The Last Resurrectionist: Novella Series - Part One Page 3

  Lincoln spent a good hour on the first revolver, checking every millimeter. He enjoyed it, even. Not the cleaning and adjusting, but learning how it worked. Though it was a much cruder machine than the clocks around him, Lincoln liked the clever simplicity - and the raw power.

  The bells at the door jangled abruptly. Lincoln heard the familiar voice of Birch Clifton, Dowerton’s mayor. Birch was quite the opposite of Jag Hill. Smaller in stature, boisterous in nature. He didn’t have the calm, commanding tone of Jag’s. Rather, he rambled and jested, often incoherently, but his conversation was infectious. What he lacked in ambition and vision, he made up for in wit and joviality.

  “Teddy, my friend,” Birch exclaimed, sounding quite drunk. “I have come here to lay waste to my coin purse and indulge myself. I need a new pocket watch. Mine is…. Well, it doesn’t sparkle anymore. You know what I’m saying. I heard that you don’t make pocket watches but you are a clockmaker and a pocket watch is just a pocket clock so I’m just going to give you whatever you need to make that happen.”

  “Well, Mr. Clifton,” Teddy said, sounding like he was still processing the mayor’s entrance, “it’s good to see you. Actually, sir, I am just in the process of tuning up a pocket watch today - let me fetch it. It’s not quite ready, but in a few days it will be good to go.”

  Teddy spent the next ten minutes with Birch explaining the fine details of a pocket watch’s miniature gear system. Whether Birch was interested or not, he allowed the time to pass and asked questions every now and then.

  “Theodore,” Birch said, “you are a master. This will be a good thing for me. A new timepiece always makes me happy. How much?”

  Lincoln didn’t hear the price - Teddy had a habit of almost whispering prices to customers, even if there was no one else around. But it seemed not to phase Birch as Lincoln heard the clink of coins on the counter - a lot of coins.

  Birch left, whistling a tune, and Teddy came to the backroom with the coins cupped in both his palms, almost overflowing. He rushed to his safe, opening it with the combination Lincoln had already memorized just by watching him. Once the money was safely inside, Teddy stood and sighed. He turned to see Lincoln watching him.

  “What did you think about that?” Teddy asked.

  “About Birch?” Lincoln said. “He knows he’s going to lose the re-election. He’s just using the last of his money and power while he still can.”

  “Not surprising,” Teddy said. “Money corrupts.”

  “You seem to have quite a lot of it.” Lincoln said, looking at the safe.

  Teddy looked at the safe and smiled.

  “That’s why I keep it in there.”

  “You’re not going to use it?”

  “If I need it, then I will use it,” he said. “Otherwise, it stays in there.”

  And what if I need it?

  “If I had as much money as Birch, you think I would be corrupt?”

  “Yes,” Teddy said. “I mean no disrespect, Lincoln. It corrupts all. Do you see how quickly I put it in this vault? If I allowed myself to use it freely, I would surely be a different man.”

  “You really believe that?” Lincoln turned back to his work. “I would be able to control it. I know its value.”

  “Maybe,” Teddy said, returning to the front. “Money and power tend to act like the natural world - one moment we have dominion over it, the next moment sees our crops turned to frost, or a plague taking our loved ones. I don’t like that risk.”

  By the time Lincoln had gone through half the box, Teddy called goodnight and left the shop. Lincoln held one of the revolvers up with both hands on the grip, peering down the small sight. In those few hours he’d already become so accustomed to the feel and weight of them that they felt like natural extensions of his body.

  Lincoln left the shop shortly after. It was already dark. He found Coda on her belly, fast asleep. He patted her gently. Her eyes snapped open and she lifted her head, snorting as if the smell would remind her where she was. Her deep black eyes blinked and she stood up, now fully alert. Lincoln clambered on lazily and they rode away.

  He was tired from the full day and wished he could rest while Coda took them home. Instead, he focused on the sparkling street - iced stone that reflected back the light of the streetlamps. There was a small comfort in knowing who lit those lights. Perhaps a dose of pride as well. Lincoln smiled and tipped his hat to a passing lamp.

  Coda stepped over a sleeping drunk. Though the ground was frozen, the air felt slightly warm. The fog was coming on. It often appeared at this time of night during the winter. Lincoln suddenly pulled on the reins, halting his horse. Wait. He looked behind him.

  The sleeping drunk.

  Is he sleeping?

  Lincoln urged Coda backwards. She obliged, stepping slowly and trusting her master.

  Or is he dead?

  They stopped in front of the laying man. He looked wet. Either from the humid air or, more likely, an excess of beer and sweat. Lincoln dropped down from the horse and knelt by the man. He placed a hand in front of his open mouth.

  No breathing.

  He placed a hand on his wrist and the other on his chest.

  No pulse.

  Lincoln looked into the man’s eyes. They seemed closed from afar but were partly open. Well. Lincoln brought a hand back and slapped the man in the face. The sound echoed quietly through the street but the man didn’t wake. Dead. Lincoln held his breath and his eyes flicked down each direction of the street. No one was there to see him. Without another thought, he grabbed the body by the legs and dragged it into the nearest alley. He’d only done this once before.

  It worked then so it’ll work now.

  He whistled for Coda to come close and opened the side duffel. He took some rope from inside and quickly worked to tie the dead body so it was strapped tightly underneath the horse. She snorted and stamped her feet like she remembered the previous time they went through this ordeal.

  “It’s alright,” he whispered. “Just hold still.”

  Lincoln lay on his back and pushed the body up. He strained to hold the body and tie the rope at the same time. The man was heavy enough that Lincoln worried it might not work. His fingers became sweatier and the rope slipped out. The end of the rope lay a few feet away.

  He cursed and reached out for it. The body shifted off center from Lincoln’s balancing hand. The dead man dropped onto Lincoln, their heads knocking together.

  “Arghh…” Lincoln heaved the body back up, centering his hand on the man’s chest to balance him again. He grabbed the end of the rope and tried once more to tie the rope together. He slid the body from his hand to his forearms so he could finish tying the knot with both hands. One last exertion to push the body as tight as possible to Coda’s underbelly. Done. Lincoln breathed heavy and rolled out from between the horse’s legs. He pulled a thin blanket from the duffel and threw it over the saddle. It was just large enough to cover some of the body. If anyone looked at them from the front, they would clearly see a face, upside down, looking at them with his wet hair dangling down and mouth agape.

  Lincoln breathed again, and once more, before climbing back on.

  “Let’s bring him, “ Lincoln gasped, “to Donaghue.”

  He looked up to the skies.

  Hopefully he’s still taking these things.

  “I can’t take any bodies,” Donaghue said. “For god’s sake, did you drag him through the town like that?” He bent his head to see a hand on the ground, peeking out from the blanket.

  “Yes, Don,” Lincoln said. “Which is another great reason why I need you to please take him off my hands.”

  They were standing outside Donaghue’s home, which was really just the storeroom of the hospital. Don was in a light robe, hair tossed and spectacles crooked.

  “Lincoln,” he whispered, “my wife is in there. You have to leave now, there’s no more to say.”

  “You’re married?” Lincoln’s eyes went wide. “I just assumed - I mea
n you live in…”

  “Yes,” Don said, adjusting his glasses. “Times are tough for all of us. I can see that you’re just as desperate. I’d suggest finding a different way to make it work. I can’t risk it anymore with Jag watching and, hell, most of the town wouldn’t let me get away with it now. I’m sorry. Goodbye, Lincoln.”

  In an instant Lincoln faced a closed door and the faint sting of shame.

  I hate this town.

  Not often did Lincoln’s disgust for Dowerton extend to others but tonight, as he rode through the alleys, he couldn’t ignore that most folks were forced to do things they didn’t want to do. Whether they wanted to be good people or not, that’s what the town did to them.

  And I’m no different.

  Lincoln’s last resort was something even his father had avoided. There was a black market of sorts in Dowerton. Lincoln imagined that it wasn’t quite like the other towns. There just wasn’t enough money in circulation. People weren’t buying guns or even drugs, for the most part. This market was for the fatally desperate.

  Archaic totems to ward off spirits and questionable cure-all medicines could be found if you knew where to look. Lincoln thought it all to be fake. Nevertheless, they rarely lied about the ingredients. If something said it used a toad’s foot, it likely did.

  Or a human tongue, or the blood of a young boy….

  Coda stopped. Lincoln snapped out of his thoughts.

  Two sheep ran in front of them with a young boy and middle-aged man running after them. Lincoln quickly pulled Coda’s body away, turning so only their side could be seen. Lincoln hastily pulled the blanket down on that side, ensuring everything was covered. The man and boy paid no attention to him as they ran past.

  On Lincoln’s other side, however, was another boy, even younger. His hair was orange and seemed to go in every direction at once, all tangled up.

  The boy locked eyes with Lincoln, then his gaze drifted steadily down to Coda’s belly.

  Lincoln felt frozen in place, but managed to slowly lean over, looking below his horse. Sure enough, the same arm had slipped again. It almost touched the ground.

  The boy looked back up.

  “That’s like daddy when uncle Fred brings him home from the bar,” the boy said.

  Lincoln breathed out a sigh, adding a quick glance around for other witnesses. He kicked Coda back into a trot.

  “That’s right, boy,” Lincoln whispered as he went by. “Now go back inside.”

  The boy stayed there. “I have to wait for the sheep.”

  Lincoln breathed again, his nerves still settling down. They turned the corner, putting the boy out of view, and continued on. They skirted the edge of the town, taking a somewhat scattered route - one of Lincoln’s paranoid habits.

  They arrived at the black market’s hidden entrance. It sat in a large rocky hill between the forest and the town. While it was hidden, the black market wasn’t totally secret. Lincoln was sure that at least half of Dowerton’s officials, including Ford, knew about it. But everyone gets desperate now and then. And everyone is susceptible to supernatural promises of health and wealth when they get desperate enough. Jag Hill might be the biggest threat. Lincoln saw him as a purist - he wouldn’t engage or tolerate a source of such darkness.

  The entrance was a mossy, branch-covered cavern. It was covered well enough that it looked just like part of the rock face. Lincoln stopped Coda in front of the cave and quietly said the passphrase:

  “Death from above - our salvation below. All the wonders man can know.”

  The only reason he knew the location and passphrase for the black market was because of Darwin. Early on in their working relationship, Darwin had sent Lincoln to purchase several items - things that supposedly helped complete various tests on the cadavers.

  It took a minute but soon the branches were lifted away by the keeper inside. They always had at least one person at the entrance all day and night. It was a young woman this time, possibly just a teenager. She was thin and moved in small jolts. Lincoln tried to hide his surprise and coaxed Coda through. She kept her face turned away from him and quickly replaced the branches once he had passed.

  All the old ones must be dying… Guess their products didn’t work out for them.

  The cave was lined with torches, though they were spaced so far apart that pure darkness was present at regular intervals. It was as they passed through one of these dark spots that Lincoln began feeling more restricted. He felt a weight on his shoulders but nothing was there. Dealing with graves and burials on a frequent basis made Lincoln intensely sensitive to feelings of confinement. Walking deeper and deeper into a dark cavern was one of those times.

  Eventually the cave led to a door. That door opened into a basement. Lincoln didn’t know which building stood above the basement and no one was meant to. The door going up was locked from the other side. Lincoln left Coda with a few other horses outside the door and walked in. He felt naked leaving the body alone under Coda but he couldn’t just drag it in and expect them to take it. He had to be more careful now.

  The basement interior was just as badly lit as the cave passage. A half-dozen vendors lined the walls and corners, each with their own lamps. A few of them had tents they likely slept in every night. Others had only a small stool and sack of their products. Some areas had curtains for buying privacy but most of the area was open. A desk occupied the middle of the room, shrouded in darkness. A man stood behind it, mostly covered in armor. That was the Watchdog, the overseer and manager of disputes.

  Lincoln peeked back at the doorway, over his shoulder, to see two armed guards standing watch. Kind of impressive for a Dowerton civilian operation. No doubt a necessity, though.

  He went directly to the desk in the center and leaned in close to the armored man.

  “I’ve got a body,” Lincoln said.

  The man kept his eyes floating around the room as he asked, “Where is it?”

  “Right outside.” Lincoln nodded his head toward the door.

  The man came around the desk and started walking towards the entrance. Lincoln followed. He felt a dozen pairs of eyes on them as they made the short walk from the desk to the door. He was starting to regret coming here. How many of these people might want to report me? It was unlikely, as they’d have to admit to participating in the black market. But still….

  As the Watchdog opened the door, he tapped one of the guards on the shoulder and signaled for him to follow.

  They came out into the cavern and Lincoln pushed past them.

  “Where?” The Watchdog asked, looking around the horses. He tensed and reached for his blade. “Better not be a trick.”

  Lincoln rushed to Coda. “Calm down. It’s right here.” He lifted the saddle up so he could pull the blanket out, revealing the dead body. He unwrapped and untied the rope as quickly as he could, letting the body flop onto the cold ground.

  The Watchdog laughed.

  “Not even a bodybag. And right under your horse,” he said. “You’re a nutter. I’ll give you twenty for the dumb luck you needed to get it here.”

  “No way.” Lincoln looked disgusted. “It’s worth thirty.”

  “And now it’s worth eighteen,” the Watchdog said, motioning for the guard to take the body. “Clearly you want this money bad enough to risk your life. For that alone, I’m not going any higher.”

  Lincoln had already spent all his energy getting here.

  “Fine,” he said. “Eighteen it is.”

  The Watchdog procured a pouch of coins and counted them out onto Lincoln’s outstretched palm.

  The tired resurrectionist went home.

  Lincoln stood in the market - the normal market this time - eying all the items with a deep hunger. He was hungry from his stomach and his soul. He looked down at the five coins he allowed himself to spend today. The greatest mathematician alive couldn’t solve this equation.

  Roughly a dozen market stands lined Piper Street. The sun was bright, even through the
thin, overcast sky. It was a nice day. When Lincoln looked up it wasn’t just a grey mass that he saw. It was more of a really, really light blue-tinted grey mass. He looked back down to find what meat was still around. The fishmongers were always full but Lincoln was tired of fish. Everyone was tired of fish.

  He spotted a couple rabbits hanging on a line and made a beeline for them.

  “How much for the rabbit?” he asked the vendor, a whiskered man with a drooping face.

  “Five,” the man answered, his dead eyes drifting around Lincoln’s face.

  “No, I just need one.”

  “Yeh, five for one, I said.” The man’s eyes stopped drifting and settled on the coins in Lincoln’s hand.

  Lincoln groaned. “Is there a reason for that price?”

  “Cause I said it.”

  Lincoln turned away. “Never mind.”

  He resigned himself to buying the usual potatoes, bread, and two small fish. Lincoln left the market for the stables, carrying the meager haul in a small, cloth sack.

  He rounded a corner to find that a small crowd had gathered. They encircled a man on a platform. It was Jag Hill, the man running against the current mayor. He had a towering presence, only aided by the raised platform. But his soft voice and even temperament betrayed his statuesque physique. Lincoln kept walking but left one ear open.

  “...and in that darkness there is only more darkness.” Mr. Hill said. “I may not be the perfect man to fight this battle, but if it must be me then I will put my soul into it.”