Mongrel Nation III: Thought Myself to Death

Fantasy, Katriel, Mongrel Nation, Shatter Zone, Tiff Van Ry

“We have about two minutes to decide if we’re going to be able to work together,” Van Ry said, lighting another cigarette. Kat’s cell stood open, the keys that Van Ry took off the unconscious guard still in the lock. Kat sat on the floor at the back of the cell, frowning with skepticism in every little wrinkle of his thin-lipped face. “Let me get this out of the way right now: you shouldn’t trust me. And, since we’re being honest with each other, I know why you’re in here.”

One of Kat’s thin eyebrows arched. “It’s not a mystery,” he said.

“So you say,” Van Ry said, his smile pouting and going crooked, like he would break into a sneer if no one stopped him. “Here’s how it’s going to be: either you come with me, or I walk out of here and let them walk into you like this,” Van Ry spread his hands to gesture to the whole, hot and dimly lit corridor of cells.

The keys in Kat’s open cell had come off a guard. The guard lay on the floor of another cell, stunned for now, with the cell door locked behind him. Van Ry had done it.

“They’ll know you did it,” Kat said.

“You really think so?” Van Ry said. “You think you can trust these people?”

If Kat was entirely honest, he wasn’t sure. What he felt for sure is that, on the spectrum of such things, he was a good guy compared to Van Ry. That had always counted for something in the past.

“Suit yourself, then,” Van Ry said. “Before you condemn yourself, then, I’ll warn you of this once, before we get all tangled up together: I like to prove my points.”

With that, Van Ry gave a lazy, kind of salute with the two fingers holding his cigarette. He left the cells.

Not sure what would happen, but entirely certain he didn’t want to face it without doing something, Kat calculated his possible courses of action. As soon as Van Ry got out of sight, Kat curled up to his feet. If the problem was going to be what it looked like in the cells, Kat would change what it looked like. He swept across the dirty floor of his cell, his nightmare-black coat shushing the air around him. At the door he jerked the keys out of the open door. From there, he meant to go and open the cell with the stunned guard. After that he planned to return to his own cell, lock the door, and throw the ring of keys toward the guard. At least if he did that it’d look like Van Ry had escaped by himself.

Parts of the plan felt counter-intuitive, like the part where he locked himself back in his cell and threw the key away. In a saner moment, he supposed he could consider the wisdom of the course of action. In this odd moment, he felt like all he could do was follow his instincts. In the name of his instincts, he tried one key after another to open the cell with the stunned guard. He did what he could to lie to himself about his trembling fingers and chattering heart.

Just as he found the key that slid into the keyhole with a promising ease, a shout interrupted him.

“Now, you jus’ ease yourself around, son,” a gruff voice said. Gruff—such an impotently overused term. Growling in the face of the sentiment, the calming, cigar-smoke-rasped voice of the sheriff fell cozily into the category of sound easily described as gruff. The sheriff of Ramshackle was named Chamfer. Kat liked him. Kat glanced at Chamfer out of his ember-glow red-on-black eyes, pricks of orange light in the shadowy cells.

“Jus’ you ease around,” Chamfer said. The attempt not to frown put uneven wrinkles in Chamfer’s dark brown face. “Consider yourself good and took. We’ll jus’ be taking you over to Sir Ramsey’s dungeons and all. You come quiet, and we’ll see our way around making the situation uncomfortable for you.”

Chamfer did not have his pistol drawn, although he had a large hand resting on the long-iron hanging on his hip. Several other people stood with Chamfer. One of them was Sir Ramsey, in his white suit, leveling a black crossbow at Kat. Sir Ramsey’s valet/bodyguard was there too. The bowler hat and poncho wearing valet had no weapons drawn, but that didn’t mean he had no weapons on him. With the others, Van Ry stood. Van Ry panted, as if he’d been running. He had somehow got a small wound on his forehead that bled a little down his pale face.

Several courses of action occurred to Kat while he stood there. The first thing he considered doing was to point out how odd it was to see Van Ry doing what he was doing. Clearly, Kat considered saying, Van Ry pulled one over on you gentlemen. Do you not see the reason in the situation? I, sirs, am being framed! Kat considered saying that.

Even thinking about it made his tongue feel like it tripped over his teeth.

So he considered his second course of action: going quietly. That smelled troublous; it went even further from being a good idea than his original attempted deception. Sir Ramsey’s dungeon was notoriously impregnable. Until they built a real jail, the lawmen of the area had been using Sir Ramsey’s dungeon for years to hold prisoners about whom they meant business. Kat supposed he could possibly plead his case over time from inside a cell in Sir Ramsey’s dungeon. The prospect felt frighteningly improbable. Besides that, Kat didn’t have time to stew in a dungeon for he could not say how long before an impending threat to Ramshackle fell on it and destroyed the whole town.

Feeling woefully trapped into the only other course of action he could imagine, Kat drew the set of keys from the lock of the cell. He sighed, frowned, and looked at Van Ry.

“Blackmail,” he said.

With a dismissive flicking gesture Van Ry shrugged behind a renewed smile. The other men all looked over at him, momentarily confused. Van Ry suddenly darted to the side to avoid the thing that Kat used their moment of confusion to start doing.

The bunch of keys clinked out of his hand and tinkled through the air. They smacked into Sir Ramsey’s cheek hard enough to cut his skin and leave a bruise. Crying out, Sir Ramsey jerked to the side. His hand convulsed. His trigger finger fired his crossbow bolt wildly. The click and whir of the crossbow caused enough disturbance to make Chamfer cuss and whip around. Chamfer had his pistol half out. Sir Ramsey’s valet drew a knife from somewhere under his poncho. All three men could attend to nothing but their surprise for the length of several calm heartbeats. Kat would have sworn, though, that his heart beat a hundred times in the few steps he ran to get to them.

At the last cell, Kat leapt. He kicked off the bars of the cell. Now able to fall from above and the side, Kat dropped his elbow into the side of Chamfer’s face. The elbow had all Kat’s strength and weight behind it. Chamfer’s head cracked around too fast. His neck turned too far. His body took over, determining that Chamfer didn’t know what he was doing, and it turned off for survival. Knocked unconscious, Chamfer fell to the ground, thumping like a sack of flour.

Of the three men, Sir Ramsey’s valet kept his head the best. His knife glinted like a spark in the shadows. The blade moved toward Kat. To avoid it, Kat turned in the air and fell backwards. Watching the big knife snick through the air, Kat flumped onto his back. He fell onto the body of Chamfer. Kat felt behind himself for something on Chamfer’s belt. The cold metal of the sheriff’s handcuffs slid into Kat’s hand. Tugging the cuffs with him, Kat rolled off Chamfer. He avoided a swipe of the valet’s knife.

Kat loomed to his feet with all the fluttering and shimmering black of a rising murder of crows. The valet thrust his knife at Kat again. With his left hand, Kat slid up the side of the knife’s blade. Then he grabbed the valet’s thick, warm, hairy wrist. Heaving and leaping, Kat pulled his much lighter self up and around the valet. He perched like a monkey on the coarse poncho across the valet’s broad shoulders. The valet began wildly turning, as if he could flail around to face Kat. Kat kept a hold on the neck of the poncho with most of the fingers of his right hand. He held the handcuffs in the curl of his pinky. With his left hand, Kat kept a tight hold on the valet’s knife hand.

The valet spun, trying to get at Kat, and swung his arm, trying to swipe Kat off. At the peak of one of the valet’s swings, Kat made a quick move. He clamped one end of the handcuffs around the valet’s wrist. The other end of the handcuffs he snapped around a heavy steel pipe running a few feet lower than the ceiling. The valet didn’t notice it happen. Almost comically, he tried to complete his knife-thrust down. His wrist jerked against the handcuffs and the pipe. The force of his swing tugged him a few inches off the ground.

Kat braced, then he leapt backwards. Curling, he flipped in the air. He landed in a crouch, his long hair flipped behind him.

In a grimy corner of the room, Van Ry stood, smirking and leaning like a spectator who, having bet on the fight, watched his investment make valuable returns. Van Ry idly shoved with his shoulders off the wall. He looked about ready to say something glib. Kat had no patience for that. Snatching Chamfer’s pistol from the floor, Kat swept across the room. With his right hand, Kat slammed Van Ry against the wall, lifting Van Ry off the floor by his leather vest. Kat pressed the tip of the pistol against Van Ry’s cheek. Under Kat’s thumb, the hammer of the pistol clicked back.

With the cold metal against his cheek, Van Ry’s expression changed. Kat expected that. But rather than a distortion of fear or desperation, nor even some extremity of cockiness, Van Ry smiled still. The smile, though, turned genuine, like seeing a friend.

“Yeah,” Van Ry said. “I think we’ll be able to work together.”

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