For Justice's Sake

[Seventeen]

The rhythmic shunk of a shovel and the soft sprinkling of earth has become more sweet than bitter to me lately. Bitter for I’ve become that which I loathe, that which I’ve hunted, that which I’ve studied. Sweet, for it’s the sound of vengeance – the tick of a clock—that justice is brewing.

As strong as a dead body is, they can’t dig worth $$$$$$$$… they’ve forgotten how to get their weight behind the shovel. The handful of times when the four of us would stake out a Resser and watch his crew dig up a body, we’d wonder why he’d bother having them use shovels when clawing at the loose earth with their hands was so much faster. After a while, we figured it was because it was more human to use the implement – it distracted him from the reality that he was animating the dead. That and the fact the dead get excited and worked up into a bizarre frenzy the closer they get to the casket. They’re like kids tearing into birthday presents…weird. What I hate is the noises they make – the inhuman panting, wheezing, and guttural cackling.

Tommy Gustafson’s the third boy we’re digging up tonight… well, I’m digging up tonight. I hear the thunk of metal on wood and start my way over to the grave. I pull a pouch of coffee beans out of my pocket, put it to my nose and fill my sinus’ with it’s scent for the smell of rotting flesh is something (I hope) I’ll never get used to. Damn, six months into my Awakening and I’m a still a freakin’ princess where it comes to this stuff.

The bodies of Rich and Dylan had already clambered out of the hole by the time I get there. Grinch had the casket open and had already pocketed the coins from Tommy’s eyes. Bastard. Even in death, some things never change.

In spite of his grisley, violent demise, Tommy’s bruised and scarred face was peaceful in the cold moonlight. Sherrif said the killers’ victims were bound and tortured before being strangled to death, then stabbed several times post-mortem, every victim missing their right pinky Soon Tommy. By this time tomorrow, everything will be put right.

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Everyone raises bodies a little differently. Contrary to what they teach you at Acadamy, it’s much simpler than the texts make it to be. They say that the body calls out to the Res. I look at a body and inside, all I get is a localized sense of “empty.” Alright Tommy, time to go to work.

So here’s how I do it:

Step 1: I close my eyes, take a deep breath and calm my insides from my chest to my belly, to where I feel just as empty as they body I’m trying to raise. Step 2: I calm my body and mind into total awareness. Lady Justice calls it the White Moment – that perfect moment during a fire-fight, that one-shot one-kill moment when all hell is breaking loose around you and everything just slows down. Gunfire seems muffled. You’re aware of each detail and movement around you… sheesh, you don’t even blink when your gun goes off. Step 3: When I get really centered and quiet, a purple light turns on right in the middle of my stomach. It starts as small as a quill-point and I will it to rise and grow. When it fills my chest, in my mind’s eye, I cup the swirling ball of energy in my hands and hold it out toward the body. Step 4: I blow, and like pixie dust, the energy billows and passes from my hands to fills up the cadaver’s chest and …. viola…

… he’s awake.

“Evening Tommy. Let’s getcha out of that hole…”

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It’s just before midnight the next evening and our carriage stops at the ranch fence, 100 yards from Jack’s house. You know how much easier it is to find a serial killer when all you gotta do is ask the victim? Crazy how most of them know the killer, his name, where he lives, the kinds of jokes he likes. It’s only a tad problematic when the victim’s throat is cut thru the hyoid – even then, the dead might not be able to talk, but they can still point.

A wolf howls in the distance. Horses don’t mind… they’ve been dead for weeks. They smell better than people. Live horses won’t let zombies near them, let alone ride them, even if it’s an old master. When the crew first transformed, we tried mounting them and Rick’s mare bolted. Took 13 miles and 2 hours to catch up with that damn horse. Before any of them could run away again, I calmed them down with some oats and a cut up apple, then shot ‘em in the heart. Always wondered why no one else thought of that. Why Ressers insist on walking everywhere is beyond me.

“Get up boys, we’re here. Time to pay Jack Connley a visit. He won’t be hurting anyone anymore…”

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I love my job, but it doesn’t mean it don’t have it’s downsides. Like how I can be surrounded with friends all day and yet be absolutely and completely alone. Since there isn’t anyone living to watch the next act in this play but me, I entertain myself. I hand each kid a new knife and to the smallest one, Gary, 25 feet of rope. Now for the coup de gras – for Justice’ Sake – I turn to Tommy and raise my right arm, “Raise your right hand.” Expressionless, he does, so as best I can, I attempt to put a smile on his face. I shouldn’t have even tried. A smiling mouth without smiling eyes just looks stupid…

“Do you solemnly, sincerely and truly declare and affirm that you will be faithful and bear true allegiance to the Office of the Govorner General, his heirs and successors and that you will as in duty bound honestly and faithfully defend the Governor General, his heirs and successors in person and dignity against all enemies and will observe and obey all orders set over you, even at the sake of your own life?” Tommy lets out a grunt in agreement.

“Well done…,” and I pin a Marshall’s badge onto his raggedy brown and yellow flannel. As I proudly dust off and tidy his shirt, a wave of stone-cold aggression passes over me. In an instant, my soul hardens. It’s time to play and I'm aiming to misbehave tonight. The rest of the crew senses it too and I see the energy inside them turn from a misty purple to an angry, thick swirling mass of gory red. Jack Connley, make peace with your maker… The Dead Marshals are coming.

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The old crew and I each take one of the four sides of the house; Rich takes the left side, pistols holstered and cocked, the folds of his duster billowing in the soft breeze. Dylan’s on the right, rifle leveled at the window, ready to take out anything that comes thru. Ol’ Grinchy’s standing just outside the back door. In spite of being armed with a pair of standard issue Peacemakers and a knife, Grinch always loved using his bare hands in a fight. Out of all of us, he seems to have retained the most of his human-side. Our job is to make sure Jack doesn’t come out. If all goes to plan though, we won’t be doing anything at all. It’s the boy’s show.

They’re lined up at the front door. It’s a perfect moment. A crazy thought goes thru my head: this would make a great painting. Too bad no one’s here to capture it.

I make Tommy turn his head over his shoulder to look back at me. I give him a sleight nod of the head. He steps toward the door and knocks…

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Lady Justice wasn’t surprised by what she found at the Connley Ranch. “Kris Kringle strikes again,” she mutters under her breath.

The place was a mess – turned over tables, parchment, books and odd knick knacks scattered over the floor. Jack Connley’s body was seated in the center of the cottage, hands tied behind his back, ankles bound to the legs of his chair. Two knives were protruding from his back, one from his chest. Both his pinkies were missing. The corpses of three boys in varying states of decay were lying around him.

Following his modus operandi, Justice knew the wounds on Jack’s body would tell a story of what he did to his victims – every burn, bruise, laceration, and broken bone on the kids would have its perfect twin on Jack.

Judge walks in. “Once again, Kringle got his man,” he says, tossing a gruesome necklace of pinkies onto the table.

“Yeah,” Justice replies. “It’s amazing how easy it is to catch a killer when all you have to do is ask the victim…”

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Merry Christmas everyone! This is my first attempt at writing any fiction -- a testimony to how rich and inspiring the World of Malifaux is. I got the idea wanting to create some back story for Enigma Miniature's Bad Santa figure. I was google-ing Saint Nick and mulled over a li'l detail that stood out, "He is known for praying for three boys..."

Comments Welcome!

Edited July 15, 2012 by Seventeen
cut and paste feature didn't quite work the way I wanted...

[JMGraham]

Outstanding! Solid writing throughout, and an engaging story that gains more complexity as everything unfolds. Full of nice little details (e.g., the dead can't use shovels properly, horses, etc.). The Santa twist at the end did nothing for me, but I'm very much looking forward to more!

[Seventeen]

Thanks JMG. I agree... the Kris Kringle thing just provided the impetus to start writing. Book 1 makes a quick mention how Death Marshals "train in the dark art of necromancy, but are forbidden in it's use." Great excuse for a Marshal to become a Resser if that power awakens after the Event of Book 2.

Appreciate the feedback!