Wretched Night Mare 2

Stepping inside the stone-walled building, the smell and sizzle of frying meat and potatoes awakened Michael’s stomach. The dirt floor was packed hard and hardly anyone besides them were wearing shoes. The clanging of metal cookware battled with servers and cooks yelling incomprehensible orders at each other as they hustled about. A man in one of the booths was shaking a finger at two others, looking like it might come to blows.

“Gentleman,” a pretty woman with sunken eyes said. Her blouse above her corset was stained and dripping with whatever was sloshing from the mugs she carried. “Take one of the six tops in the back. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

“It’s like a medieval waffle house,” Michael said, craning his neck around as they walked to a free table.

“Hah, exactly!” his father said, clapping him on the back. “You were always good with describing things. Say, did you end up being a lawyer?”

“Accountant,” Michael answered. “Law school wasn't practical. I had to stay home with mom and help her after high school.”

“Right, yeah,” he said, pulling out a seat at the table. “Look, I’m not trying to explain it all away here. I know your life sucked after I disappeared, the same as mine did. Can we just start over, no expectation? You can even call me Pete, if you’d prefer. This is a real roll with the punches kinda situation, it seems.”

They all sat. The waxed tabletop was sticky. Michael moved to wipe his hand on the bandage on his head. It was gone.

“Welcome to Micheal, the last of us. Five generations of Hartfield. The time has come to prepare.” The oldest man said, in appearance and lineage. He reached down.

“Wait for a second, Bart. I promised I’d explain what we knew first,” Pete said. “This here, son, this whole world, is like the plate you put under your chili bowl to catch the drippings.”

“Elsewhere,” his grandfather said. “Your great, great grandfather found himself here by happenstance.”

“Took a wrong turn in a fever deviled dream, I did,” Bart said.

“Right, assuredly,” Grandfather continued. “I’m Douglas, by the way. Bart here, upset a man that fancies himself the barbarian king of this land, Golgotha the Gorger.”

The chaos of the tavern stilled and several guests and employees glared at them. A broken plate broke the spell and the clanging resumed.

“Superstitious bunch, these,” Pete said. “Tell him what you did to get him so red assed at ya, Bart.”

“Superstitious is wise in a world such as this,” Bart cracked his neck left and right, tensing thick muscles. “I killed his son, didn’t know him from Adam at the time, of course. Only that he was beating a girl half to death. I didn’t mean to kill him, just get him off her. His skull came apart like a gourd.”

A man bumped into Michael’s side as he drunkenly shuffled past. Michael flinched in expectation, but no pain came. He tapped his ribs and breathed in deep. He felt like he could run a marathon. Even his back didn’t hurt.

“This world affects us in a way it doesn’t for others that find themselves here, you see.” Bart beat his chest once, producing a deep clap. “Worked for me, and all my descendants so far. By the gleam in your eye, I’d say you have it too. You see the demon?”

“The smokeshow wearing mud, he means,” Pete said.

“Yes,” Michael answered. “She put a cloth on my head.”

“That’s the secret, I think and one, Gol- let's call him Skull, may not know,” Douglas added. “No one else here has any inkling who that lady is. Just us.”

“So this Skull guy cursed you for killing his son, I’m guessing when he was sixteen, now we all show up here too when our sons turn sixteen as revenge. So, how do we get out?”

“We bust into his castle, raise a little Hell, praise a little Dale, and take his little magic statue.” Pete grinned ear to ear.

Memories rushed back of watching racing with his Dad. He had liked it, then, he remembered. Couldn’t stand it now.

“It was the means of the curse’s origin,” Bart said. “He rubbed a wetted finger upon its brow and spoke his wish and it was so. With that in our possession, we can hopefully, each return home.”

“We each have grown stronger in different ways in this place,” Douglas said, holding up a hand that became first transparent and then fully invisible. “I managed to thrift 5 sets of armor and weapons from a passing merchant, providence or luck has seen them all fit so far, one left for you.”

“So, is this like a battle an army of undead hordes situation, or more of a heist kinda deal?” Michael asked.

“Skull and his four sons reside in the castle proper, each bedeviled with wicked strength,” Bart said, clenching a fist. “There are guards, dogs, traps, but we will die starving in our seats before any of that comes to issue, it seems! Barmaid! Service!”

“Piss off!” a couple of the kitchen crew yelled in unison. The tavern erupted in laughter.

“Great great granddad’s a bit of a Karen, eh?” Michael said.

The table looked at him clueless.

“Nevermind, so, what are we waiting on? I have a Chevy to pick up they're only holding for me for one day. Let's gear up and get to it.”

Bart reached into a long pocket that reached all down his legs, pulling out a scroll and unrolling it dramatically on the table. It was a sketched map.

“This is the best we could make with Bart’s memory of the castle and my scouting,” Douglas said. “We have the crew, but we need ways to handle and get past the defenses.”

“So, a heist, got it.” Michael said.

“Alright, what are gentlemen drinking, we got Ale, good cider, bad cider, soursap, krinf, demf, and paddylocks wine.”

“Ale,” the man at the end of the table said, his Great Grandfather. Michael forgot he was there.

“Ale all around,” Pete said, leaning over to Michael. “Believe me, it ain’t bud, but you do not want to try anything else, believe me.”

"Forgive my father, Pete the Elder, your great grandfather if you're not keeping up," Douglas said as the server set down the ales. "He came back from the war a different man. When he went missing, we all figured he-"

"Can it, boy" the Elder said. "I can speak perfectly fine for myself." He tipped his ale and finished it in one long pull.

The table waited a beat to see if he would add anything else. He did not.

"I served in the war to end all wars," Bart grumbled. "Half the men I served with drew their full issue by the narpoo. Didn't mess me up."

"They didn't call it that for long," Douglas said. "The one Peter the Elder was in was bigger by a fair bit. I only saw the tail end of mine, Korea, but it was bloody enough. No need to shame anyone here. We’re all men.”

“Vietnam, here. Proud roughneck,” Pete the younger said, or maybe just Dad would be easier. Dad sipped his ale. “What about you, Mikey? What hell pit did good ole Uncle Sam drag you into?”

“I wasn’t in a war. They had a round two in Iraq right after you left, but no draft or anything.”

“Thank god for that,” Dad said, raising his mug. Douglas and Pete the Elder, surprisingly, joined him.

“Thank God for what?” Bart asked. “That one of the men watching your back out here in Mesopolonica gonna be soft as a girl’s puzzle patch, greener than a coathook?”

“Come around this table, and try saying that silent movie bullshit!” Dad said, slamming down both hands. They glowed slightly. “By Dale, ain’t nobody on this Earth Imma let talk bout my boy that way, great granddaddy and strong as a bull or not.”

Several of the surrounding tables clutched their drinks, clearly accustomed to the occasional brawl.

“Dad, don’t,” Michael said. “I’m tough enough to not be bothered by an old man calling me soft.”

Bart raised his eyebrows towards Michael, clearly not expecting him to stand up for himself. “Old man, eh?”

“Normally, I’d be all for this, gentlemen,” Douglas said, spreading his arms and gesturing both to sit. “But given what we saw coming in, time is a bit of the essence.”

“Fine,” Dad said. “I’ll mark you down as TBD on my busting ass list, Bartholemew.”

“Back to the matter at hand,” Douglas said. “There’s three main problems. One, the only way in or out is the front gate, above the great moat, nearly thick as the walls and doesn’t open for anyone. Two, dogs was underselling it a bit. Massive hounds, big as bears, and lastly, Golgotha, Skull I mean, has a huge avian of some type. When we get close, he might escape on it, and take that ticket out of here with him.”

“That does sound difficult,” Michael said. “So, what do we do?”

“You’re lucky, son, coming in near the end of the shift. We got it all worked out,” Dad said. “Farm south of here has a fertilizer repository, concentrated batshit. Pete the Elder here says if we get him enough, he can mix up a bomb big enough to blow a hole in the side of that thing.”

“As for the dogs,” Douglas said, waggling two of the empty mugs in the air. “There’s a man, a bard that plays a magic flute, tames animals with it. He has a show this very night. We nab it, and I’ll sing those not-so-lovelies to sleep.”

“And I’ll make sure the big man doesn’t run off,” Bart said. “Two of his boys go drinking and whoring every night, same brothel every time. If they aren’t there when I go, the girls will know where to find them. Ain’t no one a man tells more to than his whore.”

“How does that stop him from running off?” Michael asked.

“I’ll snatch ‘em and keep them tied up somewhere safe. Make sure he knows I got ‘em too. He’s already shown how partial he is to his boys. He won't leave till he faces me, make me give them up.” Bart smiled then for the first time, a wild, manic thing, no happiness in it. Dad was brave or crazy to yell at this lunatic.

“Alright, so me and Pete the Younger here will attend the concert,” Douglas offered. “Bart clearly works best alone. He’ll nab the two boys. Do try not to kill them this time granddad.”

“Me and Michael will make the bomb,” Pete the Elder said, nodding. “We need the wagon.”

“Understate when you tempt fate, father, remember,” Douglas whispered with a smile. “Yes, that was the urgency with which I referred earlier. A perfectly serviceable wagon just pulled up outside. Michael, I’m guessing you cannot drive a horse-drawn coach?”

“That would be a fair assumption,” Michael said, pointing. “But I can drive a manual transmission.”

“Utterly irrelevant, but noted,” Douglas said. “Dad? You up for a little highway robbery?”

“Yes,” Pete the Elder said, just as the waitress sat two drinks down. He picked it up and downed it quick as the first.

“Darling,” Douglas said to the waitress. “Would this be enough to cover our two rounds?” He twirled a gold coin between his fingers before presenting it to her.

“I can’t break that, sweetie.”

“And I’m not asking you, too, my Helen of Troy.” He placed it in her palm and closed it. “Consider it recompense for our less than polite demeanorr.”

“Oh,” she said, blushing. “I’ve seen far rowdier tonight. Y’all travel safe.”

Douglas turned, opening his eyes wide and nodding to the door.

“I hadn’t even tried my beer,” Michael said, sipping it. He immediately gagged.

“Satisfied? Come on, now,” Douglas jerked him by his collar. He was incredibly strong, picking Michael up easily. The group scurried out as more guests entered. Their table was already being cleaned and resat. A child of ten or so was finishing Michael’s ale, relishing it.

“Sorry to hustle everyone, but I paid that lovely tart with a chocolate and didn’t want to be there when she found out.” Douglas walked towards the wagon. A man was brushing one of the horses.

“A mighty fine pair there, friend,” Douglas said, approaching the man, hand out to shake. “Say you wouldn’t be the driver I met in Catterdan, would you?”

Just as the man started to answer, Douglas beat him over the head with something from his pocket. “All aboard, lads!” he yelled as he clung on to the side. Pete the Elder wide stepped over the downed man and hopped up into the driver’s seat, leaning over a hand to help Michael up beside him.

“All on, goose it boy!” Bart yelled, smacking the side of the wagon. Michael bit his tongue as the horses whinnied and began building speed down the bumpy dirt road.

“Killed a horse thief once,” Pete the Elder said, calmly guiding the reins. “On the farm after Da left, just before the war, buckshot through the chest.”

“That so? Life makes hypocrites of us all,” Michael answered, laughing nervously.

The driver remained stone-faced, watching the road ahead.