Dark Horses: The Magazine of Weird Fiction No. 20 | September 2023: Dark Horses Magazine, #20

By Wayne Kyle Spitzer

dark horse
/ˈdärk ˈˌhôrs/
noun
1. a candidate or competitor about whom little is known but who unexpectedly wins or succeeds.
"a dark-horse candidate"

Join us for a monthly tour of writers who give as good as they get. From hard science-fiction to stark, melancholic apocalypses; from Lovecraftian horror to zombies and horror comedy; from whimsical interludes to tales of unlikely compassion--whatever it is, if it's weird, it's here. So grab a seat before the starting gun fires, pour yourself a glass of strange wine, and get ready for the running of the dark horses.

In this issue:

A RESPONSIBLE MAN
Carol Willis

BOTTLENECK
Douglas Gwilym

CORNPLANTER O'BAIL
Gary Every

INTO THE POT
Ron J. Cruz

PECK
Wayne Kyle Spitzer

PRETTY ON THE INSIDE
Diana Olney

WHERE FASNET MET SPACE NET
Mary Jo Rabe

SORRY, WRONG ARTIFACT
Mark Mellon

THE BURDEN OF DAMASCUS
James B. Pepe

THE TROUBLE WITH AI-Nine
Chad Gayle

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hobb's End Press
• Release date: Sep 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223013631

Wayne Kyle Spitzer

Wayne Kyle Spitzer (born July 15, 1966) is an American author and low-budget horror filmmaker from Spokane, Washington. He is the writer/director of the short horror film, Shadows in the Garden, as well as the author of Flashback, an SF/horror novel published in 1993. Spitzer's non-genre writing has appeared in subTerrain Magazine: Strong Words for a Polite Nation and Columbia: The Magazine of Northwest History. His recent fiction includes The Ferryman Pentalogy, consisting of Comes a Ferryman, The Tempter and the Taker, The Pierced Veil, Black Hole, White Fountain, and To the End of Ursathrax, as well as The X-Ray Rider Trilogy and a screen adaptation of Algernon Blackwood’s The Willows.

Book preview

A RESPONSIBLE MAN

Carol Willis

––––––––

Jake Turney had no choice. He abandoned his dad’s truck in the parking lot of Prime Cut, having run out of gas. He grabbed his backpack from the cab and slung his shotgun over his shoulder, muzzle down because of the weather. He angled south on foot toward Avenue I. His dad had directed him to a bunker hidden in the Wildcat Hills. He was on his way but taking a detour to search for Cassidy.

He hoped his dad would have understood.

The sun was gone. The sky a permanent gray mantle of mammatus clouds. Western Nebraska was in permanent shadow; gone were the grand greens and golds of the prairies and bluffs. Chimney Rock and Scottsbluff Monument rendered black against the swollen pouches charcoal clouds. 

Jake had not seen the sun, nor so much as a patch of blue sky, for three weeks. That is when the alien dirigibles had arrived. By the hundreds, bulbous gray submarines, turning the skies into oceans of air. From the stratosphere, they had dumped their contents, belching billions of shiny pieces of alien substance.

Useless hunks of fake candy.

Jake kicked a clump of them with his boot. They spun and skittered across the sidewalk, bouncing off an overflowing garbage bin. The shiny candy-like objects mingled with the moldered remains of fast food. A rat scuttled from behind the bin. Jake’s stomach churned. Rats were going to town amidst the glitter and gloss. Except for the rats, and the occasional dog, the streets were empty.

The people gone—holed up at one of the FEMA sites. Many dead, most by circumstance. Some by choice.

The surprising thing, at least to Jake, was how quickly things had fallen apart. The world had held it together for the first few days, broadcasting hourly updates, directing people to stay calm. By the end of the first week, people were making a run on the stores, pharmacies, gun shops—just like they did during the pandemic.

By the end of the second week, people were already forming emergency shelters. The National Guard showed up directing everyone to one of the sites established by the Federal Emergency Management Agency. Looting and riots began. Cell towers toppled, satellites failed, planes fell from the skies. Electricity stopped flowing. So did water.

By the end of the third week, the streets and cities were mostly abandoned. Wild animals filling the vacuum.

Jake looked back at the rats. They were having a field day. It would not last long. The fake candy was gumming everything up. A rare metallic compound, not found on earth, it had no discernable purpose. Just a sparkling amorphous alien substance. It looked for all the world like wrapped candy, full of sugar and promise. It littered the streets, alleyways, stairwells, and parking garages and strewn throughout grassy parks, gazebos, public restrooms; and collected in in the gutters, ditches, and underground sewers. It polluted waterways, suffocated crops, plugged up rivers, tributaries, and reservoirs. It had shorted out electrical grids and interfered with cell towers.

Gusts of wind hurled glittery chunks across the sidewalk, and careening off the side of the buildings. Empty water bottles and plastic bags whipped across his path. Down the alley, dumpster lids banged and slammed against the metal rims sounding like shotgun blasts fired in quick succession. Jake hurried, alert to any movement in his peripheral vision or to the sound of scuffling feet.

His dad had taught him well.

Ten years ago, Jake Turney’s father had retired on 270 acres in Western Nebraska. Lake Minatare was about as end of the world as it got. Formerly a private contractor for the Department of Defense, Mike Turney was well-respected, seasoned, and a seen-it-all man’s man.

Jake’s dad raised him in his own quiet no-nonsense way. He went to school at Lake Minatare, then when he hit ninth grade, asked to transfer to Scottsbluff High five miles to the west. His dad had agreed readily enough. Jake had hardly ever asked for a thing in his life, and he knew he needed a bigger school and wider set of friends than the small country school of Lake Minatare. Most importantly, Cassidy Bussinger went to Scottsbluff High. His dad drove him five miles each way. On his fifteenth birthday, Jake had hinted at a hardship license. His dad had only said, It’s not a hardship for me to drive you to school. She’ll wait for you, son.

Jake still blushed at the memory. He had never spoken of Cassidy yet his dad had known somehow.

Now, Jake didn’t even know if he’d see sixteen. He didn’t know if he would find Cassidy; but right now, searching for her was the only thing that kept him going. It is the first time he has wilfully disobeyed his dad.

Raindrops formed dark splotches on his hunting parka. Jake pulled the hood over his head as he came to the Gaslight Motel. This was the last of the lot; and the most derelict by far. A few dogs nosed around the overflowing dumpster near the back.

Jake had been to all the others earlier this morning—Holiday Inn, Sleep Inn, and the Comfort Inn—all on the northeast side of town. Jake had moved along the darkened corridors quickly trying to avoid trouble. His dad had told him to forget about her, You need to let her go, son. But Jake wouldn’t forgive himself if he didn’t at least try.

The parking lot of the Gaslight was empty except for one four-door sedan and an old beater truck with local license plates. The shiny objects piled on top of the windshields filled the truck bed and gathered in windswept piles around the tires. Most of the motel’s windows on the first floor were cracked and busted out. Walmart bags flapped, caught on the shards of cracked glass.

Jake climbed the cracked concrete stairwell to the second floor, gently tapping on doors, trying not to draw attention. He pushed the first door open. Dark and empty, it seemed to swallow his voice. He moved to the next room then to the next, calling Cassidy?

But no one answered.

He opened the last door. A pungent chemical odor assaulted him. In the gloam, a man was sitting on the bed smoking a glass pipe. Even in the dingy light, he could see the man’s glassy red eyes. Crinkled food wrappers were heaped on either side of him. The bed had been stripped of its sheets and the mattress was blue with tan-yellowed stains. The man lazily proffered the pipe to Jake. End of the world, man.

Jake backed up and shut the door.

He bound down the stairs of the motel. A flash of tan appeared out of the corner of his eye. Thirty feet away, next to the dumpster, stood a mountain lion.

He’d seen one up close. Once. His dad and Conrad Pruitt, owner of Western Trails Sport and Gun Shop and his dad’s oldest friend and confidant, had been called upon to shoot a male who had wandered into town during the winter. It happened every other year, driven by hunger or thirst, one would slink in from the hills south of town, following the dry irrigation canals. If they made it into town they were always shot. That year, the mountain lion had made it all the way to the National Guard Armory.

The cat made a low raspy mewl. Out of reflex, his hand went to his shotgun. His dad had used a rifle to shoot the Tom but Jake’s shotgun would work just as well. The Remington 870 pump-action shotgun had been a Christmas present from his dad. Jake knew what to do, if necessary. You do what needs to be done, his dad had told him often. If there was ever a code his dad had lived by it was this one.

The only thing he had ever shot was pheasant, grouse, geese. Birds, mainly. He was a good shot—not a crack shot like his dad—but he could hit grouse from twenty yards away. Hitting a mountain lion from thirty feet would be like shooting the broadside of a barn.

This cat was thin and scraggly. Female by look of her narrow haunches but he couldn’t be certain. The only way to tell was by the absence of a dark spot beneath the anus. Instinctively, he looked around for cubs but saw none. He hadn’t expected to.

The cat hadn’t moved but the hackles on her back were raised and the skin beneath quivered. Jake took a step backward and swung the shotgun in front of him with his left arm. This was the most dangerous time. She could charge before he had time to level the barrel at her.

The cat continued to make short raspy grunts. There was something off about her. She lifted a paw as if she were taking a step forward but moved as if in slow motion. Instead, she staggered, lurched to one side, and stopped. She looked disoriented as if her body was not obeying her primal commands.

She must be half-mad from starvation, dehydration. Erratic and unpredictable, the only thing worse than a hungry mountain lion was a crazed and hungry one. It would only get worse for her. He’d need to put her out of her misery. It was the responsible thing to do. The only thing, really.  

Moving slowly, methodically, just like he’d been taught, he shifted his weight to his back foot. He held the shotgun with both hands, the weight familiar and comfortable. He cradled the gun in his left hand and pulled the stock up to his right cheek and held the rubber butt snug against his right shoulder.

He’d removed the plug from the magazine before he left the house this morning. The law said he could only have three rounds when hunting waterfowl. But he wasn’t hunting birds. Fully loaded with seven rounds of buckshot. Six in the tube, one already in the chamber. All he needed to do was press the safety off.

The cat watched him, her long tawny tail undulating behind her. She lowered her head, crouched and her back legs were taut and trembling. She was preparing to charge. 

Sorry, girl, Jake whispered. Almost by reflex, borne of many hours of practice, he pushed the safety off with his right index finger and pulled the trigger, immediately reloading the chamber. The ejected shell casing flew out and landed six feet to his right. Jake caught the stunned look in the cat’s eyes just before she fell, her body hitting the side of the dumpster before crumpling to the ground. He waited a moment to make sure she wasn’t getting back up. She wasn’t. One shot was all it took.

The report of the shotgun still echoed against the bluffs and set off a chorus of dogs barking several blocks to the east. Jake pressed the safety back on, replaced a cartridge to the magazine, and pocketed his shell out of habit. He slung the shotgun over his left shoulder and hoped he wouldn’t be needing it any time soon.

Jake looked around and scanned the area just in case the blast had spooked any unwanted visitors into the open. But the parking lot and street were empty. Except for the dogs still barking, there was no one.

He lifted the tail of the cat and saw no black spot, verifying her gender. It bothered him to leave her body next to the dumpster. He dragged the mountain lion, seventy pounds, maybe, to the tall grasses behind the motel’s parking lot. It was the best he could do.

The wind picked up and rain was falling in slants. He was running out of time. He’d wasted all morning searching Cassidy. Jake was supposed to have driven directly to the gun shop. Conrad will take you the rest of the way, his dad had said. Conrad was probably one of the main reasons his dad retired to Western Nebraska at all. Conrad and hunting, that is.

Jake hustled down 27th Street. The roads were empty except for a rare abandoned vehicle and fake candy. Everyone, except for the rare holdout like the man at the Gaslight, was gone. Hightailed it out of town, corralled at the emergency sites at the high schools or other FEMA sites, like the Mitchell fairgrounds. His dad said all these were bad ideas, only prolonging the inevitable. It was going to take