Twit Publishing Presents: PULP! Summer/Fall 2010

By Chris Gabrysch

Original fiction that takes you through the air-pirate filled skies of Over the Sahara, to the brink of madness with A Remarkable Picture, and into the atompunk stars with The Hotel Ceres. Journey into the heart of temptation in Devil Does Dallas, to the wildly weird west in A Knight Templar in Lincoln County, and to the edge of man's tenuous grasp of reality in Intruders on Geer Bluff.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Twit Publishing
• Release date: Jun 16, 2010
• ISBN: 9780984547722

Chris Gabrysch

Chris Gabrysch is the editor of numerous anthologies and short story collections.He currently lives in Dallas, Texas.

Book preview

Foreword

by Chris Gabrysch

I named this anthology Twit Publishing Presents: PULP! for two reasons:

First, I wanted an anthology that represented the spirit of the old pulp magazines, if not the exact style. I wanted something that would be a good cross-section of modern popular fiction and offered an enjoyable read with a little excitement. We have fantastical stories, science fiction, humorous ones, and a little horror for good measure.

Second, I think the name pulp is representative of new forays into easily accessible and cheaply produced fiction. I remember the first time I looked at the prices set by large publishing houses for their ebooks. It was astounding to see such large prices for downloads when I could go and pay the same price, but receive it in print.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought technology was supposed to make things cheaper? Was I wrong in that assumption or did pixels suddenly start to equal ink and paper in price? Because, if that’s the case, why don’t we just stick to real honest-to-goodness paper that’s been glued to a spine? It looks better on a bookshelf than my smartphone’s app list. So . . . Twit Publishing has made the cell phone apps and Kindle downloads dirt cheap. I mean, honestly, this book is pretty cheap to begin with. I can’t remember the last time I was able to purchase a brand new, completely untouched, printed book for this fucking cheap (especially an independently published one). On top of that, the publisher has priced the electronic versions at a fraction of the print edition’s price. So, if you want to have a digital copy of this to carry on your work commute, you can purchase one without selling your youngest on the black market.

Finally, I hope you enjoy reading this anthology as much as I enjoyed compiling it. Hell, I might as well edit a few more of them. I got nothing else to do.

Chris Gabrysch

5/18/2010

Dallas, Texas

Over the Sahara

by C. Griffith Knowles

Flames licked up from the burning wood, obscuring Manny’s vision. Through the massive window, he could see the sands of the Sahara drawing ever closer as the crippled airship settled into its collision course outside the tiny Algerian city of Béchar. And to think, some six hours ago, he had been worried that his life was devoid of excitement.

Earlier that morning, Manny had shouldered his backpack as he walked up the portable stairs to enter the craft. The ship was a simple pill-shaped passenger design, with personal suites lining the corridor into which he had just stepped. They were acceptably furnished, like the train cars on a high-end continental railway. At the end of the hallway was a large open area, full of armchairs and couches with end tables for drinks and whatnot. At the very front of the dirigible, a huge three-story window sat in the center of the colossal propeller which moved the flying capsule along.

Manuel was boarding this ship as a passenger, having finally laid his personal flyer, Maria, to rest a few months before. He had been making nearly constant repairs to her for over a year now, and it was finally time to let his dama go. Still, it was hard to accept that he had paid money to ride on someone else’s boat. The whole affair felt foreign and uncomfortable. The Manny of five years ago would’ve plotted to steal the ship and make off with the contents of its passengers’ wallets. He was beginning to worry that age was making him soft, even sentimental.

Inside his cabin, Manuel dropped his satchel and fell into the comfortable cushioned seat. There were no windows in the passenger quarters, as their view would be a dingy and fading balloon’s interior. Something about losing Maria had put his entire mindset in a funk. The allure of plunder and piracy was beginning to seem like a chore. Shiny objects no longer caught his eye like a child with kleptomania.

The journey was from Fort Lamy in Chad to the Moroccan capital of Tangiers. Manny was planning to make a trip back home to México, and this would be the last leg before crossing the Atlantic. His hope was that seeing the country of his birth, maybe spending some time with his mother, probably catching some Lucha Libre at the coliseum in town, would brighten his mood and help him find the old spark. For now, however, it had been a long morning of dealing with phony titles and adorable but completely incompetent airline bureaucrats. Lifting himself up off the padded seat, Manny pulled a complimentary pillow from the fold-away chest underneath the sofa installation, tossed it to the armrest at the end of the couch, then moved toward the door to close it for a nap. Another lackluster takeoff wouldn’t do anything for his mood, so it was best to just sleep through it.

Just as Manny moved to close the door, a young man of twenty-five or so passed by the portal, undoubtedly heading for his own room. The kid was short, maybe five-foot-six. Not that Manny was exceptionally tall. It’s just, he was followed by a giant, which exaggerated the height difference. The big fellow was easily over six and a half feet. The little guy had thick spectacles, short-shorn hair and a Van Dyke style goatee. He wore a white button-down shirt, with the sleeves rolled up, and a black tie tucked into a tan waistcoat with a watch’s chain dangling from one pocket. He wore the knickers that had become popular in recent years, short pants cinched tight just below the knee. This dark-brown pair was covered in pockets, some of which seemed to bulge with hidden contents. His feet sported black and white saddle shoes, a fashion item more popular with the growing Jazz crowd, and incredibly ugly purple argyle socks, which seemed to constantly lose their elasticity and shift down to his ankles, causing him to pause and pull them back up. His massive companion was Hindi, or something along those lines, brown skin, Caucasian features, black hair. And good Lord, so much hair. The giant wore a black turban, so the amount coming from his scalp was hard to guess, but his beard, which had been braided into a remarkably thick ponytail, still reached to his navel. He displayed an off-white shirt, very similar to his friend’s, but with elbow garters and no tie. It flowed a bit more than the little one’s. His pants were long and baggy, shifting back and forth as he moved; the breeze generated by tree-trunk legs jostled the dark fabric, obscuring his boots. As he passed, Manny noticed the large intricately detailed and expensive looking dagger strapped to the back of the man-mammoth’s belt. Manuel seemed to vaguely recall a turban and a knife being part of some Eastern religion, but he couldn’t remember which one.

With that odd scene, Manny closed his room’s door. But Felix kept walking.

He and Sa’id had booked reservations on this flight for a reason. They were here to meet with the teenage girl who no-doubt sat quietly in the room attended by two painfully conspicuous bodyguards, all black suits and dark-tinted glasses, standing outside one room in particular, not moving despite the obvious advice to have a seat for takeoff. Their boss hadn’t given much thought to the protection of his newest acquisition. Hired hands of that caliber weren’t going to be difficult to subdue. This job would be a cakewalk.

After reaching their designated quarters, they entered and stowed their backpacks under the multipurpose furniture. The empty can of wood varnish in Felix’s backpack produced a muted clatter as he dropped it inside the wooden chest. They exited the room and made for the end of the corridor. There weren’t many passengers on this flight, and that was precisely why they chose this phase of the journey. The young woman in question was Emilia Harrington, the young daughter of an Éirish noble. The young Miss Emily had arranged departure, reserved flights, formulated itineraries, and left home, all in secret. Or at least she thought it was all secret. Felix’s and Sa’id’s job was to intercept the girl before she had a chance to walk into the waiting arms of her would-be captor. The Catalyst, an international name in villainy, would not be having his way with the aristocratic teen. The irony of a double-kidnapping hadn’t escaped Felix’s attention, but the ethical ramifications of stealing a man’s daughter to take her back home to him wasn’t really his concern.

In the meantime, Felix and his colossal companion would need to pass the time undercover. Their usual method was to enjoy whatever accommodations a particular service had to offer, in this case an open bar and kitchen, under the guise of young members of the upper-crust, discussing the authors of the day, or current events, or whatever else seemed appropriate. Today they would be Scots, a particular favorite of Felix’s, as practicing the accent always made him feel nostalgic.

They trudged through the small crowd huddled around the towering window awaiting takeoff. For the next several hours they would stake out the second-floor café and have some pseudo-intellectual debate whenever it seemed appropriate to mislead an audience. After a long night and a frantic morning of preparation, all that was left to do now was sit and enjoy some coffee and the sights of the Sahara.

The next three hours passed without event. Manny awoke from his slumber refreshed but no more cheerful. He stumbled up the crimson carpeted staircase, the frayed edges of the fabric bearing the markings of a thousand footsteps, past a throng of excited children hanging on to the guardrails in front of the giant window, and up to the dining area of the second-floor. The pair he had seen earlier were sitting at a small table, sipping coffee, occasionally having some argument about a Deutsch name Manny wasn’t familiar with.

As he walked past, the little one leaned over and asked, Hello Nemo, what are your plans for today?

Excuse me? My Name’s Raul, Manny said, remembering which alias he’d chosen for this particular flight.

Of course it is, the miniature inquisitor said, his Scottish accent obvious even from a few short phrases.

Felix looked over to Sa’id who responded with a subtle shrug, a raised eyebrow and a hint of a sigh. Nemo was pirate code used between fellows, a reference to the popular fictional captain, his name literally meaning no one. In less hectic times, a scalawag would just slip the dock master a few shillings and be recorded as John Smith, but these days thievery involved a bit more culture.

I’m sorry, do I know you two? Manny wore a flight suit with a parachute pouch sewn directly into the back. He brandished goggles across his forehead, a leather pilot’s cap, and a thick black handlebar moustache. His fading red suit’s orange shade was beginning to grey after years of reliable usage, but the pointed hips still jutted out as if they were new. This was a man who had seen countless days in the sky, but still had little sense of the two would-be comrades in front of him.

Probably not, Felix said, stretching out his hand in a friendly gesture. Niles Finley, at your service.

Sa’id followed suit. Alisdair Duncan, pleasure to meet you.

After the withering pirate had shaken their hands, he took a few steps toward the spiral staircase near the large window, then paused to look back.

Felix leaned in toward his compatriot and whispered, He really has no idea what just happened, does he?

I guess the rumors about the Calavera were true. He’s been out of the game a bit too long.

Well, I guess we won’t need to worry about any competition. Or our covers being blown. He had no idea who we were.

Cheers to smooth sailing then, Sa’id said as he raised his coffee cup in a toast, pinky extended with comical enthusiasm.

Manuel hesitated before mounting the stairs. He took one last look back at the pair of young men. Something about them seemed familiar. It wasn’t that he knew either of them and their stories seemed to check out. Scottish nobles. They talked the talk, they walked the walk. But something about the pair of them together; it set off alarms in his mind, as if seeing their faces side by side was an image he’d encountered somewhere before. And what did the little one mean by Nemo? Like in that book? He shook his head and turned back to the expanse of the Sahara before placing his first foot on the steel step.

Manny hiked up the spiral staircase to the third floor. Behind him the captain stood at the wheel, various underlings behind him manning charts and gauges, keeping the airship aloft. Much of the comforting aesthetic of the lower decks was abandoned here; metal grating served as a floor, the bare mechanics of the ship visible, reminding its crew that the uppermost level was all about business. The soothing brown panels present in the rest of the interior stretched up from the pub downstairs, and ended just before the captain’s feet, the wheel positioned only a few feet back from the minimal safety railing at the edge of the expanse. The high ceiling gave the café area below a feeling of openness and luxury.

Manuel turned again to face the massive three-story, segmented window and observe the landscape ahead. The ship was making good time, but was not a paragon of efficient speed. The shifting sands of the Sahara below made for a beautiful, if not somewhat desolate view. The desert reminded him of the sea, constant change, and uncharted lands. Manny shifted uncomfortably. This down period was affecting his mood. Standing around staring at the landscape and sighing was not how a real man was meant to spend his time. Behind him he could hear whispering, quieted voices discussing something clandestine. He turned around to see the captain standing only a few feet behind him, his hands held behind his back, a facade of a smile displaying the company’s official policy towards passengers in all its rehearsed glory.

Excuse me, sir, the man said, his dark blue suit adorned with gold accents and markings of his aerial accomplishments. We like to encourage our guests to enjoy the view while we’re in the air, but I’m going to have to ask you to remain on the lower two floors while you do so.

I really don’t think I’m in anyone’s way . . .

All the same.

It shouldn’t be a problem if I just . . .

"Sir, I’m going to be very frank with you. I can smell pirate on you, and you’re making my crew nervous. Personally, I’m not concerned in the least, but they frighten easily, and I can’t have anything interrupting an otherwise smooth flight. Do you understand?" He leaned forward, as if waiting for a response to his question, his captain’s jacket hanging slightly open, his hands still folded neatly behind him. Manny noticed the glint of a pistol resting in a leather holster, otherwise obscured by the ornate coat. He glanced down at the firearm then back up to the creased lines of the airman’s face, which met him with a weak smile and squinting eyes, and an expression of muted hostility and a vaguely bemused sense of victory.

Yeah, sure thing. Downstairs.

Thank you for your cooperation, sir.

Defeated, Manny took one last look at the crew. Boys and girls, no older than twenty-five. He didn’t even care if some old man working for a faceless corporation had bested him in a verbal showdown. Manuel was so tired of going through the motions, acting like he should be doing something better. He slowly walked back down the spiral staircase, back into the warm, oak-paneled world of the passengers, the passive and happy.

It’s not so bad here, he thought. I’ve got money saved up. There’s a bar and a nice room downstairs. Why not just sit back and enjoy a flight for once. Let someone else do the thinking, the navigating, and the piloting. Let someone else deal with the worry, the stress. Let someone else think about where we’re headed next. What we’ll do there. How we’ll get out of our next scrape or pay for our next meal.

Let someone else have all the fun.

Staring out over the arid expanse, Manny heard footsteps coming down the staircase to his right. The man in navy and gold removed his embroidered cap, set it on the table nearest the giant window and continued toward the back of the floor, to the bar. In a moment, he returned with two large mugs of beer, the foam beginning to topple over the edges as he set them on the table next to his hat. He motioned for Manny to join him and sat down. Manuel cocked his head, trying to decide what the old man’s game was, before sidling over to the café table and sitting down.

Sorry about all that, the captain said, taking a sip of his beer. He let the suds rest on his upper lip for a moment before wiping them away with the back of his hand. They’re just a bunch of kids. They spook easy.

Manny sniffed at his beer before raising an eyebrow in curious acceptance and taking a sip.

And sorry about the gun. I really don’t expect you to pull anything, but I needed to get the message across without a lot of discussion. An argument with a passenger sort of undermines my authority. Between the lot, I doubt they’ve even logged a hundred flight hours. Some way to spend my retirement, babysitter to a bunch of airborne children.

You’re retired? Manny asked, setting his mug back down on the table, nearly a third of its contents already imbibed.

Yeah. Two months now? Not quite how I pictured it.

You don’t look that old.

I’m not. But I saved up my money, military’s got a good pension plan, and this way I get time to spend with my grandkids. Honestly, I’m beginning to regret the idea, seeing as how my entire job description involves looking after children.

The captain looked considerably different without his cap. His hair was black, well groomed, but damp with sweat. A wool suit on the third floor of a giant-pill lofting over the Sahara is enough to make anyone perspire. He was beginning to develop grey streaks just around the temples, a distinguished look, but he couldn’t have been more than fifty-years old.

Military? Manny asked.

Yeah, flew some blimps when I was a kid. Columbian Civil War. I didn’t get in until the North had already won, so I didn’t see much combat. Don’t worry, I’m not looking for a reason to get hostile. The captain leaned back in his chair, running fingers through wet hair.

I didn’t think you were. I’m just trying to figure out how you go from flying for the Columbian military to doing cheap passenger trips over the desert.

Well, I stuck with the military during Reformation, mostly doing freight transport. The pay was decent and I didn’t have to do much work. Keep the balloon in the sky. Pretty much all I’m doing here. Government takes a look at you, thinks you’re getting a bit old, but doesn’t want to promote you to give you an excuse to stick around, so they offer you pension and set you up with some airline. Now I travel all over. Work three days a week, take four off. It’s a sweet deal, really.

Yeah, sounds relaxing . . . Manny said, staring out the window again.

"Relaxing, yeah. Or