Carnival of Cryptids (Anthology to Raise Funds for the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children) (Kindle All-Stars Book 2) Read online

  I started the motor, tried to get what Sara Johnson had said out of my mind. Tried to clear it, as if it were a fog over my brain.

  It growled. I heard its paws against the cold tarmac. I turned and saw a set of green eyes. They ... they ... sparkled ...

  I drove through the Cove, through the little streets with their tiny terraced houses, the pointing of each and every one blasted to lesser and greater degrees by the salty air whipping in off the shore. I ordered my thoughts. Thought about all I’d been told so far.

  Then I headed for The Lighthouse.

  * * *

  I didn’t go in. I didn’t need to. I poked my head through the door and saw that Chester wasn’t there anymore. I didn’t bother going on. Walking back to the car, I spotted a panda car parked-up next to it. I hadn’t seen it there before.

  Then I noticed that Chief Constable Binchley was inside, in the passenger seat. A junior officer was driving. Binchley got out and leant on the roof.

  “Afternoon Mr. Dent,” he said.

  “Afternoon,” I said.

  Binchley looked up and down the street. “We found the dog.”

  I tried not to look as surprised as I felt. “Oh.”

  Binchley nodded. “A couple of hours ago. Big thing. Wandering the back alleys.”

  “Ah ... right,” I said. “Well, that’s good.”

  I got my keys out of my pocket.

  Binchley fixed me with a stare. He smiled, but his eyes were dead and still.

  “So I guess that’s the end of your news story, isn’t it? It was a dog. Just a plain old dog,” he said slowly. “Just a freak accident.”

  I nodded. Binchley watched me climb inside the car. I drove off up the hill. When I looked in the rear view mirror, I saw him watching me go.

  The guardian of Dove Cove making sure the trouble was ready to blow away.

  * * *

  I booked out of the Dove’s Nest around five and thanked Elsa, the owner, for whatever I was meant to thank her for. I was past caring. I needed to get out of dodge. I had a story to think about and write. I’d found truth, and the weight of it in my pocket was almost too much.

  The sun was going down over Dove Cove, and I thought to myself This is a good town. This is a nice place to live. But then I thought It’s just as rotten, deep down, as anywhere else. The truth is just as fragile an entity here as it is anywhere else.

  With a sigh I pulled out of the car park and headed east over the town, preferring to go up and around it than back through it again. I’d had enough.

  The little country roads leading in and out of Dove Cove were completely empty, and it was a good thing too because the car sort of drove itself. My mind was turning things over. I felt sad about Sara Johnson. Sad even for Frank Whearity’s son, who would no doubt blame himself for what had happened to Sara for years to come. I hoped that in some way he’d stand by her, but I doubted that would happen. A lot of time, things just don’t turn out that way.

  And you know what? Most of all I was angry. Furious, actually, at the town for trying to cover up the attack. At everyone for failing to listen to Chester. For turning a blind eye. I wondered if there’d been sheep slain in the fields. Other attacks that had gone unreported or had been covered up. I couldn’t help visualising Binchley behind it all, with his arms folded across his wide chest as he tried to protect the whole town.

  You might not think so, but we do a small but regular trade from visitors such as yourself. Even now in October, Beth had told me, back in the pub.

  So you think it’s like damage control on his part? I’d asked.

  Beth had nodded. I think so yeah. Call it having the town’s best interests at heart.

  Those words angered me now. The town’s best interests.

  What about the best interests of Sara Johnson? With her back ripped to shreds like a side of duck at a Chinese restaurant.

  I looked to my left and hit the brakes. I was back at the scene of the accident. Only now, below the sign that read WHEARITY FARM somebody had lain a little bunch of cheap flowers. I pulled up on the verge and got out. The roads were dead anyway, I didn’t worry about getting caught out by somebody bombing along at a rate of knots. I stood looking down at the sad flowers on the grass and thinking to myself She could have died right here. That thing could have pulled her apart.

  A shiver coursed through my body and I looked up. I had that feeling you get sometimes, like you’re sure somebody is watching you. You feel their eyes burrowing into you, under the skin. I glanced about. Beyond the scrappy bushes there was a field with long blades of dying yellow grass. It could have been crops of some kind for all I knew. The sun was on my back, and my shadow cut a long v of darkness against the red glow of the dusk on the field. It was like I stood in the wake of a tide of blood. Without thinking, I crossed through the bushes into the field itself. I took a deep breath. The air was clear and fresh.

  I walked into the grass. It was hip height, and I let my hands trail along it.

  That feeling returned, of eyes watching me.

  They sparkled

  I stopped dead and listened. The grass whispered its secrets in the breeze. I drew in a breath and then I heard movement to my side. I looked, thought I saw the grass shift suddenly. I tensed. Another sound directly behind me. My lungs clutched onto what they had. My heart stopped. Something brushed against the back of my legs.

  I closed my eyes.

  This is it, I thought. Oh God, this is it.

  Then I opened my eyes. Nothing happened. I looked around, saw nothing there.

  There was a growl.

  My heart fluttered in my chest, and I ran back to the car. I was certain I’d feel hot claws bury themselves into the flesh of my back.

  I climbed into the car and sped off without even shutting the door properly. Only when I got onto an A road a few miles away, panting for breath, did I relax my foot off the pedal and slow down.

  A day or so later as I sat down to write about the whole experience, with all the right intentions, but I realised it wasn’t a story I could tell. The truth that was so real to me would seem false to others. I would be another Chester. People would roll their eyes. Laugh. It would throw anything I’d ever written previously into disrepute.

  The truth was there, but it would be buried regardless of whether I wrote it or not. Nobody would ever believe me.

  So I passed on it. I told my editor at the Herald there was no story there. He was upset with me for wasting his time, but it blew over eventually.

  “There’s nothing to tell,” I told him. “The story’s dead in the water.”

  Alien Big Cats is the term used for such things, or ABC’s, and having had time to think about it I suspect that the Dove Cove cat is probably the offspring of the two that were released from the back of that trailer years ago. That’s if they were male and female. If not, then maybe one of them died off. I think I fear a cunning old tiger more than a young, athletic one.

  I’ve never forgotten those two days in the Cove, and it’s why I’m writing this now. Even if nobody ever reads it, at least I’ve written it down. The truth is in the words. I did find what I went looking for, and now I don’t have that heavy weight in my pocket.

  Hopefully someone will read this one day. Perhaps it will do some good. There’s so much more to the story. When I think of that pressure against the backs of my legs, the unmistakable sound of something big moving through the grass, the rumble of a growl in its throat ... I know Chester was right. I still think of that wisdom in his voice. A heavy note of knowing that comes with the knowledge of things that can’t be spoken of. Not because they’re untrue. But because nobody will believe you.

  “Who knows what’s out there, in our woods, in our fields? Who knows what’s in the darkness?”

  The Squid

  The barmaid looks at you as you sit down. Her t-shirt is rolled up at the sleeves so they stretch around her saggy arms where she keeps a pack of cigarettes tucked away, just above a tattoo of
a heart. "What are you doing in here, kid?" she says.

  You look around the pub but all you see are unfriendly-looking fishermen drinking dark ale from tall mugs. "The man who brought me, did you see where he went?"

  "No."

  "Then I suppose I should wait for him."

  "Suit yourself. You hungry, sweetie? Want to eat while you wait for him?"

  "Yes," you say.

  She nods and turns toward the back of the bar at the kitchen window and shouts, "Order one!" She looks back at you smiles, showing the red lipstick stains across the front of her teeth. "It'll just be a minute."

  "Wait, do you have a menu?"

  She smirks and says, "No."

  You say something in response, but she's already headed toward the kitchen window when a man in a paper hat rings the bell on his counter and says, "Foods up!"

  It's a small blue bucket. A small blue bucket that spills water over its sides as the barmaid picks it up by its rope handle and carries it to the bar. She sets the bucket down in front of you, and as you look down into the dirty water she smiles again, "Hope you're hungry. He's a big one."

  The bucket shakes as something slaps its plastic surface from within. You see the squid's long, quivering tentacles writhing in the water as it bounces from side to side, trying to batter its way out of its confines with its phallus-shaped head. "Come on, then," the barmaid says sternly. "You'll just agitate him if you let him sit."

  "A living squid?" you gasp. "I can't."

  "You'd better," she says. The cook has come up behind her, a sweat-soaked man in a stained white shirt and yellow teeth as he leers at you. The patrons of the bar have filled in behind you, blocking your escape, beginning to exchange bets on you or the squid. "And hurry up, too," the barmaid says. "If you don't eat him, he'll eat you."

  You plunge your hand into the cold water and grasp for the creature's slimy length. It's tentacles curl around your fingers, the suckers along its undersides gripping your skin like painful blisters. The fishermen are cheering, some for you and some for the squid, as you pull the thing up from the bucket and stare into its unblinking, alien eyes.

  It wiggles as you tear its tentacles off with your teeth and pull it apart, desperate to finish. It releases a salty ooze into your mouth that stings your tongue and makes your eyes water. It squeals as you chew its rubbery flesh, fighting against you. Seawater spills out of your mouth and dribbles down your chin, stuffing the pieces of the creature into your mouth even as it struggles to escape.

  3. Six Gun Diplomacy - William Vitka

  They walked. Steam-powered locomotive cars pulled goods and livestock alongside them on the road. The sky was dense with soot and carbon-soaked clouds. The humidity made every bit of grime stick to flesh.

  Jack Svoboda said, "This is horseshit."

  Catarina Schrieber said, "What is?"

  "This job. It's ridiculous."

  "The bosses say we gotta go, we gotta go."

  "Yeah, but look at this place. No good bars. No baseball. No cool cars. And no goddamn 1939 New York World's Fair. That is where we were supposed to spend our vacation."

  "I know, Cowboy. I know. We got screwed. But the sooner we get this over with, the sooner we get to act like kids at a science expo and the sooner we'll be staring at a pristine Unisphere."

  "Just make sure we don't go too far back when this is all done, Cowgirl. The Corona Ash Dumps is not where I want to spend my time." Jack lit a cigarette. "Shit, and these assholes–" he pointed to a group of dirty passersby "–are only about fifteen minutes past the start of the Industrial Revolution."

  "You're charming, did you know that? Always pleasant in the presence of a lady. Don't know why it took so long for us to get together."

  "I can be charming. But, I'll stop."

  "Good. Let's just get to town."

  "It'll be a joy to broker peace between the squids and the steampunk rejects on another Earth."

  "Jack."

  "I know, I know."

  ***

  ''Town'" was a sprawling city that sat geographically where Galveston, Texas should have been−if this had been the Earth Jack and Catarina hailed from. Instead, this place was called Resilient. Whether the city had managed to survive the hurricanes or the squids, Jack had no clue. But he admired it.

  "Good name," Jack said. He looked up at the sky. It was dark and heavy like a black blanket being pulled over the city. "Storm's coming. Wonder if it'll be a hurricane ..."

  Catarina nodded. "With our luck." She looked over the gorgeous metropolis. There were villas and Romanesque structures laden with arches and dramatic windows. Most of the buildings were wide and squat – rising no more than four or five floors. This was to protect the structures from the frequent storms that battered the barrier island of Resilient. The lower the building, the less likely it would be toppled in the high winds of a hurricane.

  Jack said, "Well, the ... uh ... Resilients are expecting us. Right?"

  "Supposedly," Catarina said. "So we gotta find the mayor or something?"

  Jack puffed on his cigarette. "I love you, Cowgirl, but fucked if I know. You'd think Griffin would have given us clearer instructions. Or anything other than 'Go, negotiate peace, don't die.'"

  "Welp, he's not very good at that." Catarina huffed and bit her lip. She wandered over to one of the many pedestrians nearby. He limped. He wore a set of brass-rimmed goggles she'd seen on others. Eyewear to keep the soot from precious corneas. He had a limp. On the guy's back was a tank with O2 stamped on one side. Tubes from it ran into a metal mouthpiece the man sucked on. She wondered if he had a health problem or if the air really was that bad.

  "Excuse me," Catarina said.

  The stranger turned with a start. He regarded Catarina for a moment then, in a distorted growl from under his mouthpiece, said, "Y'ain't from here so I got no particular reason to explain things t'ya."

  "I wasn't looking for an explanation. I was looking for directions. To your mayor."

  Jack watched the exchange. Smoke drifted from his mouth. His right hand hovered over the massive Colt strapped to his thigh. He wasn't worried. Cautious, more like. His woman handled blades the way he handled his machine: With perfect, violent grace. Catarina could turn the stranger into ribbons before a heart could beat.

  People walking by stopped to watch. Not out of concern, but out of schadenfreude – they appeared eager to see what punishment would be doled out to him.

  Jack and Catarina took note.

  The stranger said, "Why you wanna talk t'him for? What's your concern?"

  Catarina said, "Our concern is no concern of yours."

  The stranger looked over to Jack. "You ought keep your bitch on a leash." Then the stranger pulled out a gun – a single-shot, sawed-off shotgun. He couldn't miss Catarina at that range. But—

  "I'm thinking you want to watch your mouth in the presence of a lady," Jack said.

  Catarina smiled and brushed back her three-quarter length coat. On her hips were two holsters holding shining blades with ivory handles. She said, "You ever hear of a thing called 'Diplomatic Immunity?'"

  She grinned again. Vicious as a momma wolf.

  The stranger said, "I ain't scared a nothin' come out a whore's mouth."

  Jack said, "Man, you really don't know shit about shit, do you?"

  Catarina grabbed her blades. Cut the oxygen tube leading to the stranger's mouthpiece. Then her knives were back in their holsters.

  It happened in a blink.

  It took the stranger a few gasping moments to realize what had happened.

  He fell to his knees. Choked.

  "Since we're such caring folk, here's what we'll do," Catarina said, "We'll patch that hose up all nice-like if you just point us in the direction of the mayor."

  The stranger pointed over his shoulder. "Follow the main road around the bend. Find street twenty-five. Go left. Look for a beige building with a red tile roof. Says 1900 on it. Mayor'll be there."

  Catarina dipped her
head. "Much obliged." She nodded to Jack. He sauntered over and, using what looked like a hot glue gun, sealed the air hose back up. Then he helped the grumpy stranger back to his feet.

  "You're welcome," Jack said.

  "Fuck yourselves!" The stranger squawked.

  "And what's your name," Catarina asked, "should our paths cross again?"

  The stranger spat. "Lafitte."

  Catarina curtsied.

  Jack tugged the brim of his Stetson hat. "Now, you remember: Be nice to the ladies and don't draw on someone lest you want to die. Get a move on, dipshit."

  ***

  "You can't do that!" Mayor Michel Menard said. He slammed his palms down on his big wooden desk. "You can't just walk in here and hurt my people. I don't give a damn if The Collective thinks you piss rainbows and shit gold."

  "First off," Jack said, "the dude was asking for it." He ordered his complaints as per their personal importance. "He called my woman a whore and insulted her otherwise. Second, he drew a gun. Third he was uncooperative."

  Catarina nodded. "Very. But we never harmed him. And we repaired the damage to his air tank as soon as the confrontation was over. No harm, no foul."

  Jack said, "Yeah, the crowd around us certainly didn't seem to mind. They weren't scared. Seemed more like they were eager for someone to punch this guy's clock."

  Menard, a lanky man with a full beard and porcelain skin, said, "Wait. Air tank? Did this guy happen to give you a name?" The mayor straightened out his bow-tie and vest.

  "Lafitte," Catarina said.

  The mayor chuckled. He leaned back in his chair. "All right, never mind. I apologize for snapping."

  Jack said, "Why the change of heart?"

  Menard considered his words. He stood and reached for a big glass bottle filled with swirling amber liquid. He grabbed three glasses and poured two fingers into each. "Whiskey," he offered. "Lafitte is a problem. Always has been."

  Jack said, "We didn't get a lot of intel on our way over, chief. Anything you want throw our way?" He clinked glasses with Catarina and drank.

  Menard took a sip. "Lafitte is, ah, a fixture here in Resilient. He was a pirate king of sorts. Used to run ships out of the settlement. Ever since the Federals dethroned him and took over, he's been a pain. We let him stay on a bargaining agreement because he ratted out his compatriots. Plea deal. But, shit, he's been the loudest dog this side of the Missip since he learned we wanted to make peace with the squids."