping away tears.

  Please baby, no. Don’t do this, just turn around and we can leave. If only the duct tape would allow her to speak those words, but all she managed was a symphony of pleading muffles.

  The sedan slowed and Sucheta saw the dilapidated cottage, where she and her lover had been promised meaningful existence peeking into view around ancient pines. It was dark, not a single candle burning in the filthy windows and she realized that something was wrong: there was never a time when the Cabal did not keep one flame burning. The spirit’s demanded it.

  The car stopped, rocking her forward and Lusatia was out the door, slamming it violently. Her lover dragged her from the backseat in the same manner, muttering darkly.

  ‘On your feet,’ powerful arms held Sucheta aloft. ‘I want you to see this,’ Lusatia was leading her by the arm, up creaking wooden stairs and to the door. She saw now that it hung drunkenly from one hinge and confusion narrowed her gaze.

  ‘I want you to see what I had to do.’ There was something new in Lusatia’s voice, something akin to guilt. ‘I couldn’t…couldn’t let them… just look.’

  The door crashed in at the big woman’s touch and white sorcery flowed from Lusatia’s palm, revealing the mess of humanity beyond. Such closed her eyes, not needing – not wanting – to see anymore. God, there’s so much blood.

  Sucheta gasped as the patch of tape was torn from her mouth. ‘You…how?’ she questioned between panting breaths. ‘How did you do this, to them?’ She was astonished at the power that her lover must have unleashed to take on the entire Cabal.

  Lusatia sighed heavily, exasperated. ‘Love, you stupid nit.’ Arms wrapped around Sucheta, smothering her in her lover’s bosom, but the embrace was short-lived. Lusatia looked deeply into her eyes from arm’s length, but Sucheta saw misery where joy should have been.

  ‘Untie me now Love, and let’s be away.’

  Lusatia’s face twisted. ‘No.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I wanted you to see what I did for you…so you understand.’ Lusatia spun Sucheta with ease and wrists came free. ‘I want you to understand why, after this,’ she pointed to the now darkened abattoir, ‘I can’t look at you anymore, without seeing my own sins.

  ‘Good-bye, Sweetheart.’

  Goodbye Ronnie

  A Story of Wasted Faith

  ‘What are you doing up here, Ron?’

  Shaky eyes did not turn on the emaciated man standing casually on his left. Lips, set a quiver by fear, by shame and by guilt, worked at words to banish his uninvited guest. They worked and chewed their way to, ‘Go away.’ Is the wind always so harsh up here?

  ‘You know there’s a better way.’

  Cursed with tremors, Ronald’s arms remain pressed up against the chilled, slate-shaded bricks at his back. He wished for nothing more at that moment than to grip the crucifix swinging from his neck, bouncing against barrel-chest. But, ten storeys were not as he’d expecting; didn’t seem a great distance, from the ground. Fighting through fear, of the mortal variety, he wrenched his head to the left. ‘Go. Away!’

  Vermillion eyes smiled. ‘But, Father; I’ve a confession to make.’

  A crowd was gathering on the sidewalk below, pointing and calling out in morbid surprise. The police would be called soon and Father Ronald Vallencourt would transform from tragic mystery into spectacle. ‘Go to church then, creature.’

  Cracked, pasty lips hitched a smile. ‘They don’t approve of my kind. You know this.’

  Ronald felt himself scowl as old emotion crept up from below. He’d thought he’d lost it; that feeling of righteous passion. Yet, it came now as a shadow; an echo of that which was lost. ‘Neither do I.’

  From an esophagus tightly wrapped by thin flesh, a dry rasp barked out. ‘I hardly think this is the time for policies, personal or otherwise; don’t you, Padre?’

  Vile
thing, he’s got a point.

  ‘And besides, what would your Maker do, hmm? Turn me aside, when I beseech him for mercy? Come now, Ronnie; your Lord is weeping as you turn away a soul.’

  ‘A black soul.’

  ‘But a soul nonetheless.’

  The blood pumping in Ronald’s veins began to carry the flotsam of shattered faith. This thing may truly be offering him the chance to save a soul thought beyond redemption. And after all, was that not the very reason he got into this whole mess called priesthood? Oh, it could be a trap, a trick, one last act of mockery to properly underscore his life. ‘Make it quick.’

  ‘Don’t worry, old friend. I’ve got but one sin to confess.’

  For Christ’s sake. ‘Fine, hurry up.’

  Bones cracking as he stretched, full confidence in the narrow precipice, the demon began with a sigh. ‘Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been literally forever since my last confession. But let me add; when you are a paragon of your kind, there is very, very little need to admit your flaws. That’s what this’s all this all about, isn’t? Flaws.’

  Parched white hair hid the demon’s smile. ‘What? Confession? Of course it is. We’re all flawed; people need to admit it.’

  ‘People, yes…’ Long skeletal fingers waved to the onlookers below. ‘My, they certainly don’t look too worried, do they Ronnie? But then again, look at you; you’re looking less darkened already. And there, old friend, is where we find connection. Connection in our one shared flaw: pity.’

  ‘Oh, I pity you alright, creature. You, who shall never know-’

  ‘Save it, Ronnie. We haven’t the time. I can hear the sirens coming.’ The demon chuckled and wheezed. ‘How sweet; someone does care. One in a million, that one is. Now, what was I saying?’

  ‘Pity,’ Ronald snapped.

  ‘Ah, yes. Pity. Let me tell you a story about pity, my good chum. One that you think you know.’

  Intrigued, Ronald allowed the creature to go on unmolested.

  ‘Many years ago now, I was but a thing of wandering gloom. I traversed the wastelands of the hells, made pacts with beings darker than even I, and was happy to find any opportunity to climb up the next bloody rung of the ladder. Why, I even had aspirations of taking on the Big Man himself.

  ‘It all came to a screeching halt when, one night, while I was wandering close to the Wall, I heard the plea of a frightened little boy. Seems he’d been cursed by the Maker, with a dead mother, and a father who could find blame only in his son.