Three Past Desolation Cut, page 1
“Three Past Desolation Cut” © 2022 Grant Stone
Editor’s Note © 2022 M.E. Pickett
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Cover and interior design by M.E. Pickett
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Volume 1, Issue 2
Contents
About Lost Colony
“Three Past Desolation Cut” by Grant Stone
About the Author
Editor’s Note
About the Editor
Want More Great Mid-Length Speculative Fiction?
About Lost Colony
Lost Colony publishes one mid-length (10,000-25,000 words) story of speculative fiction (science fiction and fantasy in all of their manifestations) every quarter. Quarterly stories are published for free on our website (with ads) and for 99 cents as an ebook (without ads). Once a year, all four of the stories that have appeared in the magazine are published in an annual anthology, both electronically and in print. If you buy the ebook of either the quarterly story or the annual anthology, or if you buy the print version of the annual anthology, you will also get editor’s notes, explaining why each story was chosen for publication.
I started Lost Colony after I wrote a mid-length story and very quickly ran out of outlets to submit it to. I thought that the mid-length story should get more love, so I decided to launch this little publication.
I named it Lost Colony because I had moved to Roanoke, Virginia, shortly before launching it. Roanoke, Virginia has nothing to do with the lost colony of Roanoke (which was in North Carolina), but it was the first thing that I thought of when I learned about the city, so it made sense to me. It also evokes a sense of mystery, the supernatural, or even the exploration of the cosmos, so it fits nicely with what I’m looking for in the stories that I publish (for more details on what I’m looking for, check out the Submission Guidelines).
Three Past Desolation Cut
By Grant Stone
Chapter 1
All three of them were sat around the fire and Gosford had just finished saying grace when the man stumbled out of the shadows.
Bonnie’s gun was in her hand before he could step any closer. The stranger caught the flash of metal in the firelight and raised his hands. “Sorry to disturb,” he said. “Don’t mean no harm. But I was passing and saw your light. Wondered if you might have room around your fire for one more, least for a while.”
He stayed at the edge of the fire while the others took him in. He stood tall but awkward, as if something in him was twisted permanent, something grown wrong in his spine or his hips. His shirt hung loose around his shoulders. Didn’t look like there was a lot of meat on his frame. A sorry sight overall, like a doll dragged through the dust and hauled up to its feet.
Bonnie kept her gun pointed squarely at his chest. “What’s your name?” she asked.
The man’s right hand, already raised, brushed the rim of his hat. “Richard King, ma’am. Like I said, don’t mean no harm.”
A handspan of breaths passed with nobody moving. Bonnie could feel the cramp starting up in the fingers of her right hand, a slow but insistent throbbing in her palm. If she stayed this way, her finger wrapped round the trigger, the feeling was only going to get worse, spread up her wrist towards her elbow. She sighed. She wasn’t going to shoot this man. She put her gun away and tried to rub the ache out of her knuckles.
Gosford set his Bible in the dust, wiped his palm on his shirt and offered his hand. “Owen Gosford, Mister King. That’s Bonnie Murtaugh. And that unconscionable bastard over there is John Eaton, Jesus curse his name.” Gosford spat on the ground as he said this last.
Eaton gave no indication that Gosford’s insults stung him any. He didn’t stand, but he touched the brim of his hat. “Not much of a fire, friend,” he said, “but you’re welcome to whatever warmth you can get. Ain’t that right, Bonnie?”
Bonnie wasn’t sure about that at all. Something about the man didn’t sit right with her, though now she looked at him, she couldn’t quite place what it was. True, he looked odd, but she didn't think it was his appearance that vexed her. How had he managed to get so close without them hearing his approach? Perhaps he’d come in against the wind. Or perhaps your ears are wearing out same as your hands, she thought. You’re getting old, Bonnie Murtaugh.
She shrugged. “Sit.”
King slowly eased himself to the ground. Bonnie wondered if whatever was wrong with the man’s spine was causing him pain besides twisting him askew. But once he got himself down, he looked at the three of them and smiled. His mouth was full of browned teeth, crooked as a fenceline after a tornado. “Well, I thank you all. It’s far too cold to be walking out under the sky tonight.”
Bonnie stared at him through the flames. He was straw-haired and hatchet-faced and the firelight hid more of him than it showed. “So, Mister Richard King. What are you doing on a cold night all the way out here?”
“Going north,” he said. “Got a sister up near Bostoke could use my help.”
“Bostoke? Where the hell’s that?” Gosford said. He looked around at the others, a look of bald confusion on his face. Bonnie had the notion she had heard of the place, or at least there was something familiar about the name. But where it was, she couldn’t say. She shrugged.
But Eaton nodded his head, as if he were familiar. “It’s a long way from here to Bostoke, friend. You’re planning on walking all that way?”
“No sir,” King said. “I know a man has a farm still working a few days north of here. He’s got some ponies. Small, most of them, but they’re of a determined type. One of those will take me to the end of the world and back.”
Far as Bonnie knew, there was nothing a few days north of here. Nothing a few days south, neither. Nothing much of anything past the Cut, excepting where the three of them were already headed. She had that feeling of disquiet again. It flicked around her like a buzzing fly. But if the others felt the same way, they gave no sign.
Eaton picked something out of his teeth and flicked it into the fire. “We’re traveling east, though our path curves nor’easterly for at least another day. You could travel with us, if you want the company and it don’t take you too far out of your way. So long as the others don’t mind.”
Bonnie was going to tell Eaton that letting a stranger walk with them, someone who had stumbled upon them all the way out here in the Scablands past Desolation Cut, was a very bad idea. But Gosford spoke before she could. “Course you can ride with us. Couldn’t leave a fellow Christian to wander out here alone unnecessary. Wouldn’t be right.”
Eaton and Gosford both looked at Bonnie. She could have said no. Instead, she shrugged. “A couple of days, no more.”
King bowed his head. “Well, I thank you all again,” he said.
Gosford peeked into the pot hanging over the fire. “There’s plenty left,” he said over his shoulder, “But we don’t have any spare plates. Weren’t really expecting company tonight.”
“That’s a kind offer,” King said, “but I’m not hungry.”
Gosford attended to his own plate, clanking his spoon and slurping happily. When he’d cleared it, he returned to the pot and helped himself to more.
“So then,” King said after a while, “Where are you headed? What’s in the east that has your attention?”
Both Gosford and Eaton looked at Bonnie. She shook her head. “That’s not anything you need to know,” she said.
King nodded. “You keep your intentions close. I understand. After all, mankind is a long, long walk away from the Garden. Hard to know who to trust in days like these.”
“Amen, brother,” Gosford said, between mouthfuls of beans.
After that, they sat in silence, except for Gosford’s clanking of cutlery.
Bonnie reached for her pistol and opened the chamber. She didn’t need to. She knew full well only three of her father’s bullets remained. Still, she counted them again, touching each one in turn. She looked across at King. He was staring into the fire, a half-smile frozen on his face that made him look like a simpleton. But there was something in the shine of his eyes that told a different story.
When the fire had lowered to embers, they set out bedrolls. Gosford offered his blanket to King, but he shook his head. “I’ve been traveling by myself a good long time now. I’ve become quite adjusted to the lack. The dust to me is just as comfortable as a feathered bed.”
“A feathered bed,” Gosford said. He leaned back, eyes closed, a smile on his face. “How long has it been since I have slept in such luxury? You wound me with such memories, sir.”
Eaton snorted at Gosford’s words. He rolled away from the fire.
Bonnie lay on the other side of the dying fire from King, looking up at the stars.
She must have fallen asleep, for something woke her. Both Gosford and Eaton were snoring. She must not have been asleep for too long—the fire was embers now, but they were still bright orange.
King was staring at her, unblinking, from the other side of the dying fire.
She sat up and reached out for her holster. But when she looked again, King’s back was to the fire, just like the others. There hadn’t been time for him to roll over.
It was a long time before she fell asleep.
—
Bonnie’s joints creaked as she tied her bedroll to her saddle. Her right hand still ached. She rubbed it as she worked.
Eaton had been in a taciturn mood ever since they had hauled themselves down the Cut. But he seemed in somewhat better spirits this morning. He boiled up a pot of coffee and offered a mug to Bonnie. When she demurred, he shrugged and poured a cup for Gosford, who accepted it with a smile. A stranger watching this exchange might think the two firm companions.
Bonnie knew different.
King had few possessions, just the knapsack and a walking stick Bonnie hadn’t noticed the night before. It came to his shoulder and was nearly as twisted as the man himself. Bonnie watched King while the others finished their coffee. King, like the Scablands themselves, was not improved by daylight. If anything, his back seemed more hunched than it had been the night before, his eyes a little more wild. Bonnie still did not think the man’s appearance was the source of the disquiet she felt when looking at him. There was something else, something deeper—
She shook her head. He’d be with them another day, perhaps two. After that, whatever strangeness lurked in the man's core would no longer be her concern. Hell, it wasn’t even her concern now.
Bonnie climbed into her saddle. “Finish your coffee,” she said. “Day’s wasting.”
They rode.
The ground was hard-packed and cracked, though the horses kicked up small clouds of dust as they walked.
Now and then they would see a few bushes, so shriveled and dried they appeared to be little more than echoes of themselves. Apart from that, there were no signs of life.
As they had the day before, they tracked their progress against a thin line of mountains barely visible to the west. Eaton had wanted to travel closer to them. Perhaps they could find shelter in the trees hinted at by the shadows on their sides. If there were trees, there might be water, or some game they could hunt. Bonnie decided against it. There could well be life over there. But she mistrusted any creature that made its home in the Scablands. They had water and provisions enough to last them for a while longer. Eaton’s face had suggested he disagreed. But he nodded and did not complain.
The three of them rode for hours, none of them talking. King followed on foot, leaning on his walking stick, his gait as crooked as his spine, but mostly keeping pace with them. From time to time, Eaton or Gosford would ride back to check on him. Bonnie kept her eyes ahead. She had spent hours studying Blind Coates’ map. She was certain they rode in the right direction. Even so, it would be good to have some kind of landmark.
Just before noon, they found a road.
Bonnie drew her horse up and the others did likewise. Here it was nothing more than a slight groove in the dust. But a few hundred feet away it widened, the start of a white scar on the land. It kept going, due north, widening further as it went, all the way to the horizon, in a line so straight it hurt to look at it.
Eaton dismounted and crouched at the foot of the trail and ran his fingers through the dirt, looking for something.
Gosford remained in his saddle. He unstrung the yellow scarf from around his neck and dabbed at the perspiration on his brow. “Is it an old road?”
Eaton rubbed his hands against his trousers, leaving long white streaks. He looked out at the road ahead. “Perhaps. But it hasn’t been used for a long time.”
“Should we follow it?” Gosford asked.
“We’ve already been following it for some time,” Bonnie said. The others turned to look behind them. Bonnie had seen no difference in the landscape of the past few hours. She had thought they had been moving across the same hard-packed earth all morning. But looking back from this perspective, the few bushes and rocks they had passed stood in a perfectly straight line. The space between them formed a road, visible in its invisibility. Bonnie swore and spat at the ground. Should have been paying closer attention, girl, she thought.
King caught up with them, stumbled to a stop. He did not seem too fatigued despite his unusual gait, although a line of sweat ran from beneath his hat down the side of his face. He pulled a flask from the inside pocket of his jacket and took a couple of swallows. “Why did we stop?”
“Road,” Eaton said.
“That’s good, isn’t it?” King said. “Won’t that make for better traveling?”
Bonnie nudged her horse forward. “Don’t know what it means.”
“Don’t mind her,” she heard Eaton say to King. “Bonnie’s got a lot on her mind. She don’t mean nothing by it.”
“I take no offense,” King said. “Not a good thing to have a head full of thoughts. Perhaps she should let them out. A burden shared is a burden halved.”
She clucked her horse into a trot and moved ahead until she couldn’t hear them talk.
The road did make the going easier. The surface was light and brittle, as if it had been paved with oyster shells, although that would have been impossible: they were far from any ocean, even assuming there were still such things as oceans in the world. Even King seemed to pick up his pace somewhat. Every time Bonnie turned to look behind her, either Gosford or Eaton had dropped back to ride beside the man. She was too far away to hear their discussions, but from King’s animated gestures, he was telling them both quite a story.
They stopped just before noon. Bonnie led her horse off the road. There was precious little to eat, but she still had some oats and a few brown apples in her saddlebag. The horse chewed, uncomplaining, as Bonnie waited.
The others had fallen behind in the last hour or two. Bonnie watched them walk towards her. Eaton and Gosford both keeping pace with King, who walked between them. King said something and both Eaton and Gosford laughed.
Something about the laughter sounded false to Bonnie. It had to be. How could King have found something those two men would both find equally amusing? Bonnie only had a vague sense of the long-festering enmity between them. In the weeks they had traveled together she had only picked up splinters and hints: a farm fallen to disrepair, a wife and child somewhere out west, a turn of cards and a fortune lost that the loser had not held claim to in the first place. She did not have the story entire, and did not intend to delve, but the men’s mutual bitterness was obvious. They were more than enemies. Each man held a deep, immovable hatred for the other; they were long past due for a final reckoning, leaving one of them standing, gun smoking, over the body of the other. Except that they also shared a common enemy. And their hatred of that one was enough to keep them moving forward. Bonnie was a good decade younger than either man, but they fell in behind her with no complaint. Though the various grudges they nurtured were vast, they could both see that her hatred for the Splintered Man was as deep as the sky and as wide as the horizon. They bowed in acknowledgement.
Something crunched under her boot, and she looked down. A scatter of bones. Bonnie couldn’t tell if they had belonged to a rabbit or a small bird. Or some weird combination of the two. She wouldn’t be surprised by anything out here.
A sound on the winds. A long, piercing cry.
Gosford rode towards her. “Was that a wolf?”
Bonnie scanned the line of hills, looking for any sign. “Sounded like it, but I don’t know.”
“I didn’t know they howled like that during the day.”
“I’ve never known them to.”
Gosford licked his lips. His padre’s collar was dripping with sweat. “Perhaps we’d best be moving. Get as much distance between us and whatever that is as we can.”
Bonnie didn’t disagree. Eaton and King were still lagging, taking their time as if they were out for a casual stroll. “Hup!” Bonnie called. She climbed back on her horse and nudged him into a trot. Gosford did the same.
Another howl rang out. Bonnie turned her head, trying to figure out where the sound was coming from.
“Is that the same one,” Gosford said, “Or—”
The third howl came before the second had faded away. Then a fourth.
Bonnie spurred her horse into a gallop.
