Hey there, Ramblers! It's a super-rare DOUBLE OCTOBER UPDATE!
This post is for showing off the intro to my NEW urban -fantasy pulp novel, "Spirits of the Charles," which--if everything goes right, fingers crossed!--should be available in early 2018 on Amazon Kindle! Hope you enjoy, and feel free to repost if you like what you see so far! There's 200 more pages where this came from, and of course, any commentary / criticism is welcome.
Follow me at @gaslightrambler on Twitter , for future updates on the status of the novel!
Prelude
In 1867, Florence Nightingale built the first emotional distillers, hoping to “drain” excess feelings from shattered veterans of the Crimean War.
It didn’t work.
But Florence and her assistants had stumbled on something unnatural: the process while useless to the veterans and dangerous to the soul, produced a new substance unknown to mankind—and to the laws of physics. It was an impossible, non-Newtonian liquid, beautiful and strange. It was the essence of human feeling, condensed into physical form. It was revolutionary.
It was also easy to make, and highly addictive.
The secret to its production spread across Europe, and into America. Certain runes from an old Roman cult circulated in the blackmarket. Distilleries churned to life, condensing ‘Draughts’ in great numbers. By the turn of the century, condensed emotions had replaced alcohol as the United States’ drug of choice, and new, exotic varieties proliferated everywhere.
The Great War arrived, slaughtered a generation, and went. Soldiers quaffed from flasks of Rage during Verdun; the survivors found Joy more to their liking, and drowned themselves in it. New Year’s Eve 1918, was toasted with champagne flutes of Hope and Nostalgia, mixed with bubbling champagne.
By this time, the mutations caused by Draughts were well-known—but America drank them anyway. Breweries claimed these effects were temporary. The fact that the brewers had no idea what they were selling, or even how it worked, didn’t stop people from buying. New Draught companies were cropping up every day, breeding fear and panic in small communities worried about temperance. It was as if the Devil himself had arrived in person to corrupt them. Not only were young people dancing to the blues and smoking, now they were literally changing, warping into living Myths. Sometimes, they didn’t change back.
The fear gathered momentum. Marches were held, distillers dragged into the streets and beaten. In response to this unstable market, the Draughts grew more powerful, more unpredictable. Myths were now a frequent sight. Wives no longer recognized husbands; preachers rejected their flocks. People drunk on Lust grew horns, or indulged in Love and became smothering cherubs, complete with wings. It was a theological crisis. Something needed to be done, before the country tore itself to pieces. The debate rose through ranks of power, and in the face of the strangeness devouring their nation, Congress finally took action.
In 1919, the Volstead Act passed, making the selling of Draughts illegal. Prohibition was now the law, but it wasn’t enough.
The party of mankind’s demise had just begun.
June 29th, 1926
It had been a morning just like this, Rose Sweetwater thought, the day they’d burned her town to the ground.
The morning dew rose off the fields in a slow, hazy mist. The chill of pre-dawn was full of sleepy birdsong, and the chitter of insects. The damp quiet hung close around her, numbing her nose. Today she’d risen full of fading dreams and scraps of nightmare; bad memories, Southern memories. Luckily, she had a fresh gig to distract her. She’d shined her shoes and donned her mechanic’s cap, rising earlier than the rest of Boston to do the city’s dirty work. The work better people, respectable people, left to people like her.
Mood-legging work.
At least it was predictable… usually. Cash changed hands, booze rattled in hidden compartments and glowed with infused emotional essence. Today was just a trade-off like any other—a shivering, cold dawn, and a quiet back-roads deal with scumbags and criminals. At least it’s a paycheck.
Standing on a misty country road, she checked the safety on her Mauser for the hundredth time. She’d never fired it, and hoped she’d never have to. Contrary to what mosts folks thought, Draught-running wasn’t usually a violent business—unless somebody screwed up.
The safety was still on. Slipping of the stubby gun back into her overalls, she bounced on her heels, boyish frame too energetic for all this standing and waiting. She and Gus Henderson were standing on the edge of dense, overgrown woods and fields, listening for the sound of their supplier.
“They’re late,” she said, glancing at Gus. His craggy, sideburned face was bent over a few baseball cards, assessing their value. He was a big half-Myth with burly shoulders, ugly as sin but mostly loyal. As long as someone else wasn’t paying better, today.
“They’re always late,” he said, his voice a gentle growl.
“Today’s a bad day for that.”
“Every day’s a bad day in this business. Just stay loose.” He shuffled the cards, and tucked them in his shirt pocket. A racketeer and shyster, he would probably sell them at inflated prices later—the Greed he drank daily made him good at such schemes. It also made him hideous, but she could deal with that.
In silence, they both glanced at the milk truck behind them. The glass jugs stood empty, coated in white paint. They’d rented the truck from Watertown Dairy, for camouflage, but it was a shoddy disguise. Liquid Grief was purple, not white, and once they filled the bottles anyone who checked would be able to see through the ruse.
She brushed a coil of hair out of her eyes, watching the quiet country road ahead. Gus was lighting another cigar, despite the fact it had to be barely five in the morning, and the click of his cigar-cutter was deafening in the quiet.
She wrinkled her nose at the fungal smoke. “Those things will kill you, Gus. You ought to quit.”
His pebbly, distorted face bunched into folds as he smiled, and razor teeth glimmered in his mouth. “Faster than stomach cancer? Good.” He drew in a heavy breath and exhaled, clouding the verdant back-road with grayish blue smog. “It’s my guts, not my lungs I’m concerned for. Let the stogies have ‘em.”
She shrugged.
They were a strange a pair: a lithe black girl wearing bricklayer’s coveralls, and a man who looked like a cross between a gator and a rugby player. It was a wonder they’d even landed this gig, looking like they did, but their reputation had been enough to edge out the competition. Rose was the best getaway driver in Massachusetts, and Gus refused to do jobs without her—and he was the biggest bundle of muscle money could buy, south of Concord. So here they were.
She stuck a toothpick between her front teeth. Her left pocket was full of them, and in the right one she had mint leaves. Rose was very serious about hygiene. “Damn Fomeroys are probably sleeping off a drunk.”
“They’ll come.” Gus spat into a ditch, the saliva sizzling on impact. “Maybe not sober, but they’ll come.”
“Sounds like you’re right.” The rattle of a car engine boomed through the birch trees, coming closer. She smelled the exhaust before she saw their truck: a thick, vile stench, almost as bad as the Fomeroys themselves.
This tract of woods was not well-settled. The ground was full of stones, bad for farming. A long time ago, a bunch of moonshiners had settled here, populating the dense pines of western Massachusetts. This family had somehow gotten ahold of an emotional distiller—nobody knew how they’d done it. Overnight they’d become the biggest supplier of knockoff Draughts in the state. Those who couldn’t afford to smuggle from New Hampshire or past the Coast Guard had to go through the Fomeroy clan, and it wasn’t an easy process. The Fomerys had gone a little… funny, living out here and brewing Draughts.
The supplier’ rickety pickup swerved up, its wooden slat-bed shedding old chicken feathers all over the road. She saw Gus reach for his Winchester, in the back of the milk truck—the pickup was coming on fast, too fast. She stood firm, though, and the squeal of corroded brakes sounded as the Fomeroys stopped just inches away. The driver’s door swung open.
“You’re late,” she said.
Dick Fomeroy, the eldest, hopped down from the cab with an unsteady wobble. He was a thick-set man, with long arms and beetle-brows, a ragged derby hat clinging to his head. His eyes wandered, watery and distracted. He stumbled to the back of the truck and began unloading a cargo of covered buckets.
“We can be as late as we like,” Edgar Fomeroy, the younger, clambered out the passenger side. He was a gangly youth with an excess of pimples—and an excess of temper. “We gots a monopoly.”
“Yeah? Good for you. Now give us the merchandise.”
His lip curled. “Bossy. Brownie like you oughta to know better.” His shirt and overalls bulged and shifted—full of mutations, the result of mixing Draughts with shoddy equipment, and no expertise. Skin contact wasn’t usually enough to Mythify someone, but the Fomeroys were so sloppy they’d turned themselves into freaks just brewing their product.
“You oughta do your job,” growled Gus, moving up to stand by Rose. He towered over both of them, six feet and change of ex-boxer. “Or do you need some reminders?”
“Alright, alright. Keep your shirt on.” Edgar joined his brother, pulling a hand-beaten copper funnel from the cab. They took the milk bottles Gus offered, and set them up in a line. “Damn big-city palooka.”
They backed off as the brothers did their work, wrapping kerchiefs over their mouths.
“Thanks,” said Rose. “I hate working with these two.” The brothers had begun pouring streams of Grief down the funnel and into the counterfeit milk bottles. “I don’t know which is worse-their attitude, or the smell.”
“Definitely the smell.” Gus stayed close to the Winchester, watching the moonshiners with reptilian eyes. “Maybe it’s the Greed talking, but do our boys seem weirder than usual today?”
“Yeah. That takes doing.” The Fomeroys were muttering under their breath to each other, and the stench of the Grief—like a mix of licorice and seawater—washed over them. The hairs on Rose’s neck began to rise. She’d had that feeling right before the riots in Florida: that creeping, crawling sensation that something was wrong. It seemed to come from everywhere, triggered by a change in the wind, a distant sound… something on the edge of her perception. A far-off rumble reached her, through the placid trees.
“Someone’s coming.”
“I hear ‘em.” Gus held his rifle in the crook of his arm, shouting at the Fomeroys. “You two! Hurry it up!”
“Can’t rush this,” said Dick, muffled under his handkerchief. “It’s a delicate art.”
“He’s right,” Eddie said. “Spill this stuff, and your payment disappears. Betcha Mr. Wallace won’t be pleased with that.”
Rose winced at the mention of her employer. Frank Wallace was a brutal Irish thug, whose brothers had promised her and Gus solid payment for land-shipped Draughts.. The Wallaces were con men and murderers… but they paid.
She had no love for Frank or the “boys,” but she needed this money--badly. And so did Gus. “Screw the payment. Hurry this up, or we’ll give you a reason to hurry.”
The Fomeroys looked at her… and kept pouring at the same speed. They knew she was no bruiser, and were calling her blugg. But she could put on a mean poker-face, and the gun looked serious enough. She pulled the Mauser, The brothers glanced at her pistol, nodded… and kept on pouring at the same snail’s pace.
Gus growled deep in his throat. “Engine’s getting closer.”
“Engines, plural. There’s more than one.” Rose covered her mouth and nose; the fumes from the Grief were making her sleepy. Depressed. “Wait a second. That stuff is gray!”
“So?” Ed said, defensive. But his eyes shifted to Jack for a moment, and back.
“Grief is purple, you backwoods sunsabitches,” said Henderson. “That stuff’s Misery, not Grief! What are you trying to pull?”
“Our Grief is always gray,” said Ed. “It’s just how the batch comes out!” But he stopped pouring, and so had Dick. They seemed frozen, lacking even the creativity for fresh lies.
“It’s a play,” said Rose. The pieces snapped into place so quickly she felt stupid for not seeing it. “Gus, they’re selling to someone else. Someone paid them to meet us here—knock off the competition.” Her throat went dry as the roar of the approaching cars drowned out her voice. “This is an ambush.”
The Fomeroys didn’t bother with deception, instead bolting for their truck. Rose could see Edgar tugging a pistol from his pocket as he went. Her partner raised his rifle, and put a round through the fender of their car. The booming crack of the gun hammered her, and she bolted for the milk truck.
Gus was furious. “Get back here! Lying shit-heads!”
“Gus, leave ‘em! We gotta scoot!” She cranked the starter handle on the front of their truck—too quickly. It leapt from her fingers, swinging around and bashing her hand. Her knuckles went numb and she bit back profanity.
“Two-timing finks!” Gus followed her as Ed steadied his corroded revolver on the pickup’s steering wheel, firing wild. The gunshots rattled her, threatened to stun her to inaction; instead, she grabbed the starter and shoved it again. Every second of delay put them closer to death—the Fomeroys couldn’t shoot for shit, but whoever was coming down that road probably could.
At last the old milk truck stuttered to life; she leapt behind the wheel as a bullet whizzed through the canopy, leaving behind a shaft of dawn-light. “Got it! Let’s go!”
“I needed that cash!” But he jumped in the passenger side as the Fomeroys went into reverse and pulled away, still firing.
“Now’s not the time!” She jerked the truck to forward-gear just as two big Ford cars came roaring down the road—one from each direction. It was a smart move: the milk truck was positioned at a bend in the road. There would be no cross-fire.
The incoming cars swerved and stopped, forming a blockade. Men piled out—men in thick polo coats, faces grim. From beneath their coats they produced an assortment of firearms. She saw Colt pistols, Springfields, and even a massive Browning chopper, its drum pregnant with murder. Fear twisted her insides as they drove towards one of the firing squads; the eyes of these men were steel. They had done this many times.
They were eighty feet out from the guns on the long, dusty road. Rose pressed the gas.
“Those are Family cars!” Gus chambered new rounds into the Winchester, slapping the barrel on a side mirror and squinting down the iron sights. “We hit the Family, we’re a target—”
Sixty feet. “We’re already a target! Shoot, goddammit!”
Gus levelled his rifle, and there was a fruitless clicking sound. “It’s jammed! Cover me!”
Thirty feet.
Rose leaned out the window, pistol ready, and froze. The blank faces ahead of her were fearless and hateful, but she’d seen what bullets did to people. Back in Florida, she’d seen bodies turned chunks, human lives reduced to meat. The memories were visceral and stamped on her mind so firmly for a moment it was all she could see. Then reality snapped back to her. She shoved her weapon at Gus. “Use mine—I’ve got the wheel!”
Gus took the gun, leaned out the passenger side and started shooting. He was a former army grunt, and unlike her, he had no trouble unleashing lethal force. The men stood firm, even as windshields exploded and one of them went down hard, a bullet leaving a hole in his long coat. Rose felt sick, but there was no time to react—she had to swerve to avoid return-fire, the noise of it washing away everything but her terror.
She wasn’t sure if God was on her side, but somebody must have been watching, because her final swerve took them around the Family, riding two wheels and sending assassins diving for cover. The wheels slammed down, engine whining—and then they were clear.
She hunkered low and winced as Browning rounds peppered the truck, shattering milk-bottles and tearing through the chassis. She heard Henderson roar with pain, and blood spattered the dashboard.
Oh dear Jesus—But they were rounding the bend now. The road was uneven and their truck jolted and rattled, threatening to pitch over, but they’d survived. She allowed herself to breathe again, trying to follow the road, searching for twists and turns to throw off pursuers. “Gus, you… you shot somebody.”
“We’re outlaws, Rose. Stuff like this happens.” He was clutching his shoulder; she couldn’t see how bad it was, and was too panicked to ask.
She swallowed, and sent up a quick prayer for the man’s soul. Somehow, she didn’t think he’d make it to heaven. “Think they’ll chase us?”
“Don’t think so. They already took a risk, shooting big irons off… Christ, that hurts.”
She looked over, horrified, to see his entire left shoulder was a mass of red. Blood soaked his shirt, seeping through his fingers.
“Gus! Are you—”
“I’m fine. Just need a shot of the dog’s whiskers.” He reached into the glove compartment and fumbled through trucking permits and fake identities. She heard him wheeze with agony; scaly or not, a bullet to the shoulder still hurt him. “Ah, there it is.” He plucked a brown bottle of Greed from under the papers, its contents yellow and viscous.
Despite her panic, she was disgusted. “Gus. You promised you wouldn’t drink that stuff on the job.”
“Bitch me out when I’m done bleeding, okay?” He unscrewed the cap and chugged the last of it, tossing it out the window. “Ah … That’s the good shit.”
She watched as his greasy hair sprouted golden spines, fingers extending. His face grew longer, shrewder, and more reptilian. It made her stomach turn, but it had the desired effect: his new mutations slowed the bleeding, bronze scales growing over his wound. He tore off a sleeve from his shirt, tying it over his shoulder. “See?” He belched. “All better.”
Rose gripped the wheel in frustrated silence. She relied on him to get them through scrapes like this one, but it was hard to trust a man who was half-drunk all the time. And his looks didn’t make him easier to work with: his scales and claws had been caused by a batch of bad Greed years ago, and every drop of the stuff he took seemed to make it worse. Most times he was tolerable, if sullen, but the Draughts blurred his judgment even while they kept him alive. Then he began to talk, voice a little deeper and scratchier than before. She knew what it would be about, before he opened his mouth: he always returned to his favorite subject, after a drink. Money.
“You ever think about hitting Providence?”
She shrugged. “We just got shot at. I’m not thinking about anything.”
He ignored her. “We should hit Providence sometime. I hear they got a king’s ransom coming in down there. We’d be made with a slice of that… just made.” His voice was silky with the rush of Greed.
She sighed. “Yeah. I’ve thought about it. I’ve also thought about staying alive.” She sighed. “Get your blood off the dashboard. I don’t want to end up in the slammer when a cop sees your guts all over the place.”
“Sure. Say, you got a dollar? I could really use a dollar."
Still shaking, Rose rolled her eyes and thanked God for letting them live. Then she gave him a dollar.
He dabbed at his own fresh blood with it, then held it up to the light. The sun shone through it, stripes of light dancing over Washington’s blood-soaked face. “There he is. The big cheese.”
“You owe me a buck.”
“Add it to my tab, honey.”
“Call me that again, and I’ll put another hole in you. Maybe two.”
He pocketed the money. Her jibes seemed to sober him up; he was a rascal, but he still had priorities. “Alright, alright. Keep your bloomers on… and get us back into town. We need to tell Wallace about our little problem, back there.”
Their little bootleg truck rolled east.
