Tall Owen’s goons were having none of our nonsense; me cracked tooth testified to their absolute lack of subtlety. Me tongue kept finding the pointed edge of it.
I flexed me arms against the ropes tying me to the chair.
“Would you quit it,” Andres muttered, the disrespectful whelp. “You’re squeezing the hell outta me.”
The ropes not only held me in place on the chair, they also strapped me back-to-back with me glorious boy.
“I’ve been saying we needed more father-son bonding time, haven’t I?” I bounced me head off Andres’. “This is nice, innit?”
“You stink, old man.” Andres pulled away from me. “Get yer head offa me. Keep your lice to yourself.”
Goon One—the biggun—gave me a backhand across the face. His first must have taken some of the piss outta him; this blow barely split me lip.
“Shut yer trap,” he said, shaking the pain out of his knuckles. I got a sharp jaw. It’s possible he cut himself on it.
“He was the last one—” I paused to spit a gob of bloody phlegm on the straw-covered dirt,”—ta talk! Why’d ya hit me?”
“You must have one of ’em punchable faces, Pa,” said Andres.
Dust floated down from the hayloft of the stable in which they held us captive. This waystation commandeered by these three degenerates. As a result, an honest man lay in the lodge up the hill with about two dozen holes in his gut and a second, wider mouth in his neck.
This was supposed to be our waystation. Our ambush. Get the drop on Tall Owen. Get the gold and skedaddle. Close enough to the Great Barrier to hear the innumerable ambos moaning. Near close enough to hear the flesh sloughing from their bodies as they decomposed. Falling apart as something in their head kept them ticking. Shambling, rasping, eating.
We thought keeping an eye on the ambos and keeping an eye on Tall Owen was enough. Turned out, we weren’t the only ones planning a double cross.
Goon Two—the weasel-looking fool—sat on an old milking stool and eyed us.
“These the McCorry Boys?” He eyed me, likely taking in me weathered mug, the distinguished look me wrinkles lent me. “He’s not a boy.”
I winked at him.
“I’m not a McCorry,” protested Andres, light of me life. “I’m not even Irish.”
“Your real da was Irish,” I said.
“I’m American.” He rolled a shoulder at me, nudging me against me ties. “Don’t lump me in with him. Look at him, red as a wax seal!”
“Your da was redder’n me, that no good son of a bitch.”
Weasel Goon leaned closer, smiling like someone who’d been given the ol’ double barrel from a mule. Looking kind of like an ambo, actually. Brainless.
“Your real name ‘Corey McCorry’?” he asked.
“’tis,” replied I.
“Why?”
“Me ma was either uncreative or thought herself terribly clever, I reckon.”
“Which was it?”
I shrugged. “She died before I was old enough to ask. Before I was old enough to ask for more than the tit, tell ya the truth.”
“Just kill ’em and get it over with,” said Goon Three—Lady Goon, less of a goon than t’other two. She with the ornate pistols, them with the roses and the mahogany grips.
“We got time,” said Weasel Goon, “Owen won’t get here till sundown.”
“Won’t get here at all,” said Huge Goon, chuckling.
“So kill ’em and let’s get going.” Lady Goon played with the hammer of one of them pistols, anxious to use it. “You let ’em jaw, they’ll jaw all day. We’ll be surrounded in ambos and won’t hear their moans through their jawin’.”
“We need to know how they plan to get Owen through the Great Barrier,” said Weasel Goon.
Maybe he wasn’t as dumb as I thought. They wouldn’t be able to do much with the shipment on this side of the Great Barrier. All that gold don’t get you nothing in a desert. Spending was done on the other side of a three-mile-deep collection of ravenous ambos, eager to rip you to shreds if given the chance.
“Got my own plan,” said Lady Goon.
“Gonna cover yourself in ambo guts?” I asked.
“Oldest trick in the book,” said Andres.
“So long as you cover yourself,” said I.
“All yourself.”
“Damn near lost his ma when he started wiping it from his face, the fool.”
“When was this?” Andres asked.
“You woulda been about nine months old. All paws.”
“Aw, you can’t blame me for that,” whined Andres, me precious boy. “Was just a babe.”
“Didn’t say I blame you,” said I. “Open your ears.”
“Hit him again,” said Lady Goon to the big fucker.
“As long as you don’t hit me boy,” said I. “He’s too pretty.”
“Quit calling me a boy,” said Andres. “I’m full grown, goddamnit.” He bounced against his bounds, rasping his hands against the frames of our chairs.
Huge Goon advanced, smiling. Apparently, the ache in his hand had faded. Miracle of miracles.
“What’s that smell?” inquired Weasel.
“Smells like horse shit,” said I, bracing against the coming blow.
“No,” said Lady. “Wait.”
Huge Goon stopped inches from me, hand cocked. Fingers curled into a fist. Floating in the air like the moon about to come down and squash me nose like a tomato.
“Something’s burning,” said Lady.
“Accurate,” said I, then rolled out of me chair.
The ropes fell away from us, burnt in twain from the match I had slipped Andres—I was never good at striking them things, and he liked to do it regardless.
That’s the trick with kids; you gotta let them do things for themselves. He was twenty-something, but I was his da, and it would be me job to learn him until I was ambo food.
Anyway, I rolled, slipping the knife from Huge Goon’s sheath on his hip. It was a decent-sized thing: seven or eight-inch fixed blade, handle made of ivory or something else equally hard, polished, and white. I would’ve taken more time to examine it, but time wasn’t on our side.
Tall Owen would be here in no time.
Huge Goon tracked me, but big fellas like that move slow. Wiry men like meself learn to be wily from just a pup. Even more so when you’re raised by nuns. Their hands may not be as heavy as this fella’s, but boy, do they sting.
Anyway, he tracked me, following me movement with his big, dumb eyes.
I rolled close by him, coming up with the point of his blade.
His mouth gawped open. Spread wide like that, it made for the perfect receptacle.
I returned his weapon with gusto.
The knife split his top lip, broke his front two teeth, and lodged in the roof of his mouth.
He made some sort of noise I couldn’t decipher. Something like, “Fantastic roll, fella; definitely worth the shoulder twinge you’ll suffer with tonight,” but with all the blood pouring out of his mouth, meaning was lost in translation.
“Thank you kindly,” said I, me own broken tooth making twins of us.
His mouth did a strange thing, the corners twitching. A smile. Perhaps a chuckle.
With me palm, I drove the knife the rest of the way in. The blade split his palette, dividing it like a halved apple. There was a crack of bone and a squish of brain. The tip of the knife poked through the bald spot on top of his head, mottled skin puckering up along the steel.
His eyelids twitched; I shuddered.
Blood poured out, coating me hand in hot stick. Dark stuff, nearly black in the faded lantern light.
Something in the room popped. A furrow appeared in me forearm.
“Bloody hell,” articulated I, performing another of me patented rolls. It took me behind a cage that—by the smell of it—previously housed chickens. The mesh provided little cover from Lady Goon’s bullets.
“Son!”
“Occupied,” said he, wrestling with Weasel, who had a knife of his own. Weasel straddled me boy and was pressing his blade slowly down as Andres did his best to keep its tip from slipping into his eye.
Lady shot at me again, hitting a bar of the chicken cage and driving it into me torso.
“Have it, then!” I gripped the cage, spun like a hammer thrower, and chucked it in her direction.
Lady ducked around it and held both guns out.
Now, she may have been a good shot with one pistol, but any shooter worth their salt would never wield two at the same time. Accuracy drops like bison run off a cliff. Even “Cat” Carlberg could only get one from each barrel to hit targets. After those two shots, they went wild as a rabid coyote.
Lady sidestepped along the wall, blasting irons in me direction.
I moved in what some folks might call a scurry. Some high-pitched sounds may have come from me mouth.
The bullets impacted along the wall behind me, shooting through the worn, wooden boards. Chips rained down, getting in me hair, splinters in me cheeks.
She ran empty and took a box of bullets from her pocket. In front of a tack room, she began to reload with devilish speed.
It was now or never. If I didn’t make a move, she’d have twelve more opportunities to plug me and me boy—if Weasel hadn’t done him in first.
“Pa,” cried Andres.
Did I provide me boy aid, or did I charge that warrior woman with designs on me life?
Andres or meself?
The decision made itself.
A female ambo came out of the darkness behind Lady. She ambled along casually, true to her name. Her hair hung in dank locks, surrounding her face. Skin dirty, sharp teeth bared. Smelled downright awful. Like she had old, rotten bananas beneath her dress.
Strangely, she didn’t moan like they usually do.
Lady heard the steps too late; she spun, gun raised. She didn’t have time to pull her trigger.
The ambo was on her, pinning Lady’s arms to her side. She sunk her teeth into Lady’s throat, gnawing at it rapidly. Teeth finding Lady’s artery and pulling it like a banjo string, dripping from the pulpy mess.
The ambo chomped; blood burst from Lady’s piping.
Lady’s guns fell to the ground. Nice pieces. We were lucky for the hay-covered floor. Wouldn’t want to damage such quality irons.
The ambo pulled her down and into the darkness of the tack room.
I hustled over, grabbed a pistol, raised it, carefully aimed, took a deep breath.
Pulled the trigger.
Me bullet took Weasel in the lung. Large caliber—fella was completely thrown off me boy. He landed crumpled against a wall.
We waited in the ringing silence. Was he dead?
Weasel gave a mighty wheeze like shaken dice. Blood bubbled through the hole in his shirt, foaming up and staining the fabric. Not dead.
Andres sat up, Weasel’s knife in hand, breathing heavy. Blood dripped from where he had gripped the blade.
“Gonna finish him off?” he asked me.
“Your generation,” I grumbled, stomping out the smoldering ropes before they could light the whole place up. “Took care of mine, didn’t I? That one’s yours.”
Always looking to learn him a lesson. Da of the year.
“Gimme a gun,” said he.
“And waste a bullet? Got a knife, don’t you?”
He groaned, sounding like an ambo himself.
“One for me,” said I, “One for you…”
I closed the door to the tack room.
“One for her.”
Behind me, Weasel gave a watery gasp as me son opened his throat.
“Gimme one a those,” Andres said. He held a hand out, palm up.
“I don’t think so, lad. Weasel over there has iron.”
“Pea shooter.” Andres spat. “Rusted. Likely blow up in my hand.”
We had cleaned up the bodies. Tossed ‘em in one of the stalls. Woulda fed ‘em to the hogs outside, but someone had slaughtered the beasts. Ambos, possibly. Who knew?
“You owe me,” said Andres. Not whining, but close enough.
“Don’t owe you jack shit, me boy,” said I. “I’m your elder.”
“You used my rifle to bash in the head of that ambo back in Wyoming!”
“That ambo would’ve torn your throat out!” Leave it to me son to display new depths for his lack of gratitude.
“You could have shot it! You didn’t have to bust it over the monster’s head.”
“You know I’m lousy with a long gun.”
Andres gave me a long look. Boy looked disappointed in me. As if he knew I would do this. Hold out on him. As if he knew better than to ask.
Killed me to get that look. No parent has the formula. How much to give, how much to take. When to strike and when to soothe. Raising kids is a delicate thing, double so when the spawn didn’t burst from your own loins.
“We’ll share, all right?” I spun the pistol on a finger, holding it by the barrel. The rose on the grip bloomed lovely. Asking to be held. I sighed. “One for you, one for me. Serendipity, eh?”
Andres took the pistol. He examined it, hefting it in his hand. “Bullets?”
“Didn’t know it was empty.”
“Like Hell,” said me kid. “Lighter’n a tin can.”
I gave him the box of ammo. “Don’t go wasting these. We gotta make ‘em last. Ain’t a lot.”
“Don’t know why you’re teasin’,” said he, loading the chambers, lip stuck out like a grumpy toddler. “Gonna need to be armed if we’re going to do this right.”
Outside, a wagon drew up. Its wheels creaked.
“You know the signal?” said I, hushed.
“Yeah, yeah,” said Andres. “Same as always.”
Something slithered out from the canvas covering it, rustling the fabric. Big feet landing in the dirt.
“Tall Owen,” said Andres.
“Shhh.”
The door to the barn slid open, morning light blasting red over the dirty ground. We stood before Tall Owen like performers on a stage.
“The McCorry Boys,” said she, hat pulled low over her ears. Cassie Owen tipped it back, getting a better view of us. She wouldn’t have to stoop to come in, but she would be able to easily reach up and give the top sill of the barndoor a hearty whap.
Biggest woman I’d ever seen. Broader shoulders than me own.
“At your service,” said I, “despite the intentions of your friends.”
“Ah, I figured they were up to something,” said Tall Owen, spitting in the dirt and stepping into the barn. Her spurs rattled with each step, swagger unlike anything else. She stepped up to the stall in the corner and looked in. “Only two in there. Where’s Tessa-Jane?”
“That the lady?” asked Andres.
“Ever met a man named ‘Tessa-Jane’?” I slapped me kid in the back of the head. “Follow the trail of blood,” I told Tall Owen. “Ambo food.”
The trail led to a puddle. Not a shallow one, either. Tessa-Jane must have been emptier than a bottle of whiskey in me da’s possession.
“Speaking of food,” said Tall Owen, smiling. “You’ve put on some padding since we last met. I must be paying you well.”
Andres laughed.
I slapped him again.
“Pa,” growled he.
“Insolence is unbecoming on ye,” said I out of the corner of me mouth.
The double cross was coming. We had to be on our best behavior. Tall Owen was a tough woman to fool.
“Could have picked a better meeting place.” She turned away, hiking her belt up on her waist. “Dozen dead hogs outside. Smells terrible.”
Me heart raced. I licked me dry lips. “Sun’s looking stupendous,” said I, cocking me pistol.
Andres’ gun fired, me son always quick on the draw.
I grunted, his bullet taking me in the gut. Blood sprayed out in a dark jet.
“Good god,” said Tall Owen, drawing her own gun.
“Fucking hell,” said I.
Andres fired again. The caliber was high; this one took me straight on, pushing me back into the puddle of Tessa-Jane’s blood. Me boot slipped in it and I crashed against the door.
I tried to grab onto it to keep me upright, but only ended up opening it, falling to the ground anyway. Groaning, I rolled onto me side.
“Son?” I coughed. Dawn was damp; I felt her chill in me bones.
Andres panted, pointing his gun at me still.
“Fairly cold, shooting your pa like that,” said Tall Owen, keeping me boy at the business end of her pistol. “What were you thinking?”
“He ain’t my real pa,” said Andres, putting his gun away. “Besides, he was aiming to double cross you.” He took me gun while I watched dumbfounded. “Take the shipment for himself.”
“And you, boy,” said I, weakly. Blood poured all over me shirt, pants. Making a right mess of everything.
Andres looked at Tall Owen. He wiped at his eyes, but I didn’t see no tears.
Fairly cold? No, the boy had ice in his veins. Don’t rightfully know if I could take credit for that, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little proud.
“Owen,” called one of her goons. “Ambo swarm coming.”
“How big?” asked she.
“Fucking massive,” cried her goon. The horses were losing their shit outside. “We need to go now!”
“Shit.” Tall Owen turned to me boy, lowering her iron. “Can I trust you?”
“Just shot me da,” he said. “My pa,” he corrected himself.
“Not your real pa.” Owen narrowed her eyes at him. She pointed her chin at the knife on his belt. “Going to end his suffering?”
Something moved behind me.
“No,” said Andres, watching me. Not an ounce of regret in that look. “He’s got a little more suffering in his future.”
Dirty hands grabbed me pits. The female ambo that had taken Tessa-Jane leaned over me, roaring in me face. I squealed like one of ‘em dead hogs as she pulled me into the darkness.
“How many times have you gotten through?” asked Tall Owen.
She and Andres stood watching the Great Barrier. It should have been a few miles out. Far enough to feel safe if you fancied fooling yourself. Close enough where a casual stroll might carry their moans on a breeze.
Now, they were close enough to be deafening. Why hadn’t they heard them sooner? The low fog concealed their numbers. Made them shambling blurs of which there could be millions.
“Came up while I was taking a shit,” said one of her goons. The one on the ground, wiping his hands on the legs of his pants. Not as varied as the previous three, these two. Big and Big. Cauliflower ears, wide brimmed hats pulled atop them. Small, pinched faces.
The other sat astride a destrier, the horse thick all the way through. Eighteen hands, likely. Behind him, a vulture picked at the entrails spilling from the gut of a pig. A hefty sow, teats heavy with milk. If her piglets were around, they’d have to suckle at a corpse.
“We need to head out now,” said Big on the horse. “Pigs must be drawing them in.”
“How are you going to get us through?” said Tall Owen to Andres.
“There’s a canyon leads through ‘em,” Andres said, nervously eying the encroaching ambos. His pa would have known what to do.
“Where is it?” Tall Owen asked.
“Can’t tell ya,” said Andres.
Tall Owen pulled a revolver, put it against the side of Andres’ head.
“Bet you can.”
Andres shook his head. “You gotta lead them away from it. That’s why nobody can find it, usually. Covered unless you know where to look through the mass of ‘em.”
“We gotta go,” said Goon on the horse.
Tall Owen growled. An ambo broke from the swarm, lumbering ahead quick. Or at least quick for one of them things.
Tall Owen pointed the barrel of her gun like it was a finger and blew apart its head from twenty yards. The soft, decaying skull fell apart like a rotten gourd, skin falling from bone as if boiled.
“Nice shot, missus,” said the asshole on the ground. He was buttoning up his fly, focusing hard enough to make his brow a mess of wrinkles. His hands still shook.
A stray ambo came around the woodshed. Nastier than the ambo in the stable. Decomposing as it strolled, as animals took a bite here and there. Tendons in the ankle showing through. Milky white eyes and patchy hair. A man or a woman, unable to be identified by genital or breast as both had rotted away.
The goon screamed, turning and fumbling for a gun at his hip. The ambo came at him, teeth falling closed on his cheek. The unsecured pants fell down around his ankles and they both went down, the goon’s head bouncing off hard packed dirt.
Teeth pulled flesh from his face. His own gnashed together. A single gold molar gleamed neighborless on one side, a brown tooth on the other. Gritting against the pain as the ambo shoved a hand into the goon’s mouth.
Dirty nails clawed at his tongue. His throat. Carving runnels in the softness. Blood choked the man.
Tall Owen pointed the gun at the ambo, but decided against spending the bullet. The goon was lost.
Did Andres think about his dear ol’ Dad in that moment? Consider the man he had left behind? Carry just the slightest pang in his skinny midsection?
Doubtful.
Sweat coated Andres’ face and the rest of his body. There was no way he could get these two out. Not with the shipment of gold in the covered wagon.
“Leave it with me,” he said. “I can hunker down here. They can’t get in the hayloft.” He ran his hand through dark hair. “I can wait ‘em out. Couple days or so.”
“Take me for a fool,” asked Tall Owen. But, a usually stolid woman, she seemed nervous.
“You’re paying me to take risks,” said Andres. “No sense in you taking them if you don’t have to.”
“He’ll take the gold,” said the remaining goon.
“Fucking where?” Andres asked. He held his hands out, palms up. “Think I can get through all these?”
The swarm was coming closer; they were running out of time.
“Slide back,” Tall Owen ordered her man. She climbed aboard easily after he had made room. Her blond hair had fallen over her eyes. “I’ll have folks watching the barrier. Soon as it clears, I’m coming. Won’t give you time to make off with my carriage.”
“Horses won’t make it through the slaughter,” said Andres, loosing the two beasts from the harnesses that kept them burdened by their load. They took off in the opposite direction of the ambo swarm. “Now you know I won’t be taking off with it. Can’t rightly push that wagon on my own.”
Tall Owen’s destrier threatened to rear up, but a quick rap of her knuckles between its pinned back ears kept hooves down.
“Three days,” she said. “Or when the swarm clears. Whatever comes first.”
“I’ll see you then.”
She smiled at Andres. “Are you going to be okay in there?”
“Considerate of you,” said Andres, shuffling nervously on his feet. “Got enough food and drink for three days, easy. More if I conserve—”
“Not talking about rations, fool.” Tall Owen’s eyes flicked to the barn. “Your pa’s in there.”
A lonely Saguaro grew beside the trail leading past the waystation and into the horde of ambos. Its strong trunk supported multiple thick branches. Needles poked out at every angle.
Could it be jabbed by its own needle?
Andres looked at the swarm, then back at the barn. His throat made an audible click as he swallowed. He wiped the sweat from his brow.
“Whatever’s left of him,” said he, trying his best to look half the man his pa was.
Tall Owen took a long hard look at him. Not very confident in the twenty-something-year-old pup in charge of her shipment. McCorry Boy, singular. Likely writing off the gold in her mind.
Without a further word, her legs twitched and sent the destrier galloping away from the swarm of ambos.
All this—minus a teensy detail here or there I had to fill in—I got out of him.
Andres climbed into the hayloft then pulled the ladder up. Ambos couldn’t climb, but why take the risk? Smart.
Less smart of him to forget to check the corners of his new hideout.
From the shadows, I fell on him, wrapping me arms around his neck.
He screamed, fumbling for the gun at his hip.
“Looking for this, boyo?” I pushed him away and held it out, the barrel pointed at his chest.
Me boy looked back at me, fear making his eyes big as a barn owls. His shirt was soaked through with sweat.
“You smell like shit,” said I.
“You worse.” A little laugh slipped out of him. “But you got about three gallons of pigs blood on ya.”
I groaned, then tossed him his iron.
He caught it deftly. I taught him how to catch. Not the man who squirted him into Fernanda, but me. His real pa.
“Sooner your ma draws them away, sooner I get the fuck out of here and into a bath.” I stripped me shirt and tossed it over the edge of the hayloft. It floated down like Autumn’s first fallen leaf. “Did a good job drawing them here, didn’t she?”
“That mix is a miracle.” Me boy came over and passed me a pint of whiskey. He knew me so well. “How she made coyote piss, human hair, and moldy garlic smell like nothing astounds me.”
“That’s why we’re the McCorry boys and she’s the McCorry woman.” I tried to take a sip of the whiskey, but me ribs made me wince.
“You’ll grow up one day,” said me boy, precious angel, as I passed the pint back. We collapsed against a bale, legs sprawled before us. “Big fuckin’ bruise, that.”
“Big fuckin’ caliber, innit?” I looked down at me chest. Thing was purple most of the way around. Felt like a hornet’s nest, to boot. “Weasel’s pea-shooter wouldn’t leave me broken like this.”
“Barrel would’ve come off with the bullet had I used that piece of shit.” Andres took another swig. “Next time we’ll use more bibles.” He wrinkled his nose. “Less pig blood.”
“Next time it’ll be me taking the shot,” said I. “Thought you were gonna miss and take me head off.”
“Got no faith in me, old man.”
I looked at him, smiling.
“Nahhh,” said I snatching the whiskey back. I took a long drink, the fire heating up me bruised chest, then taking the original pain with its departure.
“Oi,” said Fernanda, her sweet voice drifting up from below us. “Toss down the ladder, won’t ya?”
“Jesus,” said me boy, crawling over to where he had laid it. “Got her talking like you now.”
“Don’t deny your heritage, boyo.” I laughed at him. “Your real da was Irish.”
He shook his head, sliding the ladder down to his mom.
“Yeah,” said he, shooting me a wink.
Fernanda climbed the ladder. The head of a ghastly ambo poked above the boards, hands on either side of the ladder.
“Got the horses tied out back,” she said, false ambo lips curled up in a smile. “As soon as you lads get them harnessed up again, we can make our way into town. Barrier is on Tall Owen’s trail. Moving like a storm cloud. Biggest swarm you’d ever seen.”
“Slipped some of your mix in her pocket when she had a gun to me head.” Andres smiled, then frowned. “My head. My head.”
“Got you all, don’t I?” I laughed hard, though it hurt me ribs to do so. “Don’t deny your heritage!”
“Goddamnit.” He strode hard toward the ladder. “C’mon Ma, let’s leave this old fool.” He gestured to the mud all over her, matted in her hair. The blood covering her lower jaw, staining her teeth pink. The terrifying last image that lady goon would have seen. “Couldn’t have washed up between your meal and grabbing those horses?”
“I think she’s stunning,” said I, admiring her disguise. Me grin displaying me newly broken tooth. “We might make use of this hayloft, yet.”
“Take the gold for myself,” said Andres, shivering.
Fernanda smiled, eyes flicking from our son to me, face dirty. “Gotta look my best for the McCorry Boys.”
| Christopher O’Halloran (he/him) is the factory-working, Canadian, actor-turned-author of Pushing Daisy, his upcoming debut novel from Lethe Press (2025). His shorter work has been published by NoSleep Podcast, Cosmic Horror Monthly, Brigid’s Gate, Dark Moon Books, and others. He is editor of the anthology, Howls from the Wreckage. Visit COauthor.ca for stories, reviews, and updates on upcoming novels. |  |