Pitch-a-Week followup: Make Him Talk, Part III
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“Where’s your daddy, Young Shuck?”
Walker sat, caked with grave-dust and tall in the saddle. A pair of hellhounds paced in front of him, yawning and cracking their jaws as they stared Shuck down.
Walker was a Dead man, but he wasn’t a Mark. Shuck’s daddy had business with him in the past and could speak degenerate shitkicker well enough to put him at ease. They’d talk dogfights and lynchings and enough of the Klan Akalaka nonsense that the old Night Rider was put at ease and would cut a comfortable deal.
Benefit of the Caul. Walker wouldn’t have given Old Shuck anything more than three feet of hemp rope if they’d been alive on the same street.
“Old Shuck’s busy, sir. Sent me in his place. One of ours took a run, so I’m pulling him back to the pen.”
Walker looked back over the Throng of Dead men, stretching back to the horizon and shook his head.
“I’ve got responsibilities, son,” he said, forcing what he must have imagined to be a kindly smile. “My Lord wants bodies on the killing floor, and I must provide. Give my best to your pa.”
Walker turned to leave, the dust cloud leaving howling faces in his wake.
“How’s about we deal?” Shuck breathed in, pulling in enough of the grave dust to give him some extra weight. “One of your cast-offs for a favor down the line from Old Shuck. You know he’s good for it.”
Old Shuck had been buried in a haint-blue suit with salt in his pockets, feet facing west and shoelaces tied together. He’d been dead-set on not coming back. Only favor he’d ever done for his son.
Walker shifted in his seat, looking toward the horizon and the Maw he needed to fill. “I’ve got miles to go, Young Shuck,” he said. “Get on home before I tell my boys to dry you out for a while, see if our Lord’s tastes run to the Quick.”
Shuck nodded, stepped back and barked out a chain of raspy, ululating syllables he’d learned in exchange for some muscle work for the Order of the Blackened Pomegranate. The hellhounds keened at Walker’s feet and the old ghost’s mount bucked and wheeled, jagged teeth snapping at the air.
Shuck grabbed as many souls out of the throng and he was gone.
3
Shuck came Up to the sound of bones cracking.
Too late.
He wretched, his last breath of ectoplasm clawing and straining to slip back down his throat and he saw the corpse floating by an ankle, cracking and tearing as Walker tried to pull himself through.
Too late.
As the dealer howled, wide-eyed in fear, Shuck began drawing looping sigils on the corpse’s face, locking Walker and his posse in a rotting vessel. He watched the corpse’s mouth set, teeth grinding.
Too late.
Shuck spat into an empty bottle, handed it to the dealer. The bottle was cloudy, with half-conceived eyes darting inside.
“Here he is,” Shuck said. “Hook me up and move on.”
The dealer didn’t even bother to fight.
Shuck didn’t let him know that the bonding would only last as long as the vessel did.
He’d just find another dealer before that happened. Someone who didn’t know what he could do.
“Where’s your daddy, Young Shuck?”
Walker sat, caked with grave-dust and tall in the saddle. A pair of hellhounds paced in front of him, yawning and cracking their jaws as they stared Shuck down.
Walker was a Dead man, but he wasn’t a Mark. Shuck’s daddy had business with him in the past and could speak degenerate shitkicker well enough to put him at ease. They’d talk dogfights and lynchings and enough of the Klan Akalaka nonsense that the old Night Rider was put at ease and would cut a comfortable deal.
Benefit of the Caul. Walker wouldn’t have given Old Shuck anything more than three feet of hemp rope if they’d been alive on the same street.
“Old Shuck’s busy, sir. Sent me in his place. One of ours took a run, so I’m pulling him back to the pen.”
Walker looked back over the Throng of Dead men, stretching back to the horizon and shook his head.
“I’ve got responsibilities, son,” he said, forcing what he must have imagined to be a kindly smile. “My Lord wants bodies on the killing floor, and I must provide. Give my best to your pa.”
Walker turned to leave, the dust cloud leaving howling faces in his wake.
“How’s about we deal?” Shuck breathed in, pulling in enough of the grave dust to give him some extra weight. “One of your cast-offs for a favor down the line from Old Shuck. You know he’s good for it.”
Old Shuck had been buried in a haint-blue suit with salt in his pockets, feet facing west and shoelaces tied together. He’d been dead-set on not coming back. Only favor he’d ever done for his son.
Walker shifted in his seat, looking toward the horizon and the Maw he needed to fill. “I’ve got miles to go, Young Shuck,” he said. “Get on home before I tell my boys to dry you out for a while, see if our Lord’s tastes run to the Quick.”
Shuck nodded, stepped back and barked out a chain of raspy, ululating syllables he’d learned in exchange for some muscle work for the Order of the Blackened Pomegranate. The hellhounds keened at Walker’s feet and the old ghost’s mount bucked and wheeled, jagged teeth snapping at the air.
Shuck grabbed as many souls out of the throng and he was gone.
3
Shuck came Up to the sound of bones cracking.
Too late.
He wretched, his last breath of ectoplasm clawing and straining to slip back down his throat and he saw the corpse floating by an ankle, cracking and tearing as Walker tried to pull himself through.
Too late.
As the dealer howled, wide-eyed in fear, Shuck began drawing looping sigils on the corpse’s face, locking Walker and his posse in a rotting vessel. He watched the corpse’s mouth set, teeth grinding.
Too late.
Shuck spat into an empty bottle, handed it to the dealer. The bottle was cloudy, with half-conceived eyes darting inside.
“Here he is,” Shuck said. “Hook me up and move on.”
The dealer didn’t even bother to fight.
Shuck didn’t let him know that the bonding would only last as long as the vessel did.
He’d just find another dealer before that happened. Someone who didn’t know what he could do.