Big Pulp: Catskin

By Big Pulp

The son of a smalltown sheriff takes crime prevention into his own hands, but curiosity may kill the cat in Arley Sorg's "Catskin", the lead story in the summer 2013 issue of Big Pulp!

This issue features an evocative cover illustration by Phil Good and 20+ SF, Horror, Mystery, Fantasy & Romance stories by Andrez Bergen, Geoffrey W. Cole, Daniel Davis, Adele Gardner, Tracy Hauser, David C. Kopaska-Merkel, Chris Longhurst, Paco José Madden, Django Mathijsen, Catfish McDaris, Brandon Nolta, Terrie Leigh Relf, Jason Ridler, Philip Roberts, WC Roberts, Scotch Rutherford, Gwyn Ryan, Timothy A. Sayell, Natalie Stachowski, Michael D. Turner, and Nu Yang.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Big Pulp
• Release date: May 9, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311543097

Big Pulp

Since 2008, Big Pulp has published the best in fantastic fiction from around the globe. We publish periodicals - including Big Pulp, Child of Words, M, and Thirst - and themed anthologies.

Book preview

Arley Sorg grew up in England, Hawaii and Colorado. He studied at Pitzer College and lives in Oakland. He can be found in local coffee shops, shyly hiding behind a laptop. He hopes to someday have a cat for a roomie and a stack of books with his name on the spines.

______________

CATSKIN

An old man sits in a quiet room, watching the movement of time.

Borey was the son of the Sheriff.

He felt he had certain duties. He didn’t have a shiny metal star on his chest and he wasn’t deputized, but he knew right from wrong and he had a nose for bad people. Borey sniffed out Crannen and his men before his dad knew what was going on. Looking back, he couldn’t say what it was about them, just that when he saw the three of them huddled together in Daumer’s Saloon he could tell something wasn’t right.

His dad the Sheriff wouldn’t have been able to follow them the way Borey did. His dad was too big and walked like he had a pole up his butt. Borey was sly and slim, quick. He also knew the streets and alleys of Madsen. The three strangers didn’t have a chance of spotting him. Even if they’d seen him, he could lose them on purpose just to throw them off and find them two blocks later.

He’d followed them all the way back to their motel. He crouched along the wall and watched them enter their room. When they opened the door he saw the room like a snapshot, a flash of color. He saw her tied up to the bed, her mouth covered with duct tape and when they walked in, she shook her head like a storm, her eyes rained tears. They closed the door behind them and Borey went to a payphone.

"That’s just one of several examples," Borey said with his arms crossed and his eyes on Dean’s shoes.

Dean shrugged and shook his hair out of his eyes. He was bony and taller than Borey and that really pissed Borey off. If Dean wasn’t taller, this would be an entirely different conversation.

"You still ain’t no sheriff, Dean drawled. You can’t arrest people and you gotta go cryin’ to your daddy to get help."

You think I don’t know that, Dean Turner? You think I’m saying I’m the sheriff?

"Well, then what the hell are you saying, Bor? You ain’t makin’ sense."

I’m saying. Borey turned on his heel with his head down and leaned against the cement wall. "I’m saying I can’t just go off partying with the rest of you. I have responsibilities."

Dean shook his head and gave Borey a push. Whatever, you little loser. Sit around here and cry then.

"I’m not crying! I’m just saying I can’t do that kind of thing."

Dean put his hand by his ears and wiggled his fingers. Your daddy, your daddy! When he was done he stood straight and serious. "You think my daddy wants me out partying either? It’s called we don’t tell them! We’re freakin’ teenagers, it’s what we’re supposed to do, you moron!"

Alex shook his head and flicked the side of Borey’s ear. Borey flinched and waved his hand away. "Weird name, Alex counted points off on his fingers. Weird hair, weird acting. Alex elbowed the older kid and smiled widely at Borey. I think he’s a homo, Dean! Borey crossed his arms tighter and glared back at Alex. The younger boy’s mouth was stuck with smirk. Let’s just leave his ass here so he can make out with his boyfriend!"

Borey stood straight with his hands in his pockets. He looked at his shoes. I ain’t… He sucked in air and shook his head. "I’m not gay or anything. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and shrugged. I just don’t want to ditch school and smoke out in your daddy’s garage, Dean. So you go ahead." Borey turned and walked along the wall toward the main building.

If you don’t come, I’ll tell your daddy. Dean laughed, lightly clutching his stomach.

Borey turned, his hands clenched into fists. "Tell him what?"

What I caught you doin’ two weeks ago. Dean stood straight with a crooked grin on his lips.

Borey took a half step towards him. What? What did you catch me doing? You don’t know anything, you liar!

You really want me to say in front of Alex?

Alex’s face was smothered in a delighted grin. He tugged at Dean’s shoulder. Tell me what? Tell me, Dean! I wanna know!

Borey bit his lip. "You don’t know shit, you big ass faker."

Dean’s grin turned grim, wide like a skull’s smile. He pushed Alex away. Go away, Alex. Big boy talk.

What? You’re kidding right?

You’re too young for this. Go over there. Farther. A little farther. Dammit, Alex, I’m not gonna leave you behind, just go over there! Okay, now stay there a minute. Dean turned back to Borey and waved him closer. Borey hesitated then walked slowly toward the taller boy, until Dean finally put an arm over Borey’s shoulder and put his mouth by Borey’s ear.

I saw you with Max. Max Bauman of all people, you little shit.

Borey felt his arms sink, his limbs were suddenly like stones. It was all he could do to stand. You didn’t see anything, he whispered.

I saw it alright, Dean said low and quiet. I saw the whole thing.

How…how did you… Borey knew he could hide. He knew he was careful. He had done it so many times. No one knew his way around this school—or this town—the way he did. What did you…

Shh. Let’s not talk anymore. Let’s just say that you and us are going to go smoke out because I don’t like smokin’ out with just kids. Dean took his arm off Borey’s shoulder and stepped back. I mean, Alex is cool, but he’s two grades younger, dude. When shit gets wild he just can’t keep up.

Borey licked his lips and looked at the grass. Just by his feet was a sprinkler head buried under the dirt. They popped up toward the end of the day and sprayed the grass; brown patches and bits of dirt marred the yard, especially near the sidewalk and the cement wall. Back by the chain link fence the grass nearly disappeared, and it was more hard dirt than anything else, with occasional rocks. Borey knew if you walked slowly along the edge of the fence and studied the ground you could find holes, likely gopher holes but possibly a snake hole or even a rabbit hole.

So stop staring at the damn field and tell me yes or no. Do we have a deal?

Borey blinked at Dean and swallowed, his stomach churned. "If I go with you, you don’t tell nobody. He blinked at the ground and wiped his mouth. You don’t tell anybody, right?"

Right.

One time deal.

Dean shrugged. Well, you have to smoke with us whenever we do.

What if I can’t?

"Can’t or won’t?"

Borey crossed his arms. What if my dad calls me home or something?

Well, that ain’t the case now, is it? Dean stamped a foot like an impatient cow and crossed his arms. Look, you coming or not? Or am I gonna walk straight to your daddy’s house?

Okay, okay. Borey held up his hands. I’m coming already.

Good boy. Dean rubbed Borey’s head and smiled; Borey snatched his head out from under Dean’s hand and scowled.

But for the record, only because you’re forcing me.

That’s fine, Borey. Damn, you are a pain in the ass. Now, let’s go. Alex! Let’s go, son!

Borey had never done it before; he’d never even smoked cigarettes. After several hours of laying around on the lawn chairs in Dean’s garage and staring at the things on the walls and things stacked on the two wooden desks, and scattered on the floor, Dean let Borey go. Borey stood, his eyes twitched back and forth at the small metal bits and objects that seemed to dart with each twist and sway of light. The ceiling buzzed and the noise seeped into his head; it remained even after Borey was down the street. He’d stayed much longer than he’d planned, the sky was darkening and the clouds were pregnant with ominous gray.

Borey snuck in through the back door. He knew he’d smell. He could tell when other kids had been smoking, even if teachers and parents didn’t seem to notice. He knew his dad would smell it from across the room. His dad was the Sheriff. Was he going to arrest his own son?

Borey slunk soundlessly up the stairs toward the shower. At the top he realized he’d left his backpack at Dean’s. He bit his lip and cursed and padded quietly to the bathroom.

He took his shirt off, his shoes, his jeans. He stared at his skin in the mirror. Slick and shadowy and somehow glossy. He studied the two flat pinprick moles on his arm and the ends of his elbows, the way the skin stretched over the knobby bone. After a moment he realized the light was off, that he was standing in the bathroom with just the shell-shaped orange glowing night light. He flicked the switch on.

Shadows made thumbprints under his eyes in the mirror. His skin looked loose, as if he could just push it away, like the skin of a roasted chicken. He watched in the mirror and put his hand on his chest. He laid his fingers out flat, slowly applied pressure. He held his breath, goose bumps prickled up all along his arms. He pushed downward, slowly, watching to see if his skin would simply slide away…

Three knocks cracked in his skull. He winced and looked at the door.

Son, you in there, boy?

Yes, dad. I’m going to take a shower.

Silence.

Borey blinked at the door. The wood bent just slightly. He had never noticed it before. It buckled inward slowly, so scarcely that you wouldn’t know it if you didn’t stare.

Don’t you usually shower in the morning, son?

Borey swallowed. Now the walls were coming in. He backed up against the sink and pressed his lips together. He put his hands against the wall to hold them back. He couldn’t feel them move but he knew they were moving. Just slowly, just a little.

Son? You hear me?

Uhm, Borey realized he was naked and his dad was talking to him. He put his arms around himself. I need to shower, dad. He looked down at the sink. This wasn’t the sort of thing he usually did. None of it. He looked into his eyes in the mirror and frowned.

Dad, I need to shower, I’m sorry, he said and he saw his eyes turn wet in the mirror. His heart shook inside him and he sucked in air sharply; he thought he might actually die.

Borey woke up. He was glad it was Saturday. Saturday meant no school. No school meant no Dean. No Dean meant he didn’t have to do it again.

I’ll never do it again! I don’t care. I don’t care!

He rolled onto his side and put his arms around his knees. It was already late in the day, he could tell. His room was filled with bright light; he ducked his head under the blankets. Maybe I should come clean. Maybe I should just tell him. He might find out anyways.

He was the sheriff’s son. He had responsibilities. He had to help keep this town in line. He knew he was important. He noticed things other people didn’t notice. He saw things through keen eyes. Like the time with those three guys…he’d known they were bad men. He couldn’t say how he knew. He just knew.

He threw off the covers and walked to his closet. He was naked but for socks—socks! His socks were damp and reeked; he’d worn them in the shower and slept in them. He pulled them off and threw them hard into the hamper in the closet.

Damn you, Dean. I’ll get you for this. You’ve fucked everything up!

Borey pulled a shirt off a shelf and took pants out of a drawer. He pulled on underwear, clean socks and the shirt. He walked into the bathroom; he still felt dirty so he took it all off and showered again.

Downstairs his father had made breakfast and left him a plate in the oven. His dad had gone to work. This was their morning routine, only today was his sixth day in a row working.

Two days ago they’d fought about it. Borey’d told him it wasn’t fair. That he should get two days off like normal people. He’d said that mom would have said the same thing.

"I can’t always spend time with you, Bor." His dad put a hand on his hip, the other hand on his gun. That was how he stood when he was irritated all to hell.

"It’s not about me, it’s about you, dad, Borey had pleaded. It’s not healthy, dad. I’m worried about you, dad. Mom would be worried too…"

Don’t you use your mom like that, Borey! His dad gripped the gun holster and his knuckles turned white. Don’t you dare use your mom like that. You know I have to watch this town…

"It’s not fair, dad! Borey yelled. You have to live your life, too! You’re gonna die working yourself like this!"

His dad raised a finger; then stopped himself. He chewed on his lips, first bottom then top, his eyes wide with anger. He crossed his arms and his voice shook. Look, Borey. I have to go. I don’t have all day to fight with you. Now get your ass dressed and get to school.

After he’d left Borey felt bad that they’d fought. Most mornings they didn’t see each other, and they just had to fight the one morning they could have been having pancakes together.

Borey wiped his eyes impatiently and fingered the picture of his mother on the kitchen table.

His dad always woke up early, though. Always left him a plate. He’d work all day and come home and usually Borey would be doing homework or watching TV. Then his dad would go upstairs, have a drink and lay down in his bed with the door shut. That was their routine.

Borey ate slowly and stared at his mother’s picture. When he was done he went upstairs and took his dirty clothes from the bathroom floor where he’d left them. He sniffed at them: the musty smell was buried deep in the threads, it seeped out ripe, smoky. He buried the clothes deep in the bottom of the hamper. I better do my own damn laundry tomorrow.

After he’d finished his homework, Borey went out to find trouble. His dad had told him not to before. The last time was after he’d caught those men with the girl. His dad had told him that he shouldn’t have to see those kinds of things. His dad told him it wasn’t safe.

Then give me a gun, dad!

But his dad had just laughed and rubbed his head. That’s my boy, he breathed out slowly with his eyes on the floor. It made Borey’s chest feel tight.

Borey walked through town, the opposite direction of the school. Dean wouldn’t be there, probably. But still, sometimes kids went there on the weekend to shoot hoops or skate. He didn’t want to chance it. He didn’t want to see Dean at all. With luck he was with Jenna doing the only other thing there was to do in Madsen.

He could have threatened to tell Dean’s dad about that but he didn’t think Dean would care. Hell, knowing Dean’s dad, he’d probably say way to go and don’t get the bitch pregnant and you know what to do when you’re done with her, son. No, Dean’s dad wouldn’t care at all, he didn’t care about much. That could even be where Dean got…

Borey stopped and leaned against a glass window. Behind the window, furniture was stacked on top of each other, small wooden tables on other tables, chairs crowded together, a big out of business sign painted in messy red letters on the inside of the window. He could tell his dad about what Dean was doing…and maybe it would get Dean and Dean’s bastard of a father in trouble. But how could he tell him without Dean knowing it was him who told? Borey rubbed his chin. It wasn’t right to turn his friends in. But it wasn’t right either, what Dean had done to him.

Borey clamped his eyes shut and felt the heat of the sun on his skin. He was the Sheriff’s son. He didn’t have a star but he knew right from wrong. So then what was right? Dean shouldn’t be doing these things at all. But the truth was: lots of kids did them. Lots of kids did lots of things.

Borey rubbed his eyes and shook his head. He pushed off the glass and walked on, continued his beat. He scanned the street, looked carefully down alleys. No one knew Madsen like him. He walked and paused occasionally, ducked into a doorway or around the corner of a building. Kept to shadows. Most of the time.

He thought about going over to the saloon. They weren’t really supposed to let him in, but no one cared, especially not since he was the Sheriff’s son. They wouldn’t give drinks to underage kids, even when they had money. People had tried; hell, even Dean had tried. But they let kids hang out in there if they wanted to and kids could drink soda if they paid for it.

Borey walked by the front of the saloon. He pictured walking in, pictured Sally Foster with her tight blue t-shirt she always wore smiling at him and waving. Pictured her offering him a seat at the