Treasure (complete story)

[Sholto]

Treasure

It was the real thing, alright. The Simon pure. The soulstone was dark and gleaming, like smoke trapped in amber, and it was the biggest one Garrett Franks had ever seen.

Sweat ran down his face and dripped from the end of his nose as he stared into the depths of the stone, the light of his candle faint across its dusty surface. He put his rusted pick down and pried it loose from the shale with eager fingers. About the length of his pinky and smooth as a river pebble, it was heavier than he’d expected, and felt soft and warm in his calloused hand.

He tapped it against his leg-irons for good luck, and was about to shout for Boss Perry when it suddenly occurred to Garrett Franks that he was alone in this seam. Boss Perry had gone back to the mulestop at East Shaft #3 to pick up the latest shave-tails fresh from the train and Garrett’s usual hobbler, Minton Cole, had been laying by the water barrel back by the tracks for the past hour or two, coughing up blood and worse like the old, dying lunger he was. He was all alone.

He twisted awkwardly, his bare back scraping painfully off the cramped walls and roof of the seam, and looked back down the tunnel. His broad shoulders blocked most of the light from the candle he dug by, but he could see nothing and no-one behind him. The thunder of the trucks trundling along the distant tracks, magnified by the throat-like tunnel to sound as if they were only a few short feet away, roared and echoed out of the darkness. The great whoosh-thump of the mighty steam pumps and air bellows at the even more distant shaft made the black rock dust dance and shiver in the clammy air. He was all alone.

He took the dust rag off his mouth and wiped the soulstone clean as best he could. Lord, but it was powerful pretty. He held the candle to it, and the steady flame sent ghosts of light chasing across its surface. Somewhere deep within, an image of the candle swam for a moment and then vanished, as if swallowed by the soulstone.

Garrett breathed slowly to clear his head – or as much as he could in the dead air of the mine. This was worth a fortune, this was, but it meant more than that.

Working quickly, his heart racing and his ears straining for the sound of Boss Perry returning, he ran his hands over the raw rock face.

There were men. Men on the outside. Men who they said could get anything into the mines – whiskey, backy, even whores – for a price. The free miners, the ones who didn’t owe themselves body and soul to the Company, put most of their coin in those men’s pockets.

His hand caught on a sharp piece of shale, as jagged and sharp as Boss Perry’s whip.

And if those men could get anything in...

He used the blunt tip of his pick to work the shard of shale free, glancing back over his shoulder every few seconds.

They could get anything out. Even a soulstone.

He tugged the piece of shale free and set his jaw.

They wouldn’t give him full price for it. No chance. But even five cents on the dollar would be more than enough to buy him his freedom from the Company, pay off his debts and set him up pretty in Malifaux itself. Set him up real pretty.

He just had to find a way to get this beautiful, beautiful soulstone past the usual searches. He paused for a moment, and kissed the stone. For luck.

With his right foot he jammed his left leg against the tunnel wall as hard as he could, started a low moan in his throat to stop him crying out unexpected like, and dug the shard of shale into his calf until it disappeared in a flood of blood.

Breathing in short gasps, he sawed the stone back and forward through his flesh. Blood made the shale slippery and he had to stop to adjust his grip before starting up again. He banged his head off the ceiling, once, twice, don’t stop now, don’t stop now, but Garrett was young and strong as an ox. He hit bone and nearly puked, and then he was done.

But he couldn’t rest. Not for a moment. He jammed the shale back into a niche in the rock face and picked up the soulstone with slick fingers. Just shoving it in the wound wouldn’t be enough; even if it didn’t fall out by itself they would still check the wound. No. One step left.

His pa had been a butcher back in Tucson, and when he wasn’t drinking, whoring or beating the tar out of Garrett, he’d shown the boy how steers and swine were put together, and how a man could make a living taking them apart. Garrett might never have amounted to much, Lord knew, but some things he remembered.

He had to find the layers of muscle in his calf, find the line between them and force it open, make a pocket. Only then would the soulstone be safely hidden. The sawbones would stitch up the wound without seeing it, and the men at the shaft would never notice a thing.

He bit down on the handle of the pick and sunk his fingers into the blood soaked wound in his leg. His jaw spasmed and he felt one or two teeth splinter, but that was nothing to the fire in his leg. The low moan in his throat was now a full-fledged roar, although he could barely hear it over the rumble of the carts.

This is just a pig, Garrett. Just a pig.

The roar turned into a strangled scream as his fingertips scraped at the already tortured flesh.

Not your leg. Just a pig. Not your-

But it wasn’t enough, not nearly, and he pulled his hand back out, raging at his own weakness, but then his pa was there, his fat, mean face big as the moon, and he was shouting, “It’s just a pig, you lackwit sack of grease,” and for the first and last time in his life Garrett Franks was grateful to his father for something as he plunged his fingers back into the red seam, opened it up with a wet ripping sound and slid the soulstone home.

He collapsed. Time passed. He didn’t know how long he lay there, rocking back and forth on the unforgiving shale, but as the pain drew back and strength returned he fumbled for his candle and checked the tunnel.

He was all alone.

He tied his mouth rag around his leg, the filthy cloth instantly darkening with his blood. He smeared some on the tip of his pick, to make it look like an accident. There was no way he could stand in the tunnel, which was fine by him, and holding the candle in one hand and pushing the pick before him with the other, he crawled towards the sound of the trucks.

The seam was about fifty yards long, with thick timber props every five or so to brace the roof, and so narrow he had to twist sideways to squeeze past them. He had crawled along this seam, or one just like it, up in the morning and back down again in the evening every day for near enough seven years, and he was no closer to paying off his debts to the company than he had been back in debtor's gaol, but the ruin of his leg would be worth it. It would all be worth it.

He would get to see the sky again.

He came out the mouth of the seam, staggered to his feet and promptly collapsed across the nearest track. He hadn't realised how weak he was. Probably left a snail's trail of blood back along the seam. He worked himself against the wall and hauled upright, putting all the weight on his good leg. Felt like he'd stuffed a hot coal the size of a turkey's egg in there.

Davy lamps ran along the track in either direction, their yellow light a comforting sight. Trucks rumbled unseen in parallel tunnels, and rock dust shimmered and fell like black snow. The water barrel was just around the first bend. Minton Cole would be there, hacking his lungs out. Cole wasn't exactly a friend but, even if he had been, Garrett wouldn't have shared his bounty with him. Every man had his own fate, and just because Garrett was cheating his didn't mean he owed nothing to nobody.

He turned the bend. Under the pale, yellow light, Minton Cole looked like he'd been fed through a rock crusher. His meagre belly and chicken chest had been split open like a pod of peas, and it was hard to tell which bits of him were which. His legs and arms were more broken than dead trees after a storm. Dark sweeps of blood glistened on the bare rock walls as more pooled like treacle under the body. Garrett had seen men fallen beneath the feet of the great steam trucks that climbed up and down the main shafts who looked in better condition than the unlucky Minton Cole. What in the fires of hell had happened to him?

A splash from the water barrel made Garrett whip round. A man he hadn't noticed amid all the slaughterhouse mess was splashing great handfuls of water on his face. The man straightened up, water streaming off his hair as he gave one last scrub and then dropped his hands, shaking them dry. Even in silhouette against the yellow light he was unmistakable. It was Boss Perry.

The soulstone in Garrett's leg burned anew, feeling as massive and obvious and guilty as if he'd stuffed a pig's head in there, and all the words he'd been rehearsing clean flew out of his head.

"Boss! I hurt my leg. Been bleedin' bad." He stopped, mind stumbling blindly from one pothole to another. "What happened to Cole?"

Boss Perry ran his hands tightly back over his head, squeezing the last of the water out his long, dark hair, then tied it back with a length of leather cord. "Well, now. What have we here? This day's just gettin' better and better." He nodded at Garrett's leg. "Looks bad. You gonna' live?"

From most men, that would be a jest, but Boss Perry meant it just as it sounded.

"Yessir, boss. Reckon so, although she needs a couple a' stitches."

"Good. Can't have a fine specimen like you dyin' on me." The mean, little eyes bored into him, eyes that always seemed on the lookout for someone to blame, someone to hurt.

Garrett wondered when Boss Perry was going to mention Cole, or if he was going to mention him at all, but decided he'd best be off. "If it's okay with you, boss, I'll catch the shave-tails' truck back to the shaft, go see the sawbones, get 'er fixed."

Boss Perry was picking up some clothes from the side of the water barrel, but said nothing. He had brought the new miners back from the shaft, hadn't he? Fresh meat for the rockface? Garrett paused. So where were they?

With a flick, Boss Perry threw his long overseer's cloak around his shoulders and Garrett froze as he saw the dark blood soaking the heavy wool. Boss Perry paused, following Garrett's stare, then his shoulders slumped and he held the cloak up to examine it closely. "I'm gonna have to ditch this, aren't I?"

As Boss Perry turned to throw the cloak away, Garrett caught a glimpse of his back, and felt all the remaining strength run out his legs. Boss Perry's clothes only covered his front. His back looked like it'd been burnt in a fire, a mess of sticky gore and bright white bones with his clothes melted into the flesh itself.

Boss Perry turned back, a grin on his lumpen, bullish face. "Reckon I'll find me a clean one."

Garrett raised his pick, trying to prop himself against the wall so that a swing wouldn't just tip him over. Boss Perry walked around the water barrel, wagging a finger and tut-tutting.

"Don't go doin' yourself another injury with that thing."

"You get back, ya hear me! All I gotta do is holler. There's other crews working these seams, and-"

"Not any more," said Boss Perry. He had stopped with one foot in the late Minton Cole's belly. "Same with those tender little ones on the truck. Barely nothin' to them, though. Crunchy. This man," he gestured at his own face, "looked important, but he screamed a lot and pissed his pants, and he was old and rangy." He took a step forward. His voice had changed, and he wasn't talking so much like Perry any more. "But you – you're a prime specimen. What a find!"

"What did you do with Boss Perry?"

"Perry's the name, huh? I like the look. Think I'll keep it. People do what he says, which makes it easier to get around. I managed to get his cloak covered in this diseased old man's blood, and I really need a good cloak to avoid you people getting a glimpse of my-" he quarter-turned, giving a glimpse of the ruin at his back,"-less pretty side."

He was close enough, and with his bad leg he was only going to get one shot. As the Perry thing turned away Garrett launched himself off the tunnel wall, his leg screaming in protest, and swung his pick two handed right at its neck. He'd worked in the mines for nigh on seven years, with shoulders like beams of oak, and no-one could swing a pick like Garrett Franks.

Boss Perry caught the handle and ripped it out his grasp with a casual tug, taking most of the skin off Garrett's palms. Perry slammed the pick crosswise into Garrett's chest, knocking him off his feet, then dropped the pick.

"No," he said, as Garrett lay gasping. "They're not going to just let me drag you out of here, are they? They don't appreciate the needs of a discerning diner."

Boss Perry knelt down beside Garrett, running an ice-cold hand over Garrett's shoulder and arm, squeezing the flesh as if appraising a joint in a butcher's shop. "Quite delectable," he said admiringly, before his face lit up. "I have it!"

He stood, blocking out the light from the Davy lamp in perfect, black silhouette. For a moment Garrett thought his mind had gone, but no – the Perry thing was really getting larger. He rose, blocking more and more light, growing wider and taller as Garrett watched, frozen in shock. His clothes seemed to be part of him, stretching along with the body underneath.

"Now," said the Perry thing, stooping to collect the pick in one massive hand, "you beautiful, beautiful thing, this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you, I assure you. But it'll be worth it later."

He raised the pick and plunged it into his own enormous chest, right up to the haft, and with a ripping sound pulled it down towards his navel. Something oozed from the edges of the mortal wound, thicker than blood, and as black as coal.

As Garrett finally realised what the Perry thing intended to do he screamed, but no-one could hear him above the thunder of nearby trucks. It picked him up and stuffed him bodily into the gaping wound in its unnatural chest. The last thing Garrett ever saw of the mine was the faint light of the Davy lamp disappearing as the wound sealed up around him.

The Perry thing slowly returned to its normal size, before dusting itself down. It placed both hands on its larger than usual belly and belched, smiling. "That'll keep you safe for now, my little treasure."

Whistling, Boss Perry walked back up the tunnel. The men at the shaft would never notice a thing.

Edited May 4, 2010 by Sholto

[DangerousBeans]

Dude......... ewww. I actually winced when I read this, good show! You seem like such a mild mannered nice guy too.....

On with "The Chair" now please

[TimeLapse]

Nice, creepy. your story kept me reading thoughout, I amit that i started reading it expecting that i would give up half way but it keep me hooked.

The creepy thing is how much it reminding me of last christmas.

[Nathan Caroland]

Very well done. Another fella that can holler at me whenever he wants.

[Angus Khan]

Good show! Very creepy story...

[AntiZombie]

Another bang up job. But you need better titles, I almost didn't read this one ( good thong I saw your name on it)

[Sholto]

@DangerousBeans: didn't you know it's always the quiet ones?! If you think this one is bad you should see the story I wrote for Morpheus Tales... More of The Chair coming soon.

@TimeLapse: thanks - keeping you reading means I've done my job! By Last Christmas I take it you don't mean the Wham song, but if your family is anything like this story - eek!

@Nathan: Thanks, and holler sent, although I sent it by email since I cannot PM you on the forum.

@AngusKhan: Cheers, mate

@Antizombie: Yeah, the title sucks. I should have spent a little more time on it.

[Epic Jimbo]

Dude...I'm in utter awe. Good show, good show indeed!