Sidearm & Sorcery Volume One: Sidearm & Sorcery, #1

By Bryce Beattie, Jay Barnson, Misha Burnett and 6 more

In the modern world, paranormal dangers lurk all around. When there is no chosen one to be found, no altruistic half-vampire around, and no superheros flying overhead, it's up to average people to do the business of defeating evil. They have no powers, no prophecies, and all the odds are stacked against them. 

 

In this short story collection, regular folk find themselves up against nightmare creatures, conniving warlocks, and all manner of supernatural dangers. All set in contemporary environments. Read these nine new tales of magic and adventure today. 

 

This anthology contains the following stories:

 

Flight Response by Jay Barnson

 

An army helicopter pilot has a harrowing experience with a mind-controlling sorcerer in Vietnam. Several years later, the sorcerer has resurfaced, but will this wild chance at revenge end in tragedy?

 

Small Town Sorcery by Bryce Beattie

 

Supernatural terrors plague a child at night, and her father doesn't seem to be concerned. What nightmare is he trying to hide?

 

In The Forests Of The Night by Misha Burnett

 

Politics. Power always brought out the politicians, looking for an angle to drive in a wedge and gain some leverage. Magic was power, money was power, and this case was dripping with both.

 

From the case files of Erik Rugar comes another tale of magic, mystery, and a detective who is always over his head.

 

La Bruja by Carlos Carrasco

 

A New Orleans Police Detective and an Exorcist join forces to rescue a young girl from the clutches of a demonic cult. The trail leads them into the bullet-riddled inner-city streets of the Big Easy where lives and souls are held cheap and rival gang-bangers wage a bloody race war.

 

Living Land by JD Cowan

 

After the show, a rockabilly drummer follows a girl who looks like she might be in trouble. The two are swept away into an unexplainable land, where existence turns in on itself.

 

Under a Mango Sun by Michael DeCarolis

 

An agent of Thailand's supernatural crime division must infiltrate Bangkok's seedy underbelly to get to the bottom of an enchanted animal smuggling ring, where she finds herself in over her head.

 

The Undying Past by Dale W. Glaser

 

A private investigator is coerced into tracking down the cause of a curse on an ancient manor. Will he find the answer before the curse claims his life?

 

Green Shadow by Jason J. McCuiston

 

Some New Age cults are fads. Some are nefarious. A rare few actually worship dark gods. When an Afghanistan vet is hired to bring back a runaway girl, he comes face-to-face with the latter.

 

Prey of the Hamadame by Mark J. Schultis

 

A mysterious beast is preying on factory workers. A pregnant woman's husband has disappeared. Can an outcast detective find him before it is too late?

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Baby Katie Media, LLC
• Release date: Dec 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201663780

Bryce Beattie

Bryce is a family man living just north of Salt Lake City, Utah. He writes primarily action/adventure fiction in a variety of genres. He loves jazz and blues music, firearms, pulp magazines, programming, computer security topics, escape rooms, brisket & other smoked meats, high fives, kettlebells, lindy hop, two-wheeled transportation, his wife, and his kids. Not all exactly in that order. When he's not writing, he is coding web apps and managing the IT needs of a haunted hotel in West Yellowstone.

Book preview

Flight Response

By Jay Barnson

1976.

Arty finished the lubrication pass and inspection on the tail rotor of the Bell 204B. Nothing seemed visibly wrong, and his instruments had yielded no issues, but the pedals had felt slightly off on his last flight, and he wanted to catch any issues early to prevent expensive repairs later. The jury-rigged stuff he and his crew chiefs had done to keep the birds in the air out in the field would never pass muster in the civilian world, even if they were an improvement over the original equipment.

Unfortunately, the cost of fixing or replacing the original equipment threatened his little business. That wasn't the only reason Arty spent working on the aircraft, however. When he was being honest with himself, he simply loved to putter with it. When he couldn’t be up in the air, the smell of oil and machinery and the feel of machinery under his fingers were the next best thing.

If he was being even more honest with himself, he’d admit that there was a tiny superstitious fear in the heart of every helo pilot unknown to the fixed-wing aviators. Helicopters were unruly beasts that could never be fully tamed. They had a will of their own, and the relationship between mount and rider had to be one of mutual respect, or the beast would kill them both. Some tiny, illogical part of Arty’s soul felt that the care he lavished on the machine would be reciprocated.

Over ELO's Evil Woman on the transistor radio, he heard the sounds of footsteps in the hangar approaching him. A man's footsteps, not Mia's. Old reflexes put him on alert, but he forced himself to relax as he wiped his hands off on a rag. Before stepping out from behind the helicopter, he went over a checklist in his mind. His landlord? His rent on the hangar and office space was paid up, barely. Mia should have handled any customers up front. So, who was here?

The visitor was a man in his late thirties with curly brown hair and an equally curly mustache, wearing jeans and a rugby-style striped shirt. While he seemed familiar, he seemed out-of-place in Arty's quiet world.

The man grinned at him. Arturo Gutierrez. You haven't changed a bit.

Arty's eyebrows rose. He recognized the voice, but the bearer didn't resemble his memories at all. The man didn't belong here. He belonged in uniform, in the steamy jungles of another place. Smitty? Sorry, Captain, I don't remember your first name.

It's Hal. But I still go by Smitty. Good to see you. He looked over the Bell. Nice bird. The paint job is a lot nicer than what I'm used to.

Arty shrugged. If it looks shiny and new on the outside, people assume it's that way on the inside too.

Business doing good?

Could be better, but yeah, we're making do.

Maybe I can help with that.

Oh, yeah? Arty smiled. Do you need to charter a flight?

Kind of, yeah. Some old friends and I have a job brewing, and they said they needed another pilot with balls of steel. I told them we need Arty Gutierrez.

1972.

WE NEED GUTIERREZ! The Captain's voice could be heard over the sound of the rain as he approached the tent. By everyone.

Arty winced. Smitty was not just a captain, he was a Green Beret commanding a SFOD-A. They got whatever they demanded. And Smitty usually demanded Arty.

Most of the pilots didn't make a big deal about Smitty treating Arty as his personal chauffeur, fortunately. It was Arty's second tour in Vietnam. The first time, he was still a few weeks shy of twenty years old when he arrived in theater. This time, he had a year of combat experience and a year of teaching at Fort Wolters under his belt. While it made him more experienced, all the pilots had gone through the same extreme training, and were highly skilled and gutsy as hell. Within a couple of months, they'd be on the same level as anyone else.

Mama's calling, Arty. Holman laughed from the nearby table. He was one of the newer pilots who hadn't yet hit the two-month mark, and he was making his rounds as a copilot to the more senior pilots. Today, he was assigned to Arty.

Holman had been in just long enough to get a feel for how things worked in the field, but not long enough to become acclimated or hardened yet. Arty vividly recalled being at Holman’s stage early in his first tour­­—feeling the mix of competence from his training and absolute confusion dealing with real-world challenges and enemies that shot real bullets at him.

Holman’s red hair and freckles made him like he was barely out of puberty. He didn't seem old enough to drive, let alone pilot a helicopter. However, he was six months older than Arty had been at the start of his first tour.

Arty nodded and stood up. I guess we'd better get dressed and prepped. Smitty would be another minute or two in formalities and paperwork, but the outcome was never in doubt. Holman and Arty went out in the drizzling rain to start their pre-flight check.

Minutes later, Smitty and his team showed up to find the Huey ready and spraying rainwater. The half-dozen Special Forces soldiers boarded the helicopter without a word, and they took off.

Smitty plugged a headset into the intercom, the only way to be heard without shouting over the engine and constant wup-wup-wup of the blades. He handed a map to Holman, pointing out the grid square. We're going after Colonel Quyen, he said. Drop us off here, and return to base. We will probably be two or three days.

Arty kept his hands on the controls as he glanced over at the map. In this weather, that altitude will above the cloud ceiling.

Then just get us as close as possible, from the southeast side.

I'll get you close, Arty promised. So Colonel Quyen... Is he a real guy? I thought he was a myth.

Smitty said, We don't think he's actually NVA, but whoever he is, his people are taking out our patrols in these mountains. Whole patrols, and even a convoy last month. No survivors. Morale's going to shit, and he has probably taken more than a dozen prisoners by now. The locals are terrified of him and call him the 'demon sorcerer' or some such.

Demon Sorcerer? Seriously? Holman asked.

Just superstition, probably. But people believe it, and that gives him power over them. But I'll tell ya, I've seen some pretty crazy stuff around here, Smitty said, tapping the map. We'll find him and rescue any POWs. Then we'll call in gunships and the ARVN to come in and blow him to hell. Sound like fun?

1976.

THIS IS A TOTALLY OFF-the-books type of operation, you understand, Smitty explained inside Arty's tiny, cramped office. But it's a good cause. The gang doing the kidnapping acts like a cult. And get this—their leader is some Vietnamese guy named Quyen.

The name froze Arty's blood. Smitty's smug smile betrayed his confidence that name would seal Arty's cooperation.

Arty knew it, too, even though the idea terrified him. Everything about this terrified him, and he couldn't quite wrap his mind around it all. Back in the war, sure, this sort of thing would be a milk run for him. But that was another time, and another world. The fighting, the death, and a monster like Quyen all belonged in that other world, not here and now. But that was also exactly why Arty couldn't say no. He couldn't allow something that horrible to exist in his world.

Do you really think he is our guy? Arty asked.

It's impossible to know for sure. When we bag him, you can tell us, Smitty said. You are the only one I know who can positively ID the bastard.

Arty sighed. And here I thought you were after my hotshot flying skills.

Hey, two for the price of one, right, Arty? Even with as much as we're paying you, that's a bargain.

So that's the mission? Taking out Quyen.

Officially, no, it’s only a rescue op. But I was told privately that there is a bonus if we end him.

If we can, Arty echoed. He is still capable of some very scary shit.

Smitty nodded soberly. That's why I want to see him gone, bonus or not. He's killed a lot of people, and he's going to keep killing people until he's stopped. I don't care who or what he is—a bullet to the head will still take him out. You don't need to stake him through the heart or anything.

Arty blinked. Wait, that's a thing? Are you pulling my leg?

Smitty just laughed, but didn't say no.

Two days later, Arty found himself in a smoke-filled conference room staring at dozens of slides of a compound in southeast California projected onto a wall. Two of the eight men in the room wore khaki clothing similar to military battle dress and kept their hair high-and-tight. Another looked like a long-haired hippie disguised in black clothing. Two were probably college students. The other two, including Smitty, could have been office professionals on their day off. All were armed, and Arty suspected most of them had been in special forces.

Arty had heard stories about these mercenary groups. He'd never imagined seeing one, let alone being in one, if only for one mission. The money Smitty had waved under Arty's nose was worth over four months of business, with no wear and tear on his aircraft. Of course, most of it depended on the success of the operation.

Smitty was in the middle of a briefing. It felt just like the old days. Our intel suggests they are using only small arms. No heavy weapons, but possibly some fully automatic weapons like a submachine gun or AK-47s. Smitty pointed to a circled area on the slide. A rooftop sniper is usually stationed here. Now remember, this is a cult, and these guys are fanatics. Don't expect rational behavior. Our job is to get in, get the prisoners, and get out. Same thing you've all done before, only it's near the Arizona border instead of the Cambodian border.

He went over the roles for everyone in the room, ending with Arty and the other pilot. After going over vectors of ingress, egress, and weather conditions—none of which were a surprise to Arty—he explained, Now, we don't know how many passengers we'll be bringing along. The two girls and the businessman, Reggie Stover, are our priority targets. Those are the ones we're getting paid for. We know there are more, and we are going to get them all. The prisoners are probably being kept drugged, so we can't expect them to be cooperative or even conscious.

Arty focused on the last details as Smitty finished the brief. The ethics of the adventure seemed pretty black and white, and his part of the job was pretty simple. Somehow they'd gotten their hands on a pair of honest-to-goodness Huey slicks like he'd flown in his first tour. The compound where the victims were being held was in the middle of nowhere in southeastern California, near the borders of Arizona and Mexico. He and the other pilot would drop off the team far enough away to avoid arousing suspicion, and then await the radio call for pickup. If all went well, they'd land near the compound, pick up the team and the kidnap victims, fly home, and get paid.

1972.

ALTHOUGH IT WAS NO longer raining, the dense blanket of treetops disappeared into the thick clouds up the mountainside with no large breaks near anything resembling a level landing site.

It'll take us a few hours to come up by foot, but there's a spot down in the valley that looks clear, Smitty said, motioning to where they'd passed a clearing five minutes earlier.

Arty checked the instruments and shook his head. We're doing okay on fuel. Let's see what opens up.

After a minute, he saw it. It wasn't so much of a clearing as a ragged strip of less dense forest coinciding with a slight break in the clouds. Arty's hands worked the cyclic and collective with precision, his feet controlling the pedals almost automatically, as he flew their craft to the left and just under the cloud bank. All the while, he checked his instruments, comparing the fuel level and estimating the weight of the men.

This is going to make you puke, he said. Make sure everyone's secure.

Smitty yelled to his team, Double-check your safety belts, gentlemen, and hold on! I don't want anybody falling out fifty feet early!

Younger, the crew chief, made a quick inspection of the passengers and gave the okay sign to Holman. Holman, however, looked like he was about to be sick.

Arty started the movement to drop into the trees. The Huey reacted properly, like it knew what he was trying to do, and didn't give off any signals that anything was amiss, or that the wind coming off the mountainside was anything other than what he expected. Arty felt the smile crawling onto his lips as he banked the helicopter almost on its side. Everyone lurched as gravity and centrifugal force asserted themselves in a stomach-churning new way, and Arty kicked at the pedals to keep the aircraft stable and sliding sideways toward the ground.

Holman's eyes bugged out. What the f...! he started screaming as the canopy of trees rushed at them. Before he could finish, the Huey had already leveled off smoothly despite the violent dive. The blades thundered as they strained at the edge of their tolerances. Leaves and water whirled around in a miniature tornado as the Huey settled into a hover in what seemed like a cave formed of trees.

Arty exhaled and said, Huh, that went better than I thought.

Smitty laughed and clapped Arty on the shoulder. Thanks, Arty. He removed the headset and yelled, Everyone out. Watch your step, because it's not very level here.

Within seconds, there were only four men remaining in the Huey. The Special Forces team melted into the forest like ghosts.

Holman still looked green. So, uh, how are we getting out of here?

Arty rotated the helicopter so that it faced away from the slope. Oh, I thought we'd just ski down the mountain until we found something. Hope there are no trees in our way. He tilted the rotor forward, and the Huey slipped forward. For a few seconds, Arty seemed to do exactly what he described, the skids barely clearing the ground as they accelerated down the slope, trees to either side. Then Arty pulled back on the cyclic and kicked the pedals, causing the aircraft to do the inverse of the first move to leap almost sideways out of the trees and into the sky. Something made a cracking noise, but moments later they were above the canopy and flying back the way they came.

What did you do to my rotor? Younger cried out. You clipped a branch, Arty!

Arty winced, and a secret part of him begged forgiveness from the Huey. Ouch, yeah, I think I did. The opening seemed wider when I was looking at it from above. Looks like I was right not trying to go in that way.

The door gunner was a teenager who had never flown with Arty before. The kid looked even more ill than Holman, but he gamely said, Can somebody get me a change of underwear?

Even Holman chuckled at that. Arty nodded and said, Okay, guys, I'll take it easy on the way back. I promise.

They hadn't gone five minutes toward home when the radio crackled with a request for an extraction. A soldier called out the grid coordinates and said, We need immediate evac. Gunships. Whatever you have. He's killing us.

Arty checked the fuel. It could be dicey, but they had enough. He radioed to base, identified himself, and said, We're close. We'll go in first, see if we can pick up the wounded.

The base confirmed. We're sending a package up now. It'll be there in twenty-five minutes.

Twenty-five? The voice sounded desperate.

We have a single that will be there in five. Pop smoke when you hear him.

Over the intercom, Arty said to the crew, Sorry, guys. I know I just promised to take it easy...

Let's go get 'em, Arty, Holman said.

1976.

THE WAITING WAS THE worst.

Arty and the other pilot, identified only as Vulture Two to Arty's Vulture One, sat in Vulture Two's darkened cockpit listening to the portable radio. As expected, it had been silent for almost two hours. Arty took that as good news. During that time, the eastern sky had lightened.

Vulture Two wasn't very talkative, and Arty didn't force him. All he could tell from their flight to this dirt patch in the middle of nowhere was that Two seemed competent, and had probably learned to fly the same way Arty had. Since then, the two had exchanged just enough words to keep each other awake and alert.

Crow is in the nest, a voice said over the static. Crow had taken a sniper position. It meant things would start to happen soon.

Ten more minutes passed. Arty checked the rocky horizon. It was the middle of dawn now, and he could dimly discern the landscape at a distance. Good enough to fly at low altitude by.

Two, ready, another voice said on the radio. Second team in position.

One, ready, Smitty's voice said. Cue music.

Arty nodded to the other pilot and hopped out of the helicopter, while Two responded, Vulture copy, and began the startup procedure.

Arty climbed into the pilot's seat of his Huey and began the startup procedure to bring it to life. Starting with the overhead panel, he switched the DC breakers, AC Power, DC Power... The layout differed slightly from what he was used to, so the routine wasn't entirely automatic. He wouldn't break any speed records for cold starts, but it was well within the window they'd briefed. Soon, the rotor was spinning, and the aircraft was ready to go.

Arty looked over at Vulture Two, who flashed him a thumbs up sign. Arty put on his headset, keyed the mic, and said, Music is on.

Copy, Smitty said. All, let's dance!

Seconds later, Crow stated calmly, Sniper is down. A few miles away, a man had just died. The first of many.

The radio remained mostly silent, punctuated with brief warnings and updates. Two more guards entered the courtyard, and Crow dropped one while team one took out the other. Team One reported another section of the house clear, with all targets down.

Two minutes after it started, Smitty's voice came over the radio. Team Two, did you knife anyone?

Negative. Is it a prisoner?

I don't think so. It's a bloody mess down here, but it couldn't have happened more than a minute or two ago.

Wasn't us. Resuming search.

Old fear and gripped Arty. One Lead, you know what that might mean...?

Roger. Changes nothing.

The next thirty seconds seemed to stretch for an hour, as nothing but a low static crackle in the headphones accompanied the steady rhythm of the turboshaft engine. Team Two’s lead broke the silence. Package has been found. All three primaries are here, plus three secondaries. Ugh. Animals.

Smitty asked, Confirm you have package?

Confirmed.

Get them south of the outer wall. Vulture, we're ready for extraction.

Arty was already pulling back on the collective as he activated the mic and said, Vulture inbound.

As he'd learned in his days in the war, Arty avoided thinking about it in terms of death. It was about the objective. In this case, rescuing innocent victims from evil men. No loss of friendlies. It didn't get much cleaner than that.

1972.

ARTY SPOTTED THE SMOKE in a small clearing. As they approached, Holman laughed. At least it’s an easy landing this time.

Arty nodded. We're still going to be pretty close to the trees. Everyone, keep your eyes open. Don't shoot unless you can confirm they are hostile.

Just don't go clipping any more trees, Younger said. Paperwork and inspection are going to be a pain in the ass as it is.

I'll help you with the inspection, Arty said. He always did. Sometimes Younger appreciated it, sometimes he hated it, but Arty liked to take an active, unofficial hand in the maintenance of his aircraft. He enjoyed that almost as much as flying it.

Arty radioed to confirm his position and the visual on the smoke, and landed gently in the clearing just downhill of the smoke. The ground was too uneven to set the Huey down fully, so he landed on one skid, keeping the aircraft level with his mastery of the controls.

No one appeared.

Arty was too busy on the controls, so Holman radioed confirming their position. There was no response. The smoke died out a few seconds later, the last few wisps torn into nothingness as they neared the circling main rotor.

I'm not feeling good about this, Younger commented.

Thirty more seconds, Arty shouted. Maybe the soldiers' radio was out. Maybe they were in a firefight just beyond the treeline. The last thing he wanted was to leave just a few seconds too early. He could imagine all too well what that would feel like to a desperate soldier on the ground.

He waited. He couldn't pay attention to potential gunfire on the helicopter, but no one else was reporting anything either. As far as he could tell, nobody was here anymore. What had happened to the soldiers who had called in the evac and thrown the smoke?

Holy shit! Younger yelled. Arty took that as a warning to get out of there, and was already pulling back on the collective. Before they could rise more than a foot, something struck the tail rotor hard enough to destroy it. Metal shrieked and popped as the rotor blades flew apart, and the resulting counter-spin whirled the aircraft in a semicircle, smashing the tail into the ground. The main rotor tore itself apart as the helicopter rolled. Glass exploded inward, and something struck Arty's helmet with the strength of a baseball bat.

Everything went silent and dark.

1976.

FLYING CLOSE TO THE ground at over a hundred miles an hour, it took only five minutes to arrive at the compound. Arty radioed the other helicopter. Two, you first.

Vulture Two gracefully descended onto the dirt field outside the low southern wall of the building. He touched down, sending a vortex of dust and dirt around the aircraft. Team two emerged from their position crouched just outside the wall, along with the rescued victims. One man and two women stumbled toward the helicopter, looking confused but following instructions. Two of the three team members carried girls slung over their shoulder, while the third mercenary faced the building, keeping his rifle trained on the windows.

The other two helped get the rescued prisoners on the aircraft, while the third stood guard. It took forever. Soldiers in the war knew how to board a helicopter almost as automatically as cleaning their rifles. Everything took ten times longer than it should with untrained civilians. Arty hovered nearby, expecting massed gunfire and rockets to fire at any moment.

After far too long, Vulture Two said, Two, departing with cargo. The Huey rose with a little more lethargy, skimming over the dust and dirt for several yards before gaining significant altitude. Then it was gone, with orders not to stop until it got to the airport.

Arty sighed with relief. Vulture Two, the kidnap victims, and one member of Team Two were now safe. The rest—Crow and the four remaining mercenaries at the house—were Arty's job.

Where the hell is Quyen? Smitty radioed. Crow, did you see anyone leave the house?

After a few