the deadlands issue 2
TRANSCRIPT
CONTENTSUnselving 3 – Greer Gilman
Shuck 4 – G. V. Anderson
Oppenheimer in Valhalla 26 – Marissa Lingen
The Thing That Doesn’t Disintegrate 27 – Kate Lechler
Astynome, After 37 – Mike Allen
Bonefields 40 – Margaret Ronald
The House of Ill Waters 56 – R.B. Lemberg
AskaNecromancer 60 – Amanda Downum
Author Bios 65
Staffbios 68
3TheDeadlands
UNSELVINGGreer Gilman
WhenIdiedIrose
to meet myself,
not quite as
shadowedleaves
touch leaves that fall
onwater,meeting
palm to palm. Then
verges ever on
theyet-to-be,
is never this,
now,here.Nowhere
akiss,andonward
from that instant O
andO.Iwake
no travelling.
Oneitherbank,
thetreesarerooted
in their fall.
The river’s night here,
andtheleaves
rise falling, self
towardselfunmet.
Thecrowdisparted
bytheprow.
4 TheDeadlands
SHUCKG.V.Anderson
Noone,notevenBridget,couldrememberhowitstarted,andyetby
thewinterterm,itwascommonknowledgethatshe’dtakenoverthe
oldsmokingareaand,foraprice,wouldanswerone—justone—ques-
tionaboutthedeathofherfriend,Samantha.YearNineswereespe-
ciallybloodthirsty.Balancingonthethresholdbetweenchildhoodand
everythingafter,theydemandedtoknowthingslike:Didherbrains
washoffyourparkaafterwards?Didshedierightaway?Didyouactually
seeherheadcomeoff?
Bridgetchargedanextra50pforthatlastone.
Theteachersknewshetradedingoreandoftenskulkedinthecarpark
adjacenttothesmokingareaduringlunch—wraiths,lostagainstthe
tarmacindarkgreycoats,justwaiting for an opportunity to lecture her
aboutunhealthygrievinghabits,butBridgetwasdoingjustfine,thanks.
Infact,ithelpedtobreakthecrashdownintoanodyesorashakeno,
tomythologize—andnotonlyhelpful,butlucrative.Sammyhadbeena
practical,worldlygirl;shewouldhaveapprovedofBridget’senterprise,
evenifitcameatherownexpense.
Today,though,thecarparkwashauntedbyanotherspecter.She
watchedassomethingdarkslinkedbehindtheheadteacher’sFordEs-
cort—somethingshaggyandquadrupedalandvaguelycanine.Bridget
clenchedherfists,knucklebonesundulatingintoplacebeneathherskin.
Itdidn’treappear,thedog,buttoseeitatschool...
5TheDeadlands
Tooclose.She’dhavetokillitafterall.
CanyoukillDeath?
AwelcomedistractionintheguiseofaSixthFormboycamesidlingup
tothesmokingshelter.“Hey,Fridge.”
“Hey,Mardy.”
Hewasrollingacigarette.“Busy?”
“Pissoff,”shesaidmildly.“You’vehadenoughquestionsoutofme.”
“Noteverything’saboutSam,babe.”MardylickedtheRizla’sedge,
sealedit,andofferedherthefirstsmoke.Crudranunderandallaround
hisnails.Sherefused.Shehatedthetasteofcigarettes—shemightas
wellshovelashesstraightintohergob—andMardyknewthat,buthe
wasthesortofpersonwhoalwaysoffered.
HelithiscigaretteandsatnexttoBridget,theirthighstouching.Shewas
prettysureSammywouldn’thaveapprovedofthis, which,ifshewasbe-
inghonest,wasratherthepoint.Theonlythingspoilinghertriumph—
thewormintheapple,theshitinthepool—wasthatMardykeptcalling
herFridge.FrigidBridget.
“Iknowyou’renotfrigid,”he’dsaidteasingly,thelasttimethey’dbeen
alone.Hishandsnakingupherskirt,fingertipstwangingherknicker
elastic.“Itjustturnsoutyou’reastone-coldbitch,givingupsomeone’s
lastmomentsformoney.”
“Shewouldhavegivenawaymineforless,”wasBridget’sknee-jerkre-
ply,andthen,angryatherselfforlettinganuglytruthslideout—always
ariskwhenyouweregrievingagirllikeSammy—she’dcalledhima
wankerandtoldhimtogetoffhercoat.Bythetimeshesawhimagain,
6 TheDeadlands
thefireinherguthadgoneout,andnowshecouldn’tevenremember
itswarmth.
FrigidBridget,thestone-coldbitch.Fine.Whatever.Aslongasshecould
shootstraight,itwasn’ttheworstmonikertoleaveschoolwith.
“Mydoghadherlitter,”saidMardy.“Didyouwantoneofthepuppies?”
“Notreally,”Bridgetreplied,slippingherscarredrighthandintoher
pocket.She’dbeenscaredofdogseversinceaJackRusselltookabite
outofherwhenshewassmall.Itwasoneofherearliestmemories.
Otherpeople,whentheythoughtofdogs,conjuredupcarameleyes
andwaggingtails;allshe couldthinkofwastheflashofsnappingteeth.
Tohermind,itmadeperfectsensethatDeathwouldtakethisshape—
theybothtrottedatyourheels,deceptivelydocileforyearsandyears,
untiloneday...
“They’reallgums,though,”saidMardy.
“Themumisn’t.”
Mardysmiled.Histeethwerethesameyellowasgoodsaltybutter.
“Okay.”Heshrugged.“Iwasjustaskingincaseyouwantedto,youknow,
comeover.”
“Areditchesnotgoodenoughforyouanymore?”
“Oh,don’tgetmewrong,they’recleanerthanmysheets.Definitely your
parka.But,ah,actually,mymumwantedtosayhi.”
ThistoreherattentionawayfromthecreaturelurkingbehindtheFord
Escort.Mardyhadneverinvitedherhome.Theywereeachother’ssor-
didlittlesecret.Bridgetlikeditthatway.Shethoughthefeltthesame.
Afterall,whowantstobeseendatingFridge?
7TheDeadlands
“Do you wantyourmumtosayhi?”
Heshrugged.
“You’renothalfsellingit.”
“Forgetit,then.”Heflickedawaythecigarette,barelydone.Heenjoyed
theprestigeofbeingSomeoneWhoSmokesatSchoolmorethanactual-
lysmoking.Thereweresweeterflavors.Hislookturnedsly.“Doyou
wanttoskiveinstead?”
By skive, he meant find somewhere quiet and fool around.Andshe
wouldn’tevenbeexpectedtodoanything—shenevertouchedhim.
She’dtriedtoonce,butwastooself-consciousofherscars.Better,eas-
ier,fastertoliebackandconcentrate,pretendshewasalone.Sammy
hadsaidsexwassupposedtobefun, dummy,butBridgetfoundherself
worryingtoomuchaboutthefacesshepulled,thesoundsshemade.
Whetherornotshehadadoublechin.WhatMardythoughtaboutwhile
hewasdownthere.Sammy?Othergirls,otherboys?
Bridget—well.BridgetjustthoughtaboutDeath.
“Ican’ttoday.”Shetoldhimshewason,whichwasalie.
“Wedon’thavetodostuffeverytime.”
Hewashurt,sherealized.Good:lethimhurt.“Whatelseisthere?Talk-
ing?Ihatefootball,youhateNirvana.”
HegesturedpasttheschooltothePEgrounds.“Youusedtoplayfoot-
ball.”
“Sammyusedtoplayfootball.Iplayedhockey.Dick,”andshestomped
offinsteadofuntanglingthedreadedknotofjealousy,guilt,andself-
doubtinherbreast,wovenastightasanystringoffairylights.Sammy
8 TheDeadlands
hadtangledthemexpertly.She’ddoneitwhenthey’dstoodintheir
PEkitsbythesideofthegym,waitingtheirturnatbadminton,and
Bridget’seyeshadlingeredalittletoolongonMardy.Sammyhadput
herhanddownthewaistbandofBridget’sshorts,tuggingout todemon-
stratethesnugfitanddown torevealherstretchmarks—whichSammy,
ofcourse,didn’thave.
“Mardydoesn’tgofordumpygirls,”she’dsaid,andeveryonewithin
earshothadsniggered.
Thealchemybetweentwopeopleisneverperfect—itcan’tbe—butnor-
mallytherearepressuregauges.Checksandbalances.Otherhobbies,
otherpeopleinorbitaroundthenuclearpair.WithSammyandBridget,
onenasty,theotherreticent,therewerenosuchdistractions.Leftto
curluponthemselveslikeingrownhairs,thegirlscalcifiedintosome-
thingmeanandbitter.Ananimalthatbitesitselfasoftenasgrooms.
InthelastmonthsofSammy’slife,they’dfinallybegunthemessypro-
cessofpullingapart.Sammystartedhangingoutwithothergirls.They
calledherSamantha,whichfeltclassy.Theypassedtamponsunder
thetoiletstalldoorstoeachother,andasarule,anyoneelsecaught
shortontheloowithstainedknickersaroundtheirankleswhodared
calloutforapadgotslungwithpalmfulsofpearlescentliquidsoapout
ofthewalldispensers.Whenitdried,itlookeddisgustinglylikespunk.
NodoubtthesenewfriendsindulgedSammy’sworsttendencies,but
Bridgetdidn’thavetocare.Atlast,she’dgainedsomedistance,alittle
autonomy—whichwasexactlywhatmadethenightofthecrashso
unfair.Theynolongerhadanyrighttobeouttogether;itwasatripfor
oldtimes’sake,andnotevenagoodone!NowSammywasdead,andit
seemedBridgetwouldneverescapeher.
They’dbeenspeedinghomeonSammy’smopedafterseeingagigin
GreatYarmouth,Bridgetridingpillion.Hersmallstature,whichSammy
9TheDeadlands
hadoftensneeredat,endedupsavingherlife:shorterthanherfriend
byafoot,thesheetofmetalthatslammedintoSammy’sfacewhena
haulagelorryjackknifedinfrontofthemmerelygrazedthescalpofthe
girlperchedbehindher.
Everythingwasablurnow,butshewassure...Well,reasonconspiredto
twistthings,buttherehadbeenflat,emptyfieldseithersideofthemfor
milesuntilthelastsecond,whenBridgetwascertainshe’dcaughtsight
ofamonstrousdogonthegrassverge.
Blackfurmattedbypeat.
Twored,veryroundeyes.
Sammydidn’tseeit.Shewaswatchingtheroadandthelorryahead,the
corrugatedmetalsheetsthatwouldshortlykillherbouncingloosein
theirbindings.ButBridgetsawthecreature,smelled it,andrecognized
Death.
Thiswasfencountry,afterall.Ifyou’rebornandraisedinNorfolk,you
can’thelpbutcarryShuckinyourbones.
Bridgetjerkedupright.Marshlandslidpastthewindow,sectionedoff
andmadesensiblebydikesandculverts.Justnow,therehadbeena
huge,hunchedshadow.Ontheverge.Likebefore.Gutscold,Bridget
graspedtheemergencybrakeandpulled.
“Stopthebus!”
Thedriverbrakedsohardthebackendofthevehicleswunground.The
otherpassengersshriekedandmadeagrabforanythingthatwould
makethemfeelsafer—theseatinfront,theirbelongings.Bridgetstag-
gereduptheaisletothedoor,shakinghard.Thedriverwasonhisfeet.
10 TheDeadlands
“Whatthebloodyhellwasthatfor?”
Bridget’sfacegreyed.“Ijust...Ineedtogetoff.”
Hewasalltoohappytojettisonherbythesideoftheroad.Shebent
doubleoverthetarmac,lettingthewindsnatchawaythestringybile
hangingfromhermouth.Thebuscontinuedalongitsbackcountryroute
withoutskiddingorblowingatireorspontaneouslyexploding,despite
thepremonitoryprickleofherscalp.Norwasthereadog,thoughshe
foundfreshscorchmarksamongthenoddingheadsofsaxifrage.
ThecloudswerelinedwithsicklyyellowbythetimeBridgetarrived
home,herfeetsoakedthroughfromovergrowngrass.Shelivedwith
herGrandpaFrankinasquatstucco-finishedfarmhousehiddenby
trees,halfanhourfromanywhereinteresting.Assheapproached,
somethingabouttheairfeltrank.
Sheturnedintothedrive,heartjoltingherribs.
Shuckwaswaitingforheronthefrontstep.Heengulfedthefrontstep—
therewasnowaypasthim.Herschool,herbus,nowherhome,closer
andcloser.Thecrashshouldhavedoneforher.Inthesmallestofincre-
ments,Deathwastryingtoamendhismistake.
Bridgethauledinabreath.“Oi!”
Shuck’sattentionnarrowed.
Shecastaboutforaprojectile,grabbedalargerockthathadbroken
offtheboundarywall,andchuckeditatthedog.Itthumpedhiminthe
ribs.Asmalleranimalwouldhavesprungoutoftheway.Hismattedfur
simplyabsorbedtheimpact.
Hisearsswiveledback.Hebaredhisteethandpushedoffthefrontstep
asiftostarttowardsher.
11TheDeadlands
“Don’tyoudare,”sheyelled,throwinganotherstone.Thisonecaught
himonthemuzzle.Hedidn’tevenflinch;theredeyesstaredthrough-
out.Athirdhithisneck.Thentheporchlightflickedon,andtheen-
croachingdarkwasburnedaway.ShuckmeltedintotheNorfolktwilight,
andwarmthfloodedthegravelasGrandpaFrankpoppedhishead
outside.
“Isthatyoushouting,Bridge?”
Shepushedpasthimgrimly.Hesmelledofengineoil.“IthoughtIsaw
someonehangingaround.Youneedtostartlockingthebloodydoor,
Grandpa.”
“Mindyourlanguage,eh?”Hescratchedhiswhiskerswithnicotine-color-
edfingers.“You’relate.”
“Bustrouble,”shereplied,whichcoveredalotofground.Shelefther
wetshoesontheporch.Thewalkhadwornoutthetoesofhersocks,so
shepulledthoseofftooanddumpedthemstraightinthekitchenbin.
Thenshethrewherselfupstairs.
“Hey,dinner’swaitingforyou!”
“Berightthere.”
Shespentpreciouslittletimeinherroomanymore,andithadtakenon
ananonymousquality—theSoundgardenandTheVerveposterswere
gone,livingonaspalerectanglesinthepaintwork.Therewerenochild-
ishknickknacksdanglingfromtheceiling.Afterthecrashithadbeen
easiertostripeverythingawayandstartagain;butshehadn’t,yet.Start-
edagain.Thebedlinenwasblue,anoldsetofGrandpaFrank’s.The
otherlinensinthecupboard,eitherSammyhadsleptinovertheyears
orthey’dbeen Sammy’s.Shewasn’treadytopickthroughthatminefield.
Andnophotographshadgracedthenightstandsinceshewasyoung.It
wastooeerietoseehermumsmilingcheerfully,ignorantlyfrominside
12 TheDeadlands
acheapWoolworthsframe.InthesamewayitwaseerieforSammyto
havejerkedherheadatthehaulagelorryandsaidastheykickedoff,
“Wouldn’twantthat tofallonyou.”
Prettysoon,thelorry’scontentswouldbeslicinghertoribbons.The
subtlefingersofDeathpluckinganunsubtlechord.
Bridgetgropedunderhermattress.Shefeltthelong,harddoublebarrel
ofashotgun.GrandpaFrank’sshotgun.Ithadawalnutstockandtwo
round,unblinkingblackeyes,goodforstaringdownsomethingbig.
She’dfetcheditfromtheshed.
Justincase.
Thewindowonthelandingoverlookedthefrontofthehouse.Bridget
spenthernightsperchedonthesill,thebreak-openshotgundangling
fromthecrookofherelbow.Thevigil,whilecomforting,wasanimpo-
tentgesture—theonlyshellsshe’dfoundintheshedhadbeenbadly
stored.Moisturehadcorrodedthecasings.If,bysheerluck,theystill
slottedintothechamber,thepowderinsidewasalmostcertainlyruined,
tosaynothingforheraim.Hermumhadtaughthertoshootalong
timeago,butthey’dfiredatclaypigeonsintheirowntime,ingoodlight.
Deathwouldcomebynightandhewouldn’twaitforhertoshout,“Pull!”
Whileshekeptwatch,GrandpaFranksnored,oblivious,andthatwasa
comfort,too.Hermumhadslippedaway,yousee,unwitnessedbyall
excepttheearlyhours—terrifyinglyeasyineverywaySammy’sdemise
wasn’t—andsincethenithadplayedonhermindthatDeathcouldseep
undetectedlikerot.
Wheneverhereyesthreatenedtoclose,sheprowledthedarkhouse
notingeveryhazard:exposedwiring,glimpsesofVictorianwallpaper,
13TheDeadlands
theoldboiler.Invisible.Innocuous.Well,adogcannuzzleaswellasbite.
Sometimes,beforeretiringtoherpostonthelanding,shewouldslip
hercoldfeetintoGrandpaFrank’swiltedarmybootsandstandawhile
onthegraveldrive.Testtheairforthesmellofsingedundergrowth.
Doingjustthat,shesawapairofeyesburninginthemurk.Nohuffof
vaporgavehimaway—butthen,shereasoned,Deathhadnoneedto
breathe.Shebroughttheshotgunup.Herpulsejumpedinherfinger-
tips,unsteadyingthebarrel.
“Comeonthen,Cujo,”shemuttered,soundingmuch,muchbraverthan
she felt.
ButShuckwasinavoyeuristicmoodthatnightandventurednocloser.
Theystoodoffuntilthesunbrokeoverthetreelineandtheredeyes
resolvedintobikereflectorsabandonedinthegrass.
Bridgetlaughedbleakly,astickyfilmofplaquedullingthegleamofher
teeth.
Shewalkedintotownlater—shecouldn’tbringherselftotrustthe
bus—andpurchasedtwoboxesofshellsfromtheOutdoorStore.The
manbehindthecounterwasafriendofGrandpaFrank’s,sothesale
wasmadeonaknife-edge—ontheonehand,heknewthefamilytobe
responsiblegunowners;ontheother,Bridgetlookedlikeshewasone
bereavementshortofabreakdown.
“Allright,love?”heprobed.
“Yeah,”shereplied,settingthecoinsatopthecounter,“justfinishing
myChristmasshopping.Mygranddadwantstotakemeshootingover
theholiday,”gamblingthathisfriendshipwithGrandpaFrankwasthe
distantkindthatwouldn’telicitaphonecall.
“Keepin’well,thetwoofyou?”
14 TheDeadlands
“We’refine.”Notreassuringenoughforhimtoreleasehisgriponthe
shells.Sheswitchedgears,crankedasmile.“We’regood.Cheers.I’lltell
himyouasked.”
Herpurchasecomplete,Bridgetstampedoutofthestore.ThankGod
forshoechains;brownslushhadfrozenintorigidwrinklesovernight
andmadearinkofthepavement.Thehighstreetlookedpitiful—the
councilhadstrunglightsacrosstheroadthatflashedinacheaparti-
ficeofmovement:holly-wreathedbellsflickedleft,right,left,right;a
treeilluminateditselffromthebottomup.Andthewindowdisplays,
soinvitingbynight,borderedastheywerewithspray-onsnow,stared
haggardandhungoveratthelocalsastheypassedby.Tooearlyforthe
caféstoopen;tooearlyformuchatallexceptthegrittinglorriesandthe
troublemakers.
ToocrispandsoberbyfarforShuck.Safe,then,tolinger.
BridgetwatchedsomeonedressamannequinintheOxfamshop’s
window.Theslipdresstheywerepinningintoshapeskimmedthe
knees.Slinky,inabubblegum-and-butterfly-hairclipskindofway.Itwas
somethingBridgetwouldhavelikedtotestdrive,ifthespaghettistraps
didn’tpracticallyforbidabraandthesatindidn’tclingquitesomuch
aroundthemiddle.
Aboyyelped,“Tryitonforus,Fridge!”Bridgettuckedherchinand
lookedaround.Mardywastherewithhismates,butitwasn’thimwho’d
shouted;hewasalreadysmackingtheirarmandcomingovertoher,his
handsthrustingintothepocketsofhisbomberjacket.Hischeekswere
pinkasifthey’djustbeenpinched.
“Hey.Spendingyourhard-earnedmoney?”
Shedrewtheplasticbagcontainingtheshellsbehindher.TheOutdoor
Storedidn’tbranditsbags,butitscontentswerevisibleupclose.
15TheDeadlands
“Maybe.”
Henoddedattheslipdressinthewindow.“Wereyougoingtotryiton?”
Bridgetshrugged.Thelasttimeshe’dstrayedfromsoftenedplaid,jeans,
andDocMartens,Sammyhadlaughedinherface.
ButSammywasn’thereanymore,wasshe?
“It’snotthekindofthingIwear,”saidBridgetquietly.“Itwouldn’tsuit
me.”
ItwasMardy’sturntoshrug.“You’dlookgreat.”
Sheglaredathim,andhemetit.Nosmirkplayedaroundhismouth,
excepttheonethatsaidhedidn’tknowhowtoproceedwhengirlsre-
fusedcompliments—shecouldseehismindworkingoutwheretotread
next.Backtrackorpushforward?Ajoke?Eitherway,hisexpressionwas
genuine—vaguelybaffled,even—andhisfriendswerejeering,calling
himback,yetheignoredthem.Itwasalltheaffirmationsheneeded.
Bridgetsethershouldersandstrodeintothecharityshop.Sheasked
theassistanttounpintheslipdress,please,she’dliketoseehowitfits,
feelingquiteoutsideherself.Oncethecurtainwasdrawnacrossthe
doortothechangingcubicle,shehadtobraceherselfagainstthewall
foramomentandletherbraincatchuptoherracingpulse.
Shesetthebagdownandpeeledeverythingoffexceptherknickers
andsocks,thendroppedthedressoverherheadandscrutinizedher
reflection.
Shehateditimmediately.
Whywasherskinsopallid?Shedisappearedagainstthesatin.Why
wereherthighswiderthanherhips?Whydidherknicker-linehaveto
protrude?Youhadtocreatetheillusionofgoingcommandoindress-
16 TheDeadlands
eslikethis;everyoneknewthat.Andwhywasthethermostatsetlow
enoughinheretohardenhernipples?Shefoldedherarmsacrossher
chest,shameburningthebackofhersinuses.
Thecurtainsuddenlyclinkedasideandbackintoplace.“Toldyouyou’d
lookgreat,babe,”whisperedMardy.
Herbreathcaught.Shecoveredherfacewithherhands.Hervoice
drippedmortification.“OhmyGod,getout.”
Hegiggled.“Themanagerwillseeme.”Hewassoclosethathecouldn’t
not puthisarmsaroundherwaist—therewasnowhereelseforthem
togo.Hebenthisheadtohers,thesmellofchewinggummixingwith
tobaccoandhisownfaintmusk.“Areyougoingtobuyit?”
“Areyouactuallytakingthepiss?Iwanttoburn it.”
“Why?”Mardydrewbackasfarasthecubiclewouldallowandap-
praisedher.Shefelthishandswanderdowntopinchatthehem,check
itslength.“It’snice.Different.Youdo wantit,babe.Isawthewayyou
lookedatitinthewindow.”
Shereplied,“Itlookedbetteronthemannequin,”butwhatshemeant
was,it would look better on Sammy.Howtiredshewasofhavingtonavi-
gatethecraterthatgirlhadleftbehind.
“Er,no.”Hishandcuppedherbum.“Can’tdothistoamannequin.”
Shesnortedandsaid,“You’reanidiot.”Heshushedheranddrewher
faceintohischesttostifleherresponse,andtheystoodlikethatfora
longmoment.Hisheartbeatthroughhisjacket,sureandsteadyagainst
herforehead,andhisfingersslowlycurledintoherhairasadifferent
moodtookhold.Theirexhalationsweretooloudinthetinyspace.She
feltmovementinhistrousers.Theresponsefrombetweenherown
legs?Nothing.
17TheDeadlands
“Youneedtogo,”shewhispered.
Thecurtaintwitched.Hesighed.“She’sstandingrightthere.I’mgoingto
getabollocking.”
“Youshouldhavethoughtaboutthatearlier.”
Heshifted.Histonechanged.“Whatarethebulletsfor,Fridge?”
Theybothlookeddown.Amidherdiscardedclothes,theplasticbaghad
spilleditssecrets.
“Shooting,”shesaid.
“Shootingwhat?”Easyquestion,easierlie,andyetBridgetcouldn’tthink
ofone—rabbits,birds,beercans,anythingwoulddoexceptthisstrange,
guiltysilence.Thelongeritstretched,theangriershegot.Mardylow-
eredhisvoice.“Shootingwhat?”
“Oh,myself,Idon’tknow,”shesnapped.“Canyougetoutnow,please?
I’veaskedtwice.”
Withoutaword,hedashedforthedoor.Themanageryelledatthe
backofhishead,andthelookshegaveBridgetthen,you’dthinkshe’d
steppedinsomething.“Leave,beforeIcallthepolice!”Bridgetdidn’t
needtellingtwice;shewasalreadyjumpingintoherjeans.Sheranfrom
theshopthesecondshewasdecent—still,afterallthat,wearingtheslip
dress.Flusteredwithembarrassment,shehardlyfeltthecold.Atthe
nextalley,sheflungherbagandbradownandstartedbuttoningupher
top.
Mardywasalreadythere,gettinghiswindback.
“Are you okay,Fridge?”
18 TheDeadlands
Hesaidthewordwithsuchdelicacy,asifshe wasthecornereddog
abouttobite.
“Fridge?”
“Myname’sBridget,”shefiredback,“andI’mfine.”
“Sure?Youjustsaidyouweregoingtoblowyourheadoff.”
“Itwasajoke,Mardy.”Sheshovedherarmsintohercoatsleevesand
zippedupthefrontwithaquick,sharprasp.
“Areallybadone.”
“Well,”Bridgetserved—buttonsaskew,braswingingfromherhands,
shefoundherselfshoutingwithoutknowingwhy—“I’mgrieving,so.”
“Yeah,”hevolleyed,“you’vebeenthroughshit,Igetit.Butthiswhole
attitude,likeyou’rethefirstpersontoloseafriend,isgettingreally
fuckingold,Fridge.”
Lose?Lose?Sammywasn’tasetofkeys.
Shewasn’tafriend,either.Thefeelingswouldbecleaner,surely.The
griefwouldbesimple,withnosavagereliefmuddyingthewater.She’d
neverhadthecouragetoaskanyoneafterthecrash:Is it okay if I hated
her?
“Haveyoueverseen,”shesaid,voicetremblinguncontrollably,“some-
oneyouknowturnintomeat?”Hereyeslookedlikeglass:glistening,
eventhewhites.Sheheldupahandtostophisreply.“Shewasmeat,
Mardy.Roadkill.Herclothesweretheonlythingthatlookedhuman.”
Shegaspedforairthatwouldn’tcome.“Nooneshouldeverhavetosee
that.”
19TheDeadlands
Mardystartedforward.“You’rehavingapanicattack.”
“Don’ttouchme.”
Shechargedpasthimintothedullgreyofthestreet.Thescatteringof
peopletheremurmuredtoeachother—look,it’sthegirlwhosefriend
diedinthatawfulcrash—andBridgetturnedherbacktothem,gritting
herteeth.HowlonghadSammybeendead?Longenough,andyet
somehowBridgetwasstillbeingdefinedbyher.
Shehadn’thelpedmatters,ofcourse.Shehadn’tbrokennewground,
onlykepttothegroovesSammyhadcarvedforher.Thesamechoice
ofcollege,thesameclothes,thesamestompingground.Eventhesame
boy.Aratinacagepressingthesameoldbuttons,aslavetodopamine.
Nomore.Shepassedabeggar,acollectiontinforthePDSA,awishing
fountain,andshethrewcoinstheirwayuntilshehadnothingelseleftto
give.
Theysatfordinner,sheandGrandpaFrank,atthetinykitchentable.
Hecouldn’tabidechatatmealtimes,sotheyateinnearsilence;their
spoonsscrapedthebottomsoftheirbowlsandtheirmouthsworked
gingerlyaroundthemicrowavedlasagna.However,itwascompanion-
able.GrandpaFrankdidn’taskmuchofher—heneverhad.Notthe
mostpaternalofmen,hesimplygotonwithhisroutineasifshe’dnever
comehere,asifshewaspassingthrough.Sometimesheaskedabout
school.Exams.Neversexorthesanitaryproductsinthebathroom.Nev-
erSammy,forwhichshewasgrateful.Andeachnight,whenhefinished
hismeal,hewouldrinsehisbowlandspoonandsetthemtodrain,pop
openacanofCoke—asoleconcessiontosugar—andplantawhiskery
kissonthecrownofherheadwithoutsayingaword.
Tonight,shegraspedhishandashemadeforthelivingroom.He
glanceddownandfrowned.
20 TheDeadlands
“I’mheadingstraightup,”shesaid.
GrandpaFrankgesturedwithhisCoke.“Generation Game’sstarting.”
“It’stheeighteenth.”
Thedateofthecrash.Alwaysthedateofthecrash.Heneedednofur-
therexplanation.Hemutteredsomethinggruffabouttimepassingand
pattedhershoulder.“Sleepwell,then.”
“Youtoo.”
Offhewentinsearchofhisleatherrecliner,clearinghisthroatwitha
cough.TheTVmurmuredtolife.Shesatunmovingforawhileinthe
darkeningkitchen,untilsheheardGrandpaFrankscrunchupthecan
ofCokelikehealwaysdidwhenhewasdone.Shescrapedtherestof
hermealdownthesinkandwashedherbowlandspoon,placingthem
neatlyontopofhis,andhelpedherselftoaswigofmilkandaWagon
Wheel.Bythetimeshepaddedtothelivingroom,thehalftemazepam
she’dcrushedintohisfoodhaddoneitsjob.
Shedidn’tallowherselfanyguiltasshetuckedarugaroundhislegs.
Theshotgunhadabarktoit,andshedidn’twanttostartlehim.
Sheloadedtheshellsbytouchinthehallway.Onthatdimwinter’s
evening,electriclightfeltlikeanimposition.Plus,itwouldsuggestwake-
fulnesstoanyonelurkingoutside,and—shesnappedthegunclosed
withagrimace—BridgetwantedShucktolethisguarddown.Shewant-
edtobecloseenoughtohearawhimperwhenshepulledthetrigger.
Thegraveloutfrontwasrimedwithfrost.Everystepsentcrackswhisk-
ingacrosstheskeinofice,asifthehousepercheduponwater.She
pausedtolistenwhenthegroundfinallyturnedtonoiselessgrass.The
coldachedagainsthereyeballs.Sheheardthedistanthushoftireson
tarmacandthetickingoftheclockinthehousebehindher,butnothing
21TheDeadlands
organic—nocrickets;theyperishedinautumn,singinglullabiestotheir
eggs—nothinglivingexceptherownbreathandherownbloodthrob-
binginherears.
Shetiptoedbetweengrassandstone.YearsofSammyjumpingout
andscaringherbyshoutingWoof!inherfacehadtrainedhertoexpect
surprises;shedidn’tblinktwicewhenadarkshapeskitteredalongthe
treeline,snappingtwigsinitswake.Herglovewastoobulkyforthe
triggerguard.Shebititoffandreadiedafinger,wincingasherscarmet
theburnofcoldsteel.Thegunbucked,spittingshot.Theboomech-
oed,thencrackledasshottingedoffthetrees,beforesilencerestored
itself.Already,sheknewshe’dmissed;thepeacewastoothick,loaded.
Watchful.Sheglancedbacktowardthehouse.SheknewGrandpaFrank
laywithin,andyetitswindowsstaredgauntlyasifpluckedout.Asifthe
structurehadstoodemptyforyears.Itwasquiteadistanceaway,fur-
therthanshe’drealized.HadshegivenShuckroomtodoublepasther?
Herlipspeeledapart,skinsplitting.“Shit,”shewhisperedshakily.How
couldshebesostupid?
Frostdampenedeverything—feeling,fear,evenadrenaline.Witha
senseofunreality,Bridgetlumberedstifflyaroundthegarage,stepping
throughundergrowth,tocheckthebackofthehouse.Afterthat,she
wouldgoinside.Warmup.
Bridget?
Shehesitated,pinnedbetweenthewallofthegarageandahollybush.
Thevoicehadcometoherasiffromunderwater.
Shelookedoverhershouldertowardsthefrontdrive.
Bridget!
Tworedlights.
22 TheDeadlands
Shewhirledaroundtofacethem.Fired.
Thelightsfell;somethingheavyhitthegravel,gurgled.Steamlashed
thesharpair.Thewindbroughtironwithit.Shestared,shotgunlimpin
herhands.Astrange,twistedprotuberancespunintheair,roundand
round,accompaniedbyafastclick-click-click.
Like...likeabicyclepedalandchain.
Bikereflectors.
Mardy.
She’dshotMardy.
Halfwaytohisside,herlegsgaveout.Shewailedanapproximationof
hisnameandhervoicebroke,rippedbygrief.Starlightpickedoutthe
speckledtextureofhistorso:heglistenedlikegroundbeef.Shecrawled
towardshim;shetouchedhiswounds,expectingtosinkherfingersin-
sidehim,butfoundhimpepperedwithsomethingcoarseanddry.And
hestirred,conscious!Shegasped;atthatrange,buckshotshouldhave
torn him apart.
“Bridge,”hebreathed.
Shetouchedhisface.Itwasawonderhehad a face. The man at the
Store—hemusthaveswappedouttheshells,givenherrocksaltinstead.
Dangerous,butnotalwayslethal.Lessthanuselessagainstacreature
likeShuck.Shethrewtheshotgunasideindespair.
“Mardy,”shewhimpered.“I’mso—sosorry.”
“Iheardagunshot.”
23TheDeadlands
Shesobbed.Ofcourse he’dbeenonhiswaytocheckonher.Ofcourse
Mardywoulddothat.She’dfiredintothetreesandprobablyhastened
his coming.
Herchesthitched.“Ineedtogoandphoneanambulance.”
Whensheturnedaround,Shuckwasstandingoverthem.
Herhandmovedfortheshotgun—idiot;itwasunloaded,andwhatwere
theshellsinherpocketgoingtodo,exactly?—butShuckgottherefirst.
Astreakofwhiteteeth.Splittingpain.Shescreamedherselfhoarse,but
ofthetwosoulsnearby,onelaydying,theotherlaydrugged.Noone
wascomingtohelp.Heyankedherintothemurkofthetrees,andshe
triednottolookatherarmasthedog’steethdeglovedit,butshefelt
everyboneinherwristgrindtodust,andthoughtshewouldpassout.
Pastthetrees,acrossaditchintoopenmarshland,Shuckcametoahalt
anddroppedherruinedarmontothepale,frozengrass.Eachgreen
bladewasencasedasifbyglass—afieldofsparklingteeth,theirtiny
pointsreflectedintheskyfar,farabove.Alowerjaw,anupperjaw,and
thefensawettonguebetweenthemsoflatastodiscernthecurvature
oftheEarth.
ItstruckBridget,then,thatshehadbeenbroughtacrosssomebounda-
ry.Thatalthoughhe’dletgoofher,she’dneverleftShuck’smouth.
Shelaysprawledonthegroundforsometime,iftimecouldbemeas-
uredhere.Icecrystalsformedonherlashes.Slowly,thewildsreturned.
Araftspidertiptoedbesideherhead;afencricketburrowedintothe
richsoil;apairofdappledcurlewsgracefullydippedtheirdownturned
billsamongsttussocksofcocksfootandredfescueasthegiantdog
curledaroundherandlickedwarmthintohercheeks.Hisbreathwas
foul.
Will you never learn?
24 TheDeadlands
Atired,resignedsortofhatredsettledinherlimbs.Herheadlolled
awayfromhim,amillionteethstabbinghercheek.Severalyardsand
severallifetimesaway,bluelightsflashedonthesideoftheroad.Apo-
licecar.Anambulance.Ajackknifedhaulagelorry.Ifsheconcentrated,
sheknewshewouldrecognizethesmolderingremainsofamoped.Of
thesmearthathadbeenSammy,shesawnothing.
Awomaninahigh-visjacketwaslopinginBridget’sdirection,thebeam
ofhertorchsweepingthesmokingdebris,searching.Bridgetwatched
heradvanceforanage;shewatchedforsolongthatbyanyreasonable
physics,sheshouldhavebeenfound,butforallthewomanwalked,she
came no closer.
Oh,Bridget’sbodywasfound,certainly.Butthis momentwasonlya
simulacrumofthatone.Aholdingpen.Athresholdbetweenlifeand
everything after.
Heartsore,asshealwayswaswhenthetruthrushedbackin,Bridget
turnedawayfromthecrash.Shehadbeenheremany,manytimes.Had
failedtomoveonmany,manytimes.Atleastherendwascalm.Private.
She’dcrawledfarenoughawayfromtheaccidenttofindalittletran-
quility,whichturnedouttobeablessingandabalmwhenshesurfaced
rawfromeveryfailure.WhatmustithavebeenlikeforSammytoreturn
tothismoment,thatwretched,inhumanstate,againandagainasshe
reconciledwithherownDeath?
Notforthefirsttime,resentmentsoftenedintoaresemblanceofgrace.
Shucklayhismuzzleuponhisfrontpawsandlookedatherpityingly.
You tried to kill me again.
Untilsheacceptedhim,shewasstuckonaloop.Playinginfinitepro-
jectionsoverwhichshehadminimalcontrol.This,hehadexplained.
25TheDeadlands
Meanwhile,theworldcontinuedonwithouther.Whileshewaslucid,
sheasked,“GrandpaFrank?”
Is still safe and well. Mardy, too, though I don’t know why you fixate on that
boy. He thinks of you not one bit.Herfacecrumpledatthis.TheMardy
shealwaysconjuredwasnottheMardyshe’dknown.Shucksnuffledat
her neck. Peace, child. It is the way of things. Are you ready to try again?
Bridgetshookherhead.Shegraspedahandfulofhisgreasyscruff,tight
enoughtoimprintthesensationofafistontohermind.Somethingto
anchor her, force a reckoning. Something to give her courage for the
nextattempt.“Ineedaminute.”
A minute, a millennium. Hesighed,nostrilsflaringclosetoherfacelike
thetwinbarrelsofagun.I can give you all the time in the world, Bridget.
26 TheDeadlands
OPPENHEIMER IN VALHALLAMarissaLingen
An enterprising chooser of the slain
Thoughttoselecthim:notDeath,
Ashehadfeared,butsurelyHerbondsman
Thereforetostayandfight
Amongthebrightblades,hisownway.
Haberagreedreadily;Nobelwasrelieved
Toseethewoundsspringbackhealed
Eachnight,allforgivenatthefeast.
Theyhadseensad-eyedwarriorsbefore.Robert,
Chewinghispipestem,nervesstilljangled
Despitetheendofbreath,declined.
Wasknowledge,hardestwonwar,
Tofragmentandfaileverynightfall?No,
Time’sarrowwastoodear.Andhe
Hadstoodshouldertoshoulderonce
WithTellerandLeMay,onorder’sside.
Neveragain.Thevalkyriefrowned:butthen
Wouldheopposetheeinherjar?
Wouldhisblackholesdrawhimin
Totheswirlofchaosonelasttime,
TojointheJotunsatRagnarok?Againno:
Thebattlesoftheworldremain
Butnotforthismind’sdevising.
Neitherentropy’ssoldiernoritsfoe
Butgrievingwitnesstothefinalfission.
27TheDeadlands
THE THING THAT DOESN’T
DISINTEGRATEKateLechler
Myfirstskullwasaroadkilldeerintown.ItwasNovember,andIhad
beenamonthseparatedfrommyhusband,seeinghimonlyfordinner
atoursharedhomeacoupleoftimesaweek.Drivinghomeforoneof
thesedates,Isawastruckdoefloppedinthegrassacrossthestreet
fromthebigcemeteryinthemiddleofOxford,Mississippi.
“Iwantthatdeer’sskull,”ItoldhimwhenIgotthere.“Doyouwantto
helpmegetit?”
Mutilatingaroadkillcarcassofindeterminateexpirationdatewasabig
askofmypartially-estrangedhusband.Ononehand,hewasusedtoa
certainamountofunpredictability(whatIprivatelylikedtothinkofas
“delightfulchaos”)fromme.ButI’dalreadyputhimthroughoneofthe
biggestshocksofhislifewhenIhadcomehomeinOctoberandtold
him,afterseveralmonthsofmaritalcounseling,thatI’dfoundatempo-
raryplaceacrosstownandIwouldpackacouplebagsandstaythere
forawhile.
Hedidnotwanttohelpmegettheskull.
Iputinafewcallstofriendsandfoundsomeonewillingtoholdmy
flashlightwhileIhackedwithashovelatthevertebraeconnectingthe
headtotheneckandusedapairofshearstocuttheskin.Inthemiddle
28 TheDeadlands
ofthisprocess,theMethodistchurchnextdoorletouttheirWednesday
nightprayermeeting.Thefaithfulexitingtheparkinglotgotaneyeful
ofme,illuminatedbytheirheadlights,wearingdisposablepainter’s
coverallsandafacemask,gleefullymutilatingacorpsenearWilliam
Faulkner’sgrave.
Icarriedtheheadbacktoourhouseinagarbagebag,dugaholeinthe
backyard,anddumpeditin.ItlookedupatmewhileIcovereditwithdirt.
WhenImovedallofmystuffoutforgoodinMay,Ireturnedtothemound
ofearthI’dmarkedwithacoupleofbricks.Diggingdownthroughthe
softsoil,Iworriedatfirsttheskullhaddisappeared,beenscavenged
orrotted,ormerelydissolvedintotheground.Butthenyellowedbone
gleamedupatmethroughcrumblingdirt.ThesoilwhereI’dburiedithad
beentoomoist,andthebonehadstartedtodecompose,creatingdeep
cracksradiatingupfromthesnout.
Buttheincisorsfellloosefromtheskullintomyhand,afewivoryslivers
aboutthelengthofmythumbnail.Theteethwerepristine.
OnceIhadthatfirstskull,Igotatasteforit.Itquicklysnowballed,
friendsgettingonboardtotellmewherethey’dseenroadkillraccoons
orcallingmetocomeoverandcollectdeadsquirrelsormummified
frogsfoundinatticboxes.
Iwassurprisedbyhowimportantteethweretoidentifyingunknown
skulls.Thefirstquestionis,“Wasthisapredator,orprey?”,andthat’s
answeredwithonequickcheckforcanines.Pastthat,though,it’seasy
togetlostintheweedsofskullidentification.Ioncefoundonewithlong
yellowedincisorsthatcurledintotheskull,twiceaslongaswhatwas
stickingoutofthebone.Squirrel?Rabbit?Beaver?
Muskrat,itturnedout.
29TheDeadlands
Haveyoueverheldasingletoothinyourhand?Theyaretiny,ugly
things,instantlyrecognizableyetanonymous.Liketreeroots,they’re
bestleftmostlycovered.Theskull’ssmile,thatfinalliplessgrinatdeath,
exposeswhatsomeofusspendyearshidingfrom:thefrighteningreali-
tythatwewilldie.
Butsomethingofuswillstickaround,andit’slikelytobeourteeth.
Toothenamelisharderthansteel.Teethcansurvivecremationandare
usedtoidentifybodieslongaftertherestofushascrumbledorliqui-
fied.Once,Ihadanentirefoxskeletondisintegrateoverjustacoupleof
months;thesoilwhereI’dburiedithadbeentooacidic.Theteethwere
stillthere,though,clingingtoashardofjaw.Iworeoneasanearringfor
acoupleofdays,abrightpointeddartthroughmypiercedlobe,andfelt
raw,witchy.Primal.
BeforeIstartedcollectingskulls,Ihadn’tgivenmuchthoughttoteeth,
otherthantowonderaboutmyown.WhenIwasakid,oneofmyfront
teethstuckstraightoutofmymouth,likeatilt-upgaragedooropening.
Istillhavetheplastercastthattheorthodontistmadeandeverytime
Ilookatit,itshocksmehowintensethemisalignmentwas.Ihadmy
palatewidenedinfifthgrade,whichinvolvesafour-leggedmetaldevice
thatslowlybreakstheboneoftheuppermouthandjaw—stillcartilag-
inousbeforepuberty—andspreadsthemapart.Everymonthortwo,
theorthodontistwouldslidehisglovedhandintomymouthandturna
metalkeythatwouldwidentheexpanderanothermillimeterandcause
meaweekormoreofpain.Ihatedthesmellofthelatex,thescratch
ofthebracketsagainsttheinsideofmylips,thedullacheofmyyoung
boneslearningtospread.TheonlythingIlikedwaspickingthecolorsof
myrubberbands—hotpink,electricblue,andpurple.
Inhighschool,Ihadbracesagain,thistimetostraightenerrantteeth.
Ioptedforclearbracketsandrubberbands—anythingtodiminishthe
30 TheDeadlands
obviousnessofmydentalgear.ThedayIgotthemoff,Icouldn’tstop
lickingmyteeth,relishinghowstraightandslicktheywere.
Theydidn’tstaythatway,though.Despitethepalatewidening,myteeth
arestillcrowded,toomanyofthemjostlingforspaceinmyskull.
Whenwewereinmarriagecounseling,myhusbandcomplainedthatI
wasalwayschangingmymind.
“It’samidlifecrisis,”hetoldthetherapist.“Idon’tthinkshereallywants
toendthis.She’sjustgotanideainherhead,butthathappensallthe
time,andthenshemoveson.”
HebroughtupmyfascinationwiththemusicalHamilton,whichhad
beenintensebutultimatelywaned.Therewereseveralexamplesofthis
tendencytoobsessoversomethingandthenfullyabandonit.Supernat-
uralfanfic.Sewingandcrafting.Eatingonlylocalfoods.Itossedmyself
intomypassions,butinsixmonthsorayearI’dbeontosomethingelse.
Iwonderedifhewasright.WasIflighty,unabletocommittoanything?
Couldmyunhappinessbeaphase?WereallthethingsIwanted—travel,
sex,artisticsuccess,toownahome—temporarypassionsthatwould
diedownwithenoughtime?Fromhighschool,I’dalwaysrecognized
myselfassomeonefullofappetite.IwishedIhadtenlifetimes.Iwanted
todoandbeandfuckeverything.
Butmylongingsbegantocrowdeachother,cuttingmefromtheinside.
Teeth are, as Titus from Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidtsays,“bonesthat
liveontheoutside.”Humansusethemtobite,chew,talk,andemote.
Theyrepresentourbiggesturges.Thedrivetogrow,tochange,tonour-
ishourselves.Thedrivetofeelpainandpleasure.
31TheDeadlands
Yes,pleasure.Teethcanbesexy.Constantlypressedagainstourlips,
nestledinsideourcheeks,embracingourtongue.IntheEdgarAllanPoe
shortstory“Berenice,”amanfixatesonawoman’steeth,imagineshold-
ingthem,lookingatthemfromeveryangle.AfterBereniceisburied,
hegoesintoatranceanddigsupher(still-living,inoneversion)corpse
topullalltheteethoutofhermouth.Hewakesupcoveredindirtand
blood,withtheshovelandaboxofteethnexttohim.Youcanseehow
Poe(becausesomehowPoeseemstoinhabiteveryoneofhismalenar-
rators)mightbeentrancedbythem,mightwanttoslipafingerintoa
soft,warm,wetmouthtotracetheirhardness,teasetheirsharpedges.
Ormaybethat’sjustme.MaybeIwantmyfingersinyourmouth.
BecausewhenLadyGagasings,“Showmeyourteeth,”Ithinkaboutsex.
“Don’tbescared/I’vedonethisbefore,”Gagamurmursoverinsistent
drumbeats,likeabedframethumpingagainstawall.Becauseshe
knowswhatIknow,whatthebestloversknow—thepointofteethis,
well,thepoint.Thepressure.Thebiting.Thethrillofanincisoragainst
skin is the sharp pain of the present andthemarkleftbehind.Aremind-
erofpleasure,areminderofmortality.Thisishowclosewecame,it
says,tosomethingelse.Adifferentkindofanimal.
Ihadanastrologyreadingdone,andtheastrologersaidthatIshould
considerDemeter,thegoddessofgrainandtheharvest,thecycleoflife
anddeath,asapatrongoddess.Ithinkthishadsomethingtodowith
howmuchSaturnIhadinmychart.Akindofdeath-drivenenergy,a
fascinationwithendingsand,consequently,beginnings.
Idismissedthisrecommendationinitially.Sure,Imightcollectskulls,but
IneverfeltlikeIwasaDemetergirl.Shewastoosedate,agricultural,
matronly.Ifanything,IwasArtemis,thegoddessofthewilderness,the
moon,femaleindependence.OrpossiblyOdin,thewanderingone-eyed
sorcererwithhisravenmessengers,HuginnandMuninn.
32 TheDeadlands
AsIthoughtaboutit,though,IkeptrememberingPersephone,Dem-
eter’sdaughter,stolenawaybyHades,thegodofthedead,andtaken
torulebyhissideasthequeenoftheunderworld.Demeter’sgriefat
herlosswasall-consuming.Itendedharvestsandstartedaneternal
winter.Theonlywaytorestoretheworldtoorder,tosomesemblance
ofwholeness,wasforDemetertogetPersephoneback.
Buteventhen,shecouldn’tkeepherforever.
Myex-husband’steetharewhite,square,andeven,withthesmallest
hairlinegapbetweenhisfrontincisors.Setinawidemouththatiseven
widerwhenhesmiles,whichhedidoften.Bigteeth,bigmouth,bigman.
Nowthatwe’redivorced,IhavetogobacktoFacebooktoseehim,to
rememberhisteethexactly.Intheprocess,Igetcaughtuplookingat
oldphotosofus.Somanyhappytimes—atriptoStoneMountain,a
holidayinPrague,thefirsthousewelivedintogetheronMartinLuther
King,Jr.Avenue.Iexaminehowourfaces,ourhaircutschangedoverthe
yearsweshared.Rememberingmystripedpinkscarf,hisgreenvintage
TallahasseeParksandRecreationteeshirt,bothgonenow.We’velost
them,butwestillhaveoursamesmiles.
Didyouknowthatteethareoneoftheonlypartsofthebodythatcan-
nothealthemselves?
“Toothbuds”starttoformonthejawbonesixweeksafterconception.
Girls’permanentteethgenerallyemergebeforeboys’.
Arecentstudyoftheplaqueonamedievalwoman’steethrevealedtraces
oflapislazuli,whichhelpeddeterminethatshewaslikelyanilluminator,
33TheDeadlands
askilledmanuscriptartist,apositionhistorianshadn’tpreviouslybe-
lievedwomenheld.
Whenteethemerge,dentistscallit“eruption.”Likeavolcano,subtle
movementunderthesurfacebeforeaviolentchange.Theseimposter
bonestearingtheirwaythroughourfleshandoutintoourmouths,to
keeptearingourfoodforussothatourbodiescantransformthefood
intomoreflesh.Theteethmakingupforwhattheydestroyed.
Yearsago,beforemyhusbandandIdivorced,Iwasathischildhood
home,helpinghimandhisfathersortthroughmylatemother-in-law’s
belongings.Wehadmadeitthroughhercloset,herbathroomcabinets,
andwereworkingonexcavatingherbedsidetable.Amidhandmade
Mother’sDaycardsandthekids’ancientswimmingawardswasatiny
box,likeaplasticpirate’streasurechest.
Within,threesmallteeth,oneeachformyhusbandandhissiblings.
Iheldtheboxinmypalm,presentedittohim,thensetitasideasa
keepsake.ItfitwithwhatIrememberedofher:practicedhostess,
devotedmother,shufflingaroundthedimhouseinslippers,skinnylegs
protrudingunderherterryclothrobe,askingmeoncemorebefore
bedifIneededanything.Herownteeth,long,rectangular,stainedfrom
coffeeandcigarettes.Shedidn’tshowthemoften.Whenshesmiled
forthecamera,posingnexttoorbehindherkids,itwasdemure,abit
embarrassed,atingeof“ah,you’vecaughtme!”hangingaroundher
expression.
Butdiggingfartherdown,pastdetritusoffamilyvacationsandafourth-
gradereportcardnotingmyhusband’stendencytogoofoffinclass,
wefoundmoreteeth.Indrawstringvelvetjewelrybags.Intinymanila
folders.Inaflatboxwithcardboarddividers,eachtoothcarefullyplaced
likeakitchenutensil.Cuspids,molars,theoddincisor,somecleanand
34 TheDeadlands
shining,othersclingingtoshredsofoldblood,andonewithametal
braceepoxiedontoitsthinivorysurface.Whenwegottothebottom
ofthedrawer,receiptsandpicturesandbirthdaycardsremoved,there
werestillmorelooseteeth,rollingaroundamongthedustandgrit—too
many,Ifelt,forthreechildrentolose.
ThepartoftheDemeterstorythatIfindthemostpoignantisthe
tensionbetweenpermanenceandchange.Shegetsherdaughterback,
buthastoimmediatelyacceptthatshewillloseheragain.Againand
againandagain.WhenPersephoneleftHades,shepluckedthosethree
seedslikegarnetteethfromthemouthofthepomegranate,settinginto
motionaninescapablecycleoflossandreunion.Ofchange.
“Allchanged,changedutterly,”Yeatssaysinhiselegiacpoem“Easter
1916.”Hecallsthischange“Aterriblebeauty.”Theterror,Icansee.The
lastthreeyearsofmylifehaveincludedanaxis-shiftingdivorce,apublic
coming-out,anothershatteringbreakup,andaglobalpandemic.These
changeshavewrungandfrightenedanddepletedandexhaustedme;
they’vescratchedatmyspirit,tornmyself-image.I’msorry,Yeats,butI
struggletoseethebeautyinchange.
Except,maybe,whenI’mlookingataskull.
WhydidIwantthatdeerskulltobeginwith?
Afriendofminecollectednaturalcuriosities.Iwenttohishouseevery
nowandthen,wentforlongramblingwalkswithhiswifearoundtheir
propertywhilewetalkedaboutwritinganddogsand,always,eventually,
mymarriage.Beautiful,inspiring,intimateconversationsthatmademe
feellikeitwasnormaltobealittleunhappy.Itfeltgrown-up,evenar-
tistic,tohaveoneunderstandingofmymarriageathome—supportive,
fun,loving,thekindofdailydomesticeasemanypeopledreamof—and
35TheDeadlands
thenadifferentunderstandingwhenItalkedaboutmymarriagewith
friends.Iwasobsessedwithwhatwasn’thappening,allthesexIwasn’t
having,howachancetounderstandmyownqueernesshadalready
passedmeby,andthosedoorswereclosingforevernow.Theperson
Iwantedtobe—thepersonIcouldhavebeen—wasrecedingfromme
and,naturally,itwasmymarriage’sfault.Butthispassage-of-timestuff
wasiconic,too.IthoughtaboutalltheunhappymarriagesIsawonTV
andfilm,alltheDonandBettyDraperslivingbeautifulbutpassionless
livesintandem.Marriagewasn’tglamorousanymore;whatwasglamor-
ouswasbeingquietly,stoicallydisappointedbymarriage.
Aftertheseconversations,I’dgoinsidemyfriend’sbeautifulhomeand
lookathiscollection.Hagstones,rockswithnaturalholesinthem.A
bonefromawalruspenis.Abigbullskullcoveredinturquoise.Hehad
anentirebookshelffullofbones,jarsoffeathers.Iwantedthesethings,
andmorethanthat,Iwantedtobethekindofpersonwhowouldhave
thesethings.Someoneintouchwithnature,someonewiththekindof
sightthatwouldgooutintotheworldandnoticeaninterestingknot-
hole,knowhowtotellaswallows’nestfromawrens’.
WhenIdecidedtoharvesttheskullfromthatroadkilldeer,Ididn’tknow
atthetimewhatIwantedfromit.IfIwastryingtobeedgy,tofigureout
unusualwaysIcouldbreakoutofastultifyingtraditionalheterosexuali-
ty,orwasjustunhappyandneedingathrillthatwasn’tsex.
ButIknownowthatitsparkedsomethinginme,anurgetocollectthe
world’ssmall,hidden,hardthings.Toholdtheminmyhands,display
theminmyhome.Andmostofalltopreservethethingthatdoesn’t
disintegrate.Torememberthat,underneaththemuscleandskinand
furandeverythingelsethatchangesandshifts,somethingsremain.
WhenIfinallygottothebottomofmymother-in-law’sbedsidedrawer,
Ihadstoppedfeelingtenderandawed,hadstoppedlaughing.Itwasn’t
36 TheDeadlands
cuteanymore;itwasuncanny.Ibrushedthedozensofbabyteethout
ofthedrawerintothegarbagecanwiththebladeofmypalm,then
wipeditonmyjeans,tryingtoridmyselfofthefeelofteeth.Wherehad
theyallcomefrom?Andwhyhadshekeptsomany?Therewassome-
thingstrangehere,somethingIcouldn’tunderstand,thatIdidn’tfeel
comfortablelookingtoocloselyat.
Now,severalskullslater,Iknow.WhenIthinkaboutwhatpartofmyself
isgoingtoremain—tooutlastmymarriage,thepandemic,thisseason
ofdecayandloss—Iunderstandwhysomeonemightholdontowhatis
smallanddurable.
Shedidn’twantthingstochange.
37TheDeadlands
ASTYNOME, AFTERMike Allen
TheFatespersistinfractallayers,
thetapestrytheyweave
spreadsfingers,gripsskeins,
theworkitselfaweaver,
thatwindsyetanothercopy
throughthewarp,pilingcolors
until the shuttle gives rise
to coils of minute artisans,
whowindthereversesides
of countless lives until the scene
thatdrawsmeoutarrives,
threadingstoneandflesh,
kings,priestsandgenerals.
Shipshighinthebackdrop,
goddessessqueezedtothemargins,
moving pieces of a single surface
thatcanonly,youbelieve,
beunboundbybladeorfire;
Ikneel,stitched,between
myfatherandmycaptor,
studiouslyrecordingnotes
asmybodyisbartered,
auditorofmyownplunder,
orsothethreadhascastme.
38 TheDeadlands
Thementhatsurroundme
gaze at each other, my cage
strungbylinesofsight.
YetonotherplanesItooweave,
notmorecopiesbutareprieve,
yourlightandcunningthewarp
youprovidewithoutknowing.
Mapwhatmyreedhasmarked,
stringdarkwhorlsintoletters,
mouthawordtoguidemyweft,
spinplaguefromthewrathfulsun.
Echoesacrosscenturiesstill
hammer tremors of the scourge
thatmadeAgamemnonquake.
Sicknessgelsinshadows
thatnolightwilldispel
untilyouhavefreedme,
grantedmethefinalspree
begunbythemyopicdreamers
whoreturnedmetomyfather
andleftmythreadtrailing
intheLethe.Fromthefluid
inyourspineandthroat
Iwadeashore,mycords
woundaroundyours,worms
loopedaroundthewoodenhook
thattwinesthemtothesurface.
Ipeeroutthroughyourwindows.
Iamowed,owedoutlets
forpent-upcombustionandshocks.
Ideservetoslashtheholy,
burnthepriceless,dropantiquity
39TheDeadlands
threestoriesandgiggle
asitshattersandfissions.We
willwindmynewfate
fullfrontal,wewillbrave
Ptolemy’swobblingspheres,
hoppingfromdisktodisk,
andattheedgeoftheuniverse
we’llpaytheMoiraiacall,
you keep them talking
whileItransmutetheirspunwool
intoagunpowderfuse.
40 TheDeadlands
BONEFIELDSMargaretRonald
Hehadbeenbornwithathickwebofskinbetweenthefirstandsecond
fingersofhisrighthand,supposedlyasignofbadblood.Thathadn’t
beenwhyhe’dcutthehandoff,butitwasapassablereasonifhehadto
give one.
“That’snotwhatyousaidlasttime,”saidthegirlasshepushedherway
throughthecrowd.“Lasttimeyousaid—”shepausedtoduckunder
thearmofamancarryingthreepluckedchickens,“—you’dhadtocutit
offafteramemberoftheGoldmarkbrotherhoodrecognizedyourclan
tattoo.”Twowomenshovedpasther,andshegrabbedRhode’scloakto
keepfromgettingcrushed.
“DidI?”Hemusthavebeenfeelingimaginative.Thatwasgettingrarer.
“Well,thenthat’swhathappened,”hesaid.Themerchantsdidn’tbother
him;notmanypeoplebotheredamanafoottallerthanmostandwith
a face like stone.
“Andthetimebeforethatyousaidyou’dlostitasthepenaltyforrob-
bingawizard.”
“Ah.”Rhodelethisgazeslidepasthertotheclosestmarketstall,where
awomansoldbundlesoffreshbluestalk.Peoplepassedinbrightblobs,
theiridentitiesreducedtoahazeofgarbledsoundandsmell.
41TheDeadlands
Thegirlelbowedhim—gently,though;she’dlearnedthatatleast.“So
whichisit?”
Heshrugged.“Pickone.”
Shesighedandthrewupherhandsinatheatricalgestureundoubtedly
learnedfromthetravelingsideshowthey’dbeenwithuntilyesterday.
“You’rehopeless.”
Henodded.Itwasagoodword.
Thiswasaboutassmallamarkettownasitwaspossibletofindonthe
mainroads.Ruralcountry;“cow-screwingcountry,”soBronzeMichel
hadcalledit;old-godscountry.Stheutes’scountry,wherethewhite
stonesrosefromthebonefields.Thefragmentsofspeechhebothered
tohearhadagutturalaccent;hesupposedhehadoneaswell,even
after his years in the city.
HissisterLinnethadtriedtoeraseheraccent,wantingtosoundmore
authoritative.Theirfatherhadlaughed,sayingitdidn’tmatterwhatshe
soundedlike,sinceRhodewouldbetheonefollowinginhisfootsteps.
Rhodehadalwaysbeencarefulnottorespondtothat.
Thegirltuggedhiselbowagain.“Wecouldpickupsomesilverhere.”
Hestareddownather,andforamomentsawLinnetinherplace,and
thechillinhimcouldnotforoncebeattributedtohisownaffliction.
“Icouldjuggle,”shewenton.“Youcouldliftafewcowsone-handed—
well,ofcourseone-handed;whatImeantwas—”
“No.”
“Thinkaboutit.Thesehicksprobablyhaven’tseenadecentshowsince
themoonwasinitsegg.Justaten-minuteperformance—”
42 TheDeadlands
“Isaidno.”
Thegirlsighedagain.Hergazeshiftedtooverhisshoulder,andshe
wentpalebeneathheroliveskin.“Damn.Look,canwegetmoving?
Forgettheshow,let’sjustgetonoutofhere.”
Aman’svoice,wheedlingandhigh,rangoutoverthemarket,andRho-
de’sskinwentcold—well,colder.“—foursilverforalesserresurrection,
andtheblessingofStheutesisyours,preservedforeverbythegod’s
bounty!Stintnot,friends,lestyourdepartedlovedonessighatyour
miserableparsimony!”
WasitRanulph?Heraisedhisheadtolook,rememberingintimetopull
upthehoodofhiscloak.No,theshoutingmanwasEgaron,oneofRan-
ulph’soldfriends.Hisfacewarmedwithadullflushofrelief.Hehadn’t
plannedonmeetingRanulphawayfromtheshrine;tomeethimnow
wouldhavemeantachangeinplans.AndRhodewasn’tsurehestillhad
theflexibilityforthatnow.
ButEgaronwashere,anditwasalltooobviouswhohadhiredhim.His
stallwastoowell-builttobetemporary.Postshadbeensunkintofoun-
dationstones,andtheceilingwasslopedtoshuntrainontothesagging
slatsofthenextstall.Egaronharanguedthecrowdfromalittledais,the
whiteskull-maskofStheutespaintedonapurplebannerbehindhim.
Toeithersidestoodstatuesoftherecentdead,halftheheightofthe
peopletheyrepresented.Stheutes’sbounty.Rhodeclosedhishandinto
afist.
Thegirlshookhisarm,thencursedandtriedtohidebehindhim.Itdid
nogood;ahandshotpastRhodeandgrabbedherbythewrist.“Sothis
iswhereyou’vegotto,Mongoose!”avoiceboomed.
“Letgoofme!”Shetwisted,sankherteethintothehand,andtriedto
pullaway.“Block,helpmeouthere!”
43TheDeadlands
“Block?”Themanwho’dcaughtthegirl—Mongoose?No,thatwasn’ther
name—tookastepforwardtofaceRhode.“Damn.Didn’texpectyou.”
Block.WhowasBlock?Yes—they’dcalledhimtheBlockintheside-
show.Ranulphhadsometimescalledhimasthickasablock.AndLinnet
hadcalledhimafool,whentheirfathercouldn’thear.Helookedaway
fromEgaron’sstallandfocusedontheman—Ophit,theheadofthe
sideshow.“Whatdoyouwant?”
Ophitreddened.“Well,it’snotsomuchwhatIwant,aswhattherestof
theshowwants.See,Mongoosehere—”
“Mynameisn’tMongoose!”thegirlspat.“It’sWist!”
“Mongoosestoleourpayroll,”Ophitcontinuedsmoothly.“Ofcourse,I
hadnoideayouwereworkingwithher...”Hetriedasmile.
Rhodeglancedfromhimtothegirl—whatwashername?She’djust
saidit;hismemorywasslowing,liketherestofhim—andthentoEga-
ron’sstall.Egaronhadn’tnoticedhim,thoughhemightifthiswenton.
Rhodelaidhishandonthegirl’sshoulderinthegripSkaldSix-Bladed
hadtaughthim,theonethatdidn’thurtbutpromisedpain.“Giveme
themoney.”
Not-Mongooseglaredupathim,blackhairfallingacrosshereyes.He
couldseeherthinkaboutlying,butinsteadshesworeandproduceda
thickpacketfromunderhertunic.
“Thankyou,”Rhodesaid,takingthepacket.Somethingskitteredon
thebackofhisneckasheturnedaway,andheheardthegirlgasp.He
lookedtoseeherbackingaway,abrokenknifedanglingfromherhand.
“Stopthat.”
44 TheDeadlands
Ophitchuckled.“Mongoose,you’reafool.Didyouthinkthebladeswe
brokeonhisbellyeveryshowwerefakes?Whydoyouthinkwebilled
himastheHumanStone?”
“Name’snotMongoose,”shemumbled,stillstaringattheshattered
blade.
Rhodeunrolledthepacket.“Theseareforme,”hesaid,takingoutthree
goldcoins,thenthreemore.“Theseareforher.”
“Thelittlefool’snotworthhalfthat,”Ophitsneered.
Rhodelookedathim,andthesneerwilted.Hetookanotherthreegold
fromthepacketandtossedtheresttoOphit.“Thesearefortheendof
herapprenticeship.”
Ophitlookedlikehemightargue,butRhodeturned,sothatthebroken
bitsofknifecaughtinhiscloaksparkled.“Er.Thanks,Block.Beseeing
you.”
Thegirlwasstillglaring,thoughshaken,whenheturnedbacktoher.
Shewasalert,heremembered,andsmart,andhecouldusesomehelp
forpartoftheway.Hetossedhersixgoldcoins,thenheldupthelast
three.“I’mhiringyou.”
“Forwhat?”
Hehandedheroneofhiscoins.“Gobuythreelanterns.Goodones.
And—”hepausedamomenttocalculate,“—twooftheredjarsofoil,
withthebluestamp.”
Shelookedatthecoininherhand.“Ifyou’rehiringmeforyourdoxy,”
shesaidinarush,“Iwon’tdoit.Ihadenoughofthatinthesideshow,
andI’mnotgoingback.”
45TheDeadlands
“I’mnot.”Hewaiteduntilshelookedupathim.“I’mhiringyoutokeep
meawake.”
Shegavehimabaffledlook,butnoddedanyway.Onceshewasgone,
heturnedhisglacialgazetoEgaron’sstall.Egaronhadgoneinside,
probablytobilkanothermourner.
Rhode’sfatherwouldhavetorndownthestall,trampledthebanner
underfoot,andproclaimedEgaronexilefromthebonefields,excommu-
nicatedforsellingwhatshouldbefreetoall.Rhodeonlygazedatthe
skull-maskandthoughtofhissisterandtheshrine.
HaditjustbeenRanulph’sinfluencethatbroughtthewholethingdown?
Ranulphhadn’thadmanyscruples,itwastrue,butayoungerRhode
hadn’tthoughthimcapableofmurder.Couldtheshrinereallyhave
beensomuchofaprize?WhatsortoffightwouldLinnethaveputupin
hisabsence?
Thegirlwasbackforafullfiveminutesbeforehenoticedher.“Igotyou
thelanterns,”shesaidsullenly.
“Thanks,”hesaid,inspectingwhatshe’dbroughthim.Twowereplain
bronzeandglass.Thethirdwaspiercediron,wroughtsothatthewick
andoilfloatedinthemiddleofthelanternandwouldshineoutofthe
bottomaswellasthesides.Ononesideofthelanternwasacrudely
hammeredskull.Hehelditupsothatironmaskandpaintedmask
facedeachother.
“Nowwhat?”Not-Mongoosesaid.“Gotanymoreshopping?”
“No.”HewrenchedthesymbolofStheutesoffandtosseditontothe
boardsofEgaron’sstall.Lethimfinditandthinkitanomen.“Comeon.”
46 TheDeadlands
Shefollowed,butkepttalking.Itseemedtobeapermanentfeature.
“Whatwasthatplace?Youkeptstaringatit,andyoudidn’tevennotice
whenIpokedyou.Whatdotheysellthere,statues?”
“Heissellinguseofthebonefields,”hesaid.
“Oh.Youmeanlikebuyingagraveyardplot?”
“No.”Hequickenedhispace.“Thegraveyards—thekindyouhaveinthe
cities—arepoorimitationsofthebonefields.Youcityfolkplayatplant-
ingyourdead,andraiseastoneabovethem...Ifaskeletonisplantedin
thebonefields,theearthwilldevouritandreturninitsplaceanun-
breakablestatueoftheperson,bonemadestone.”
Thegirlwassilentamoment.“Youknow,”shesaidfinally,“Istillcan’ttell
whenyou’retellingthetruthandwhenyou’redeliberatelyconfusingme.”
“Yes.”Mostcityfolkpreferredtoscoffatthebonefields,evenifthey
botheredtolearnaboutthem.Thefirsttimehe’dseenagraveyard,
aweekafterlosinghishand,he’dthoughtsomeonehadplantedthe
boneswrong.Sohe’dgoneinwithachiseltofixthem.Thathadearned
himanightinthelockup,whichwaswherehe’dmetSkaldSix-Bladed,
who’deventuallyintroducedhimtoBronzeMichel.BronzeMichelhad
someassassinsafterhim,andithadamusedhimtohaveaone-handed
bodyguardtothwartthem,evenifsaidguardwasalittlenaïveabout
the city.
Hestruckthestumpofhisrighthandagainsthisthigh.Inthosedays
he’dwornaboiledleathercapoverthatstump,setwiththreeshort
blades.Ithadalwaysbaffledtheassassinstobeconfrontedbya
one-handedmanusingtwoweapons.
Ithadbeengoodwork.Certainlyitwasgoodforaformerdevoteeof
Stheutesusedonlytotendingthebonefields.Rhodehadevenenjoyed
theunfamiliarityofit;onlyhisstrengthandskillmattered,notwhathe’d
47TheDeadlands
learned,notwhoworkedthefields.Notwhowasfirstborn,andthere-
forewouldbepriestaftertheirfather.
Heglancedbackatthegirl,realizedhewascomparinghertoLinnet,
andlookedawayagain.
Thesun’sglowhadalmostdisappearedbeforetheystopped,andthen
theypausedonlytofillthelanterns.“Youwalkbehindme,”hesaid,“and
keepthelightonmyback.I’llcarrythisoneupfront.”
“That’lltellanybanditswe’rehere,”thegirlsaid.
Heglancedather.“You’reworriedaboutthem?”
Itwasalmostajoke,unusualforhim,anditstartledherintosmiling.
Shehadanicesmile,hethought.Itwastoobadtheyhadn’tmetearlier.
Notthatitwouldhavechangedthings.
“Whenwereyouplanningonstopping?”sheasked.
“We’renot.”Hetappedthesideofhislanternandadjusteditswick.
Thegirlgavehimaskepticallook.“Wedidn’tstoplastnighteither.
You’renottired?”
“No.”Wearinesswasonlyanotherburdenamongmany.
“Ah.ThenI’mnoteither.”
Hegottohisfeetandwincedasathinlineofpaintwineduphisankle.
“Onemoment.I’llcatchup.”
48 TheDeadlands
Inthelightofthebonefieldslantern,itlookedasbadasitfelt:afaint
smudgeofwhiteunderthehardfleshofhisleg,justwheretheankle-
bonepressedagainsttheskin.Hedidn’thavemuchtimeleft.
Heturneddownthecuffofhistrouserandstoodbackup,muscles
grindinglikemillstones.Thegirllookedathimaskance.“What’sthe
matter,Block?”
“Don’tcallmeBlock.”Thethoughtknockedupagainstanassociated
one.“Yourname’snotMongoose.”
“Verygood,Block.”Shetriedforsarcasm,butthenervousnessinher
voiceundercutit.“It’sWist.That’sthesixthtimeintwodays.”
“Ah.Wist.”Heraisedhislantern,checkedthewick,andstarteddownthe
road.
“Whydoweevenneedthesethings?There’safullmoon,theroad’s
prettyclear—”
“Lightslowsit,”hesaidwithoutthinking.“Sunlight’sbest,butlamplight
works...‘Digbyday,don’twalkbynight,’thatwastheproverb...There’s
nodarkerplacethanundertheground.”
Heglancedbackafteramoment’ssilencetoseealookoffascinated
horroronherface.Itmadeherlookyounger,closertoherrealage.
“Keepwalking,”hesaid.
“You’resick,aren’tyou,Block?”
Hedidn’tanswer.Sickwasn’tthewordforit.
“WillIgetsicknow?”
“No.”Heknewthatmuch.“Keepthelightonme.”
49TheDeadlands
Theroadwasflatandmonotonous,enoughthatitwaseasytodoze
offeveninfullsun.However,therewererootsandrutsthatwaitedto
tripupsleepwalkers,andoneofthesecaughtthegirlsometimeafter
moonset.Rhodefeltthechillofthelightoffhisbackbeforeheheard
theclatterandcurse.Whenheturned,shewascrumpledontheroad
whereshe’dfallen,lanternstoeitherside.
Hegazedatherforalongmoment,thenflexedthefingersofhisleft
hand.Theystillmoved,butnotwell.Hehadtimeforadelay;nottime
for sleep.
Ittookafewminutes’worktoattachoneofthelanternstohisbelt,so
thatitshoneitsinadequatelightoveronesideofhim.Bythattimethe
girlwasalmostonherfeetagain.Againstherprotests,hepickedherup
andbalancedthebonefieldslanternonherchest,tuckedsoitwouldn’t
scorchher,andkeptwalking.
Thegirlcomplained,butnotenoughtostayawake.Hegazeddown
atherwhenhecouldsparehisattentionfromtheroad.Therewere
scarsinherhairlinethathehadn’tseenbefore,scarslikethekindSkald
Six-Bladed’swiretoolsleft.Foramomenthewassorryhehadn’tkilled
Ophit,buttherewasnopointinit.Nopointinlikinghernow—perhaps
ifhe’dbeenyounger.Ifhehadn’tworkedunderBronzeMichelsolong.
Ifthefrostbeneathhisskinhadstayedaway.
Atfirsthe’dthoughtitwasjustthepricetopayforhisagelessfaceand
unyieldingstrength.Thenhe’drememberedhishand,howhe’dhadto
cutasecondtimeonseeingthewhitesmearsrisinginhisflesh,and
he’dgonetolookforhelp.
Herememberedcountlesshoursinthecirclesofthecity’swizardswhile
theyconsultedeachotherandarguedandtestedhimwithspellafter
spell.Hegavethemsomuchbloodhethoughthe’dturntranslucent,
andoneevenaskedforatoe-bone.Intheend,alltheycouldtellhim
50 TheDeadlands
wasthatitwasafascinatingmalady,worthyofyearsofspeculationand
study,thatithadneverhappenedbefore,andthatitwasirreversible.
Harshwordsforagod’sbounty.
He’dtriedtogetatimeestimatefromthemandfailed.He’dpressured
them(thiswaswhenhestillworetheblades)andlearnedthattheyreal-
lyhadnoideahowmuchtimehehad.Onewizard,aweedyandtwitchy
type,hadofferedafewspeculationstomakeupforhislackofknowl-
edge.Beforetheend,thewizardtoldhim,hisentirebeing,includinghis
thoughts,wouldslowashepetrifiedfromthegroundup.Thelastimage
hesawwouldremaininhisstoneeyesforaverylongtime.Maybefor
eternity.
Thatwaswhenhe’dbeguntoplan.Andthoseplanshadledhimtotrav-
elwiththesideshowandmeetthisparcelofthievery.
HecouldtellhimselfhewasgoingbackforLinnet,whomusthave
beencastoutonceRanulphhadhishandsonthebonefields.Butshe’d
alwaysbeenstrangetohim,tooavidinherstudiesofthebonefieldsin
awaythathadchilledhim.Memoriesofcominguponherinthefields
whilesheexaminedthebonesrosetothesurfaceofhismindandwere
pusheddownagain.Therehadbeensomethingcoldabouther,ever
sincetheywerechildren.
Hewasn’tgoingbacktoclaimthefields.Henolongerhadanytiethere.
Hewasn’tangrythatRanulphhadtriedtokillhim.He’dbeensoonce,
buttimehadscoureditaway.Butamurderwasn’teverything.
No,hewasgoingbackforwhatelsehadbeendonetohim.Forhisburi-
alinthebonefields.Forthewhitepatchesonhischest,thehardeningof
hisskin.Forthedreamsinwhichhetastedsourearth,clawedatthedirt
fillinghiseyes—andjustbeforewaking,hewouldalwayshavehishand
51TheDeadlands
back,andhewouldalwaysfeeltheslowprickleastheearth—Stheutes’s
bounty—begantodevourhim.
Forthat,hewantedrevenge.Heshiftedthegirl’sweightandkeptwalking.
Whenthesunrose,hewashalfwayupahill,stillcarryingthegirl.He
hadn’tevenfallen,onlystoppedinhistrackslikeawearyox.
Thegirlwokebeforehim,anditwashergaspthatbroughthimoutof
sleep.Shestaredupathim.“Block,what’swrongwithyou?”
Hesetherdownandtouchedthenervelesspatchonhisneck,where
thelighthadn’treached.“Alotofthings.”Heunhitchedthelastlantern,
pinchedoutthegutteringwick,andhandedittoherwiththelasttwo
coins.“Go.Idon’tneedyouanymore.”
“That’salie.IwaswithOphitlongerthanyou,Block;Iknowlying.”
Hedidn’tanswer,justwalkedon.Whenheheardherlightfootstepsbe-
hindhim,hepaused.“Rhode,”hesaid.“MynameisRhode.Rememberit
ifyou’recoming.Ifanyonesaysit,tellme.”
“Iwill,”shesaid,buthervoicequavered.
Thefirsttownsfolkrecognizedhimashepassedthecommonfields.
Childrenwatchingaftertheirfamily’sonecowglancedupandaway
incuriously,buttheoldwomenwiththemstaredindisbelief.“They’re
talkingaboutyou,Block,”saidthegirl.“ImeanRhode.”
“Ihear.”Hetriedtorememberhernameagainandonlycameupwith
PolecatorFerret,neitherofwhichcouldberight.“Keepwalking.”
52 TheDeadlands
Theywalkedon,drawingneartothebonefields,andsohewaspre-
paredforheryelpandstumble—thoughnotforhowshetreadedonhis
feetinregainingherbalance.“Whatthehellisthat?”
Heraisedhiseyestothefields,unnaturallybrightgreenspeckledwith
white,likeasheeppastureseenfromfaraway.Shewasquick;she’d
figureitout.Andshedid,shiveringandforkingherfingersatthefrag-
mentspokingthroughtheturf.“Rhode,Iknowthey’resupposedtobe
sacred,buttheygivemethecoldshivers.”
“Yes.”Herememberedwalkingamongthosestatues,thewhitefaces
andhandsreachingforthesky.Rememberedhoursspentwithhis
father,learningahistoryandadutybelievedsacred.Howtocarefor
theboneandstone,howtosurviveifhehadtobeinthefieldsafter
sundown,howtonurturethechangingstatues.AlltheritesofStheutes,
ofmemory,thesameritesRanulphnowusedtowringmoneyfrom
weepingfamilies.
Andyettherewasalwaysthesourtasteofearthandthepricklinginhis
righthand.
“There’snothingsacredaboutthem,”hesaid,harsherthanhe’dmeant
to.“Nothing.”
Thehomehe’dgrownupinwasnowmuchbiggerandprettier,witha
secondstorybuilton.TheshrineofStheuteshadbeenrepairedalittle,
butnotnearlyasmuchasthehouse.Newgildinglimnedthedoor,but
theshrine’sfrontpillarssaggedandleanedtowardeachother.
“Waithere,”hetoldthegirl—whatwashername?Thist?Shenodded,
uncharacteristically quiet.
AsRhodesteppedovertheboundarybetweenhouseandshrine,the
dooropened,andRanulphemerged,whistling,withabundleofsticks
53TheDeadlands
underonearm.Themerrytunediedwithahiss,andRanulphpaledto
thecolorofthestatues.“Rhode?”
“Yes.”Rhodedidn’tstop—ifhestoppedmovingnow,he’dneverstart
again.“Youtriedtokillme.”
Ranulphblinked,thenglancedattheshrineandseemedtocometoa
decision.“Yes.Yes,Idid—Rhode,Ithoughtyouweredead—”
“Ihopeso.”Hetookanotherstep—Ranulphhadn’teventriedtoflee—
andlaidhishandonRanulph’sshoulder,likeafriendofferingcomfort.
“Doyouknowwhathappenstoalivingbodyinthebonefields,Ranulph?
Abodyundertheground,awayfromthelight?Itisn’tjustbonethat
changesdownthere.Stheuteswilltakefleshtoo.”
Asifsummonedbyhisspeech,daggersofcoldsankintohisfeetand
workedtheirwayup.Whitepatchesblossomedoverhisstill-hidden
skin;soontheywouldbevisible.Ranulphbackedaway,buttoolate;
he’dgivenhimselfnoroom,andRhodewastooclose.
Rhodeflexedhisfingers,bonesaudiblycreaking,andlacedthem
aroundRanulph’sthroat.Ranulphsqueaked,butRhode’sgraspwasset.
ThisiswhatIwantedtosee,hethought,whatIwantedfixedinmyeyes
asIdie.“Doyouknowwhathappens?”herepeated.
“Ido,”awoman’svoicesaidbehindhim.Notthegirl’s.
Heforcedhismusclestoturnasstonecreptthroughhisveins.Thegirl
wasalmostwithinarm’sreach,attheedgeofthegarden,andbehind
herstoodawomanhewouldhaveknownnomatterhowmanylines
timewroteonherface.Linnet.Hissister.
SheworethegraysurcoatofStheutes’sanointed—theirfather’ssur-
coat—butthehorn-handledknifesheheldtothegirl’sthroatwasno
toolofthepriesthood.“I’vehadtimetowonder,andtimetofindout.
54 TheDeadlands
Wefoundyourhand,butnevertherestofyou—I’dwonderedhowfar
youcouldgowiththebonefieldsinyou,butI’dneverhaveguessed
youcouldgotwentyyears.”Shesmiled,anditwasthesamecoldsmile,
strippedofanyinnocence.“NowwecanplaceyourstatuebesideFather’s.”
“Linnet—”
Shedidn’thearhim.“Nowletgoofmyhusband,orIcutyourdoxy.And
believeme,I’llburyherstillbreathingifhecomestoharm.”
Hedrewbreath—he’dalmostforgottentobreathe—andreleasedRan-
ulph,whosanktohisknees.“Linnet—you—”
Helurchedbackwardblindly,twistingtoreachher.Butthestonehad
workeditswaytoofarintohim,andhisbonesgavefirst.Something
snappedashiskneesgroundthemselvestosplinters.Heroaredandfell
asfarasthestonewouldlethim,crumpledoverhispetrifyinglimbs.
Linnetshookherhead.“You’restillafool,Rhode.”
Thegirl—Twisp?Quis?—snarledandwrenchedhissister’sarmaway.
“Don’tyoucallhimthat!Blockandmearenofools!”
ShetwistedoutofLinnet’sgraspinamovethatwasdefinitelypartof
thesideshow,andherfootcaughtthebackofLinnet’sknee.
Off-balance,Linnetstumbledandfell.Hedraggedhisleadenarmsto
catchher,expendinghislastmomentsofmobility.Sheshriekedashe
grabbedherbythewrist,andtheknifetumbledtotheearth.White
bloomsrosetothesurfaceofhisskinandspread,hisfingersashackle
thatcouldnotbeundonenowevenifhehadwantedtoletgo.“The
stoneofStheutesisunbreakable,”hemurmured,justloudenoughfor
hertohear.“Youcangetawayfromme,Linnet,butyou’llhavetolose
whatIlost.”
55TheDeadlands
Sherealizedwhathemeant,andherscreamsgrewshrill.Craven,he
thought;comparedtohisfate,herpunishmentwasmuchlighter.
“Rhode!”Wistcried.
Themusclesofhisneckcreakedandprotested,butheforcedthemto
movetillhecouldseeher.Wistkneltinfrontofthegarden,astrick-
enlookonherface.Hetriedtosmile,toreassureher,butthestone
reachedhisfaceashislipsformedthebarestcurve.Thensightfroze
forever,leavinghimtheimageofhertryingtosmileback.
Itwas,thelastsparkinhismindtoldhim,notsuchabadvisiontohave
for eternity.
56 TheDeadlands
The House of Ill WatersR.B.Lemberg
Turnback
fromtheseprecipices,
wherethewindstrikesitswindharpwithjaggedfingersofrockandbone.
Sure,youdied,butthat’snottherare
jewelyouthinkitis.Youdon’tget
tocallmeasifyouownme,asifyouknowme,
toaskforanythingfromme.
Youseektheforgottenpowers,butImyself
erasedyourbuzz-crawlingworldfrommymemory.Isought
somethingmoremelodious:
thelastcryofabird
inthecrushinghandofthewind,itsheart
singingwithallthelanguagesofbirds,
beforeIswallowedit.
Iamthewindthatendswinds,deityoftheforgotten,
guardianofthedomainIlockedfromyou,sonowyoumust
gosomewhereelse.Go.Leave.
No,Idon’tcare.WhenIcared
Irodetheserpentofthewind
whosetonguehissedbetweenclouds;Iasked
yourkintoaidme,Iaskedyourkin
atleasttostopcutting:thetrees,theearth,eachother,
theessenceoftimeitself,stoptearingragged
57TheDeadlands
thewoundsIrushedtostitchwhole,butyoupeoplekeptatit.
Ithrewawaymymendingneedle,
mythread,myhealer’sknife.Iforged
weapons,andfromthedevoured
heartoftheheartbird,Ilearned
thelanguageofalldeaths,andoutofeverycrevice
calledtheghostbirdstome:myancestry,myarmor,thepoetry
ofallthesmeltedkeystomydomain–
shardsstrikingobsidian,andthepipedwail
ofmarrowlessbone.
Yes,Ididonce
openthedoor
thatnolongerexists
toadmithumanpoets.What
haveyoudoneformelately?
Iwasyoungonce,andsofter.
Knowthis:aeonsago,
beyondthesemountainsagreatnothingness
exhaledthetranslucenceofthesky.Betweenclouds,
thechildwindsfrolicked,yetunabandoned
byparentstorms:andyourpeople
sangthesongofprecipices,sang
withoutdespairorsubterfuge;theymade
mymendingthreadfromtheirmarrow,notshying
awayfromdeathwork,thegutwork,thebloodwork
withwhichpoetryisinked–
mydoorwaswideopenthen.
Youthinkmeevil,because
Idespairedofyourkind?
Whenwillyoudosomething?Insteadofyou
58 TheDeadlands
andyours,myHouseofIllWaters
traversestheskynow,roilingitswrath:
yourmeltedsnow,yourdesiccatedseas
thatroseasvaporandrebelled;myghostbirds
interpretthelanguageofillwaters
hissbyhissandsyllablebystorm’ssyllable,soIcanspeakittoo,
spityourpeopleoutofthestory.
Iamthewindthatstillsitself,
theforesterofallfelledtrees,thekeeper
ofthelibraryofghostbirds,Iam
theremembererofyourpromises,allbroken,
nonemended.WhatwillyoudohereifIadmityou?
No.
Butifyouwould
“do anything,”thendrink
everymoveofthismountainasifitwaswater,
breathethewailedharmonyofthewind,
thendaretobesentback,towake
inyourtornworldagain,tothepain,totheconfusion,
theimperfectrecovery,thefear,wake
toeverythingyourpeoplewrought,
waketoaloneness,totheweightandwreck
ofgenerations.It’snotyourfault,youcry,butyourinheritance
demandsmorethanyourindifference:
thesetreestumps,thissuffocation,thislamentation
ofthewindthatwasoncesea,theperishedbirds,thegrasses
thatpokestubbornlyfromtheearth,stillhopingforyou–
andfortheirsake,youmust
becomeagain,andchoose
thispain,ifyouwanttocarryme.
59TheDeadlands
Soreachtothatstilledsyllabary,pullitoutofyoufeatherbyfeather,shriek
thatmelodyyouwouldnottouch,singitbetter
thanghostbirds,screamthatsongbecauseIam
theprotectorofprecipices,theonewhowouldrideyourdreams,
theonewhoforeverdescends
fromthemountain,
neverreachingthegroundbelow.
Iwillpromiseyounothinguntilyourheart
gapeswiderthandeath’sgate,untilyoulet
the House of Ill Waters into your veins, until the storm
becomesyourvoiceandswallowsit,untilyouroar
mymendingthreadbackintoyourtornworld,until
you do
the work
withnohopeofreturninghere,
withnorecompensebutthislabor:
illwaters,rebornandcrestingtomend:
or–forgetit.Leave.
Choosewell.
60 TheDeadlands
ASK A NECROMANCERAmandaDownum
Decay Always Wins
WhenIstartedmyMortuaryScienceprogramin2019,Iimmediately
wantedtotalkaboutalltheamazingthingsIwaslearning.ForreasonsI
willneverunderstand,however,noteveryonewantstohearabouthow
cooldeadbodiesare.IfirstenvisionedAsk a NecromancerasaQandA
topitchtomylocalSFFconvention,asaresourceforotherwriters,or
anyonewhowascuriousaboutdeathasaprocessoranindustry.Then
COVIDhappened,andthatcondidn’t.I’mstilljustasexcitedtotalkabout
death,though.
OurfirstquestioncomesfromAustinonTwitter:“Given that decedents’
mouths are sewn shut in advance of viewings, how concerned do I really
need to be about being bitten if I’m attacked by a zombie?”
Methodsvary,butgenerallyspeakingwhenweclosemouthsweeither
wireorsuture.Wiresaredeployedwithaterrifyingdevicecalledaneedle
injector.(Don’tlookthisupifyouhavedentalnightmares;trustme.)They
requirethedeceasedtohavesolidboneintheirmandibleandmaxilla,
orelsetheypoprightbackoutagain.Jostlingthedecedent’sheadwhile
movingordressingcanunseatthewire,ifyou’renotcareful.Depending
onhowwellthewireswereanchored,theymightslowazombiedownfor
afewminutes,butnotforlong.
61TheDeadlands
Ifasutureisused,itgoesthroughthecartilageintheseptumandeither
underthemuscleattherootofthetongue,oraroundthemandible.A
mandibularsutureisthesturdiest,andmightgiveazombiepause.The
cartilageistheweakspotinthisequation—Idon’tknowhowmuchpres-
sureittakestotearthroughthat,butIsuspectadeterminedzombie
wouldmanage.Themoretheydecay,theeasieritwillbe.
Thisallassumesmindlessundead;morecogentreanimatedcorpses
couldsimplyuntwistthewiresoruntiethesutures.Andofcourse,not
everyoneisviewedbeforeburial.
Theshortansweris:Mouthclosurewillonlybuyyoualittletime.Useit
wisely.
Next,Lizaasks:“Do some bodies ‘keep’ better than others postmortem? If
so, why?”
Absolutely,yes.Manyfactors,extrinsicandintrinsic,contributetopost-
mortemstate:environment,timebeforerefrigeration,age,illness,etc.
Somepeoplesitinthecoolerunembalmedforaweekandlookbetter
thanIdotoday.Somepeoplecomeinwithdiscolorationandskinslip—
desquamation—hoursafterdeath.
Theembalmer’snightmarewhenitcomestobodiesgoingbadisa
charminglittlepathogencalledClostridium perfringens, aka tissue gas.
Tissuegascausesrapiddiscoloration(usuallyblue-green“roadmapping”
asitspreads),distension,andskinslip.Ithasaverydistinctivesmell,
andyou’llhearandfeelacracklingsensationwhenyoupokeinfected
areas.Regularembalmingfluiddoesn’tkillit,andifinstrumentsaren’t
properlydisinfected,itwillspreadfromcorpsetocorpse.Youdonot
wantaneedlestickwhiledealingwithtissuegas.
62 TheDeadlands
Alessnastybutevenmorecommoncauseofdesquamationisedema,
orabnormalamountsofintra-orintercellularfluid.Waterretention—
ithappenstomostofusatsomepointduringlife.Lotsofthingscontrib-
utetoedema,includingextendedbedrestandmanymedicaltreatments.
Iseeitfrequentlyinpeoplewhowerehospitalizedforlongperiods.The
distensionitcausescontributestoskinslip,andoncetheskintears,all
thatfluidleaksout.Andleaks.Andleaks.Theextrafluidinsidethebody
cavitiesalsowantstoleak—mostlyoutofthemouth,nose,andeyesof
our unlucky corpse.
Ifdeathwerenotindignityenough,Ifinditespeciallyrudetoswellsome-
oneuplikeThunderinBig Trouble in Little China,andthenleavethemprone
todroolingunmentionablefluidswhilewetrytodressandcasketthem.
Autopsiescanbebetterorworsewhenitcomestopreservation.Abody
thatsitsattheMEforweeksbeforecomingtousmaynotbeingreat
shape,especiallyifthepersonwasn’tfoundimmediatelyafterthey
died.Ifsomeonediesquickly,though,andisreleasedpromptly,they
mayturnoutwell.(Idon’tencourage“livefast,dieyoung,andleavea
good-lookingcorpse”asalifestyle,butwhenitcomestoembalming,it
sometimesworks.)
Thebeautyoftheautopsy(wecallthemposts,shortforpostmortem
examination)isthattheinternalorgansareremovedduringtheexami-
nation,andafterwardssequestered.Thebacteriaintheintestinescan’t
travelthroughoutthebodyencouragingdecomposition,andwearen’t
leftwithhiddenpocketsofbloodorotherbodilyfluidshangingaround
waitingtostarttrouble.Theworstcomplicationiswhenthemedical
examinerseversthefacialarterieswhileremovingthetongue.Thismay
causeanembalmertocurse,weep,orpraywhiletryingtogetembalm-
ingfluidintosomeone’sface.
I’mtold(andexperiencebearsthisout)thatdienerstrytoalwaysleave
onecarotidlongsothemorticianhassomethingtoworkwith.That’s
alovelysentiment,butwithacranialautopsy,theCircleofWillis—the
63TheDeadlands
anastamosisofcerebralarteries—issevered,andwehavetoinjectup
bothcarotidstogetfluidtotheentireface.
Andlast,Laurawantstoknow“...how long bodies are supposed to last.
...just long enough for the wake? In hopes that they’ll still look great if ex-
humed a year later?”
Thebestansweris:Aslongastheyneedto.Mostly,wewantthemto
lookgooduntiltheirservicesarecomplete.Embalmingisonlytem-
porary;decayalwayswins.Somebodiesmayindeedberecognizable
ifexhumedquicklyenough,butatthatpointit’soutofourhands.If
someoneisgoingtobeviewedandburiedorcrematedwithintheweek,
wemayusealessconcentratedsolution.(Thisisneveranexcusetobe
sloppy,butifyouknowthatpostwiththeseveredfacialarteriesisgoing
outinadayortwoyoumightstressabitless.)
Sometimesweknowserviceswillbedelayedweeksormore,orthe
personwillbeshippedoutofstateoroverseas,andsoweuseahigher
indexofembalmingfluidandmakesureitgetsinallthenooksand
crannies.Oneofmyinstructorstoldusaboutsomeonesheembalmed
whotookyearstofinallytravelhomeforservices.Suchthingsarepossi-
blewithcare,luck,andrefrigeration.
Ideally,thorougharterialinjectionwouldleavesomeoneviewablefor
weeksorlonger.ExtrastepsmayincludedressingsomeoneinUnionalls
(aplasticonesiethatgoesunderneaththeirclothestocontainleakage—
imagineputtingaonesieonanadult-sizedtoddlerwho’sjustdiscovered
passiveresistance),possiblywiththeadditionofparaformaldehyde
powder.
64 TheDeadlands
IoweaspecialthanksthisissuetothemysteriousLordandLadyBlack-
wellfortheirinvaluableinsightintoautopsies.
Ifyouhavequestionsforthenecromancer,drawacircle,preparethe
[email protected], or ask
@stillsostrangeonTwitter.Fromgreenburialtodeathinthetimeof
capitalism,everymonthwe’llexplorefragmentsofknowledgeofthe
GreatUnknown.
65TheDeadlands
AUTHOR BIOS
Greer Gilman’s mythic fantasies are Cloud &
Ashes: Three Winter’s TalesandMoonwise. Her
metaphysicalmysteriessetinBenJonson’sLondon
are Cry Murder! In a Small VoiceandExit, Pursued by
a Bear.Shehaswrittenonthelanguagesofthe
fantastic,onarchetypesofgirlsinfantasy,andon
SylviaTownsendWarner.Amongthem,herworkshavewontheTiptree
(Otherwise),WorldFantasy,ShirleyJackson,andCrawfordawards.She
likestosayshedoeseverythingJamesJoyceeverdid,onlybackwardand
in high heels.
G. V. Anderson’sshortstorieshavewonaWorld
FantasyAward,aBritishFantasyAward,andbeen
nominatedforaNebula.Herworkcanbefoundin
Strange Horizons, LightspeedandTor.com,aswell
as anthologies such as The Year’s Best Dark Fantasy
& Horror.ShelivesandworksinDorset,UK,andis
currentlywritingherfirstnovel.
66 TheDeadlands
Marissa Lingen is still recovering from her physics
education.Shewritesspeculativefiction,poetry,
andessays,mostlyinherhomeintheMinneapolis
suburbsevenbeforeallofthis.ShelikesMoomins
andtisanesimmoderatelyandhasreadmore
sagasthanapersonreallyshould.
Kate Lechler’s(she/they)workhasappearedin
Fireside Fiction, Podcastle,andShimmer, among
other places. They teach British literature at the
UniversityofMississippiinOxford,Miss.,where
theylivewiththeirdog,Charlie,collectskulls,and
writeabouttheapocalypse.
Two-timeWorldFantasyAwardfinalistMike Allen
editsandpublishestheMythicDeliriumBooks
imprint.Hisshortstorieshavebeengatheredin
threecollections:hisShirleyJacksonAward-nomi-
nateddebutUnseaming; The Spider Tapestries;and
Aftermath of an Industrial Accident. His novella “The
Comforter,”asequeltohisNebulaAward-nominatedhorrorstory“The
ButtonBin,”appearedinananthologyoffourdarklong-formtales,A
Sinister Quartet.Mikeisalsoathree-timewinneroftheRhyslingAward
forpoetry.YoucanfollowMike’sexploitsasawriteratdescentintolight.
com,asaneditoratmythicdelirium.com,andallatonceonTwitterat
@mythicdelirium.
67TheDeadlands
Margaret Ronald is the author of Spiral Hunt,
Wild Hunt,andSoul Hunt,aswellasnumerous
shortstories.Originallyfromsmall-townIndiana,
shenowlivesoutsideBoston.
R.B. Lembergisaqueer,bigenderimmigrantfrom
EasternEuropetotheUS.R.B.’snovellaThe Four
Profound Weaves(Tachyon,2020)isafinalistforthe
Nebula,Ignyte,andLocusawards.R.B.’snovelThe
UnbalancingisforthcomingfromTachyonin2022,
andtheirpoetrymemoirEverything Thawswillbe
publishedbyBenYehudaPress,alsoin2022.YoucanfindR.B.onTwitter
at@rb_lemberg,onPatreonathttp://patreon.com/rblemberg,andat
theirwebsiterblemberg.net.
68 TheDeadlands
STAFF BIOSDeadlands
Sean Markeypublishesthingsontheinternetfor
aliving.HelivesinSoutheasternUTwithhiswife,
Beth,manyanimals,andseveralacresoftumble-
weed.HeisonTwitter:@MarkeyDotCo
E. Catherine Toblerisawriterandeditor.You
mightknowhereditingworkfromShimmer
Magazine.Youmightknowherwritingfrom
Clarkesworld, Lightspeed,andApex Magazine. A
trebuchetandOxfordcommaenthusiast,she
enjoysgelatoandbeerinherfreetime.Leosun,
Taurusmoon.YoucanfindheronTwitter@ECthetwit.
69TheDeadlands
Sonya Taaffereadsdeadlanguages,tellsliving
stories,andlovesthespacesinbetween.Her
shortfictionandpoetryhavebeencollectedmost
recently in Forget the Sleepless Shores(LethePress)
andGhost Signs(AqueductPress)andherfilm
criticismisfundedbypatreon.com/sovay.She
liveswithoneofherhusbandsandbothofhercatsandremainsproud
ofchthonicallynamingaKuiperbeltobject.Shecanbefoundonlineat
sonyataaffe.com.
inksharkisascandalouslyqueerillustrator,
author,andeditorwholivesintherainywildsof
thePacificNorthwest.Heenjoysexploringwithhis
dogs,writingimpossiblethings,andpaintingwhat
heshouldn’t.Whenhiscurrentmeatshellbegins
todecay,he’dlikesciencetoputhisbrainintoa
giantkilleroctopusbodywithwhichhepromisestoberesponsibleand
notevenslightlyshipwrecky.Pinkyswear.
David Gilmoreisawriter,reader,andeditorout
ofSt.Louis,MO.Hisworkhasbeenfeaturedin
The RumpusandatLindenwoodUniversitywhere
healsoreceivedhisMFA.Heliveswithhiswife
andsonandspendshisfreetimemanningastall
intheGoblinMarketsellingdirectionstovarious
Underworldsinexchangeforrumorsandinformationonwherehecan
findhismuse.
70 TheDeadlands
Amanda Downum is the author of The Necroman-
cer Chronicles, Dreams of Shreds & Tatters,andthe
WorldFantasyAward-nominatedcollectionStill So
Strange.Notcontentwitharmchair necromancy,
sheisalsoalicensedmortician.ShelivesinAustin,
TXwithaninvisiblecat.Youcansummonherata
crossroadsatmidnightonthenightofanewmoon,orfindheron
Twitteras@stillsostrange.
Laura Blackwellisafreelanceeditorand
Pushcart-nominatedwriter.Currentandupcoming
publicationsincludeChiral Mad 5, Pseudopod,and
2016WorldFantasyAward-winningShe Walks in
Shadows.YoucanfollowheronTwitter
@pronouncedlahraandvisitherwebsiteat
pronouncedlahra.com.
71TheDeadlands
FrontCover:GrimFields,byJennaBarton.
“Bonefields”byMargaretRonaldoriginallyappearedinIdeomancer,2005.
TheDeadlandsisdistributedmonthlybySeanMarkey,HC64Box2406CastleValleyUT84532.
Visitthedeadlands.comforsingleissuesandsubscriptions.
Copyrightstoallstoriesandillustrationsarethepropertyoftheircreators.
Thecontentsofthispublicationmaynotbereproducedinwholeorinpartwithouttheconsentofthecopyrightholder.