Old scars, new wounds
Nothing made sense.
The sick, wet echoes momentarily faded to a stop. They had stopped bringing pain with them some time ago. Rasping breaths were a struggle as muscles pulsed in agony.
From the nothingness came a voice. It was cruel and berating.
‘Wakey wakey, my friend. It’s a beautiful new day.’
His stomach groaned on impact. Something spat from his swollen lips. Gravity had lost him and there, in this blackness, he spun from top to bottom, from side to side. His sense of self was absent. His existence, an abstract notion.
A shock of cold fell on him, wet, a contrast to the hot wetness that traced down his flesh. No, this was different. It coaxed light to blaze in the void and sullen eyes to open.
‘This is your wake-up call. Rise and shine, you little shit. You can’t sleep all day now, can you? Give me something – come on, do me a pleasure.’
Forks of agony jabbed across his cheeks time and time again.
Then, slowly, very slowly, Franco Del Monaire let the light in and with it, the pain.
Franco sat, restrained quite firmly with rope to a simple wooden chair. Slow fingers caressed the frayed bindings that had scratched his skin raw, though this was only the first of his physical concerns. His eyes were heavy with bruising, forcing little through them except persistently moving shapes of nameless colours. His jaw felt like it hung on a piece of string, lolling open as he expelled blood on the sand-covered concrete floor. It hurt to cough. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to simply exist. Shocks of agony coursed through his body, yammering for attention, though all he could do was cough and spit once more, this time followed by a broken groan.
‘There he is!’ the voice called. ‘There he is! Good morning, sleepy head. It’s a beautiful new day. Opportunities abound. You just have to reach out and grab them!’
An eruption of pain tore from already broken fingers. The crunch came after, empty and cruel.
‘Of course you need to be able to grasp such things,’ the voice joked. The accompanying haze began to formalize into the perceivable shape of a body. A head. A person.
It was a person who chuckled to themselves, tossing the tool aside that had been used to great effect on Franco’s left hand. It landed with a clatter, skidding across a worn oak table and joining the set. Each tool was grotesquely shaped, some stained with blood, some fresh, some aged. The blunt ones had been applied first over the last couple of weeks. Sure his name was bandied around by those who checked on his progress but Franco sharply recalled that he had christened him with a new, more fitting one.
With as much strength as he could muster, he coaxed his face into a defiant smile.
‘Good morning, Babyhands. Sleep well?’
Donovan Kane, sarcastically branded Babyhands by his captive, an owner of anything but, repaid this sarcasm with a fist across the temple. Franco’s world was filled with nothing but buzzing and sparks. Every damn morning, he cursed, every morning he used that name and paid for it. Maybe his mouth should finally be stitched shut. Even better, his tongue should be carved out from its housing. There was a thin knife on the table that would do the job well.
Maybe he would have gone through with this if he had not been ordered to stop. It gave Franco the briefest time to take in his surroundings, the same as they had been doing for days: roughly formed concrete floor with mechanical debris scattered about, all dusted by the desert winds. Crates were stacked of who knows what, ore carts lying on old runs for transporting through the double doors to the outside. The windows were so thick with dirt that most of the light was firmly subdued, rows upon rows of single-pane glass squares emitting the slightest glow.
In fact the only ray of light to penetrate the darkness was from a glass skylight that time had taken an almighty fist to, shining daylight in upon a dust-glinting beam. Everything smelt rusted, old, ashen almost – at least it did when faint trails of air penetrated his blood-laden nostrils. Before him was a pair of heavy metal doors, just as tarnished as everything else, with Donovan’s table and instruments alongside it.
Noise exuded from behind the door: the churning of machinery, the call of voices, boots on metal, before they slowly eased open. Footsteps echoed, patient ones, until the only source of light illuminated a bulk of a man, shoulders broad and head folded with fat. The stench of cigars held the air around him hostage, penetrating Franco’s obstructed nostrils with relative ease. The pair of iron doors banged to a close, sealing the commotion away.
Wilheim Fort took a moment to find his lighter in a plaid jacket pocket. It was a plain affair, though a pocket watch chain from a button hole hinted at his respectability. Out here, his fine suits were substituted for attire more durable. His terribly expensive shoes would be scuffed to destruction by the inauspicious coal mine that had been reclaimed as his own, as well as the surrounding village.
It was a cut beneath his usual refinery but needs were just and out here in Low Dashi were a multitude of identical ghost towns, mines, and the ever-shifting sand hid their operations. There were few buildings, or at least few intact. When the deposits dried up, the people moved on, leaving a shell of society. Most needed work to be performed just to be habitable. While the mine was dangerous due to a combination of being built in haste and a lax attitude to safety, his grand operation took place in the adjoining factory space where the coal was processed and rolled to the adjoining railyard for transport.
Wilheim’s cohorts had no need to complain. Sure they missed the finery of the old establishments: the numerous bars and restaurants, hotels and the club that was a front for all activities in Windberg. The law had been unaware of this; even during their aggressive crackdowns on back-room trading came up empty. They knew crime was rampant, but Wilheim, under a veil of legitimacy, ensured his enterprise was kept away from judgemental eyes. That was, until Alex Juniper put an end to all that and detained him at his pleasure.
But men like Wilheim do not endure such bonds easily and it was only a matter of time until greased palms secured his freedom.
And now, he was here. Standing in a storage shed adjoining a factory that sand and time was eating away. There was no drink in his hand, no buzzing of the worker bees to stoke the ambience. Just the occasional calls from deeper in the factory. This new venture would ensure his capital was regained. Things would be set right.
With a snap, the lighter clicked shut and he puffed a typically expensive stogie from his thick lips. Each puff was savoured, as if their taste recalled a lost memory, something not too far from the truth.
When content, he removed the cigar and reviewed his captive.
‘I think that’s more than enough for today, don’t you?’ Donovan restrained himself and set about cleaning his various instruments. Franco’s smiled lowered. ‘There’s no need to make him any more tender. Not yet at least. There’s plenty of time. It’s a beautiful day indeed. A day closer to success for me, a day closer to uncertainty for you.’
Wilheim took a long, slow inhalation from his cigar and exhaled a haze over Franco’s face. Despite holding his breath, he succumbed to a dry cough.
‘How are you feeling, boy?’
‘Just peachy thanks,’ Franco grunted, ‘you’re a gem for askin’.’
‘Quite.’ Wilheim rose in amusement. ‘How are we doing for time I’m wondering? It’s been twenty-one days, Mister Monaire. Twenty-one long days in my hospitality with many more to go yet. Being kept in the dark, amusingly literally, must be tormenting you. I figured you deserved a little insight into why you’re here.’
‘Bein’ a son of a bitch isn’t enough?’ Franco lisped through a cracked tooth.
‘No, that’s more of a hobby. Let’s talk, Franco. Let me tell you what all this is about. You see, a couple of years back I had a venture in the making and needed what you had. You were very uncooperative not giving up the Gambler’s Den to me. I offered you more than it’s worth but you didn’t hear my proposition out, not fully as I understand it. Good plans fail from time to time – this isn’t anything out of the ordinary. So I found an alternative method to get what I wanted.’ Wilheim clapped his hands. ‘I had a woman on the inside. Did you know that? Come the time needed, she would pull the trigger and hand me its keys.’
‘That’s no surprise. It’s old news.’
Wilheim nodded with glee. ‘Yes, yes I know you did, of course you did. As if our little Misu could keep anything from you. I assume that’s why you went on the run in the first place. Some friends of yours walked right on in to my establishment and swept her away. I was most unhappy. The problem, you see, was because I was so focused on yourselves and your train, I didn’t take that troublesome lawman Juniper into account. It was a mistake not to have him killed like all the rest. Sniffing at scraps and loose ends, he did what stubborn dogs like him do. I was hounded. I was arrested. I was convicted. Sheriff Juniper did me a fine dishonour.’
Wilheim paced the floor, disturbing the coating of perpetual sand with footfalls.
‘Thanks to Mister Kane here, some of my men – my fine, loyal men – sprung me from the cells. We ventured here and have been here ever since. Every premises and asset of mine was seized so I had to build myself up once more from the dirt. I am just like you in a sense. Aspiring to do business. Finding supply and demand.’ His chest puffed out in pride. ‘And I only supply the best, son.’
Wilheim gave a nod to Donovan who swung the doors open, flooding the interior with seeing light. It took quite the while for Franco’s eyes to adjust as black had almost perpetually embraced him. Through the doors and onto the old factory floor bodies made themselves of use on old conveyor belts and hauling crates back and forth. On the next level above, Franco could make out blades of red across the gantries, springing out from cuboid housings. They were tended to by a collection of men in facemasks, pruning these red plants and extracting choice pieces. Wilheim whistled to a passing worker, who obeyed and trotted out carrying an open crate.
Wilheim slipped his cigar to the side of his mouth as he examined its contents, removed some, and held it before Franco.
‘Do you know what this is?’
Franco’s heart sank to his feet. He knew it all too well. The crimson weed, coloured in both leaf and stem, was an outlawed blight over the south and the Sand Sea for the last ten years. Sure, when it came to the legality of matters Franco may have adjusted his thinking to align with certain profit margins but in this instance, everybody knew this stuff was bad news. It was never to be touched, unless alcohol wasn’t doing it for you or the opium you smoked had lost its edge. Red Root was known to, when chewed, produce a psychotropic effect. The normal side effects of depression, paranoia, and the like were a given with general use, but what Red Root did was something much grander than those substances used before it.
Most people succumbed to inexplicable frenzies, where multiple constabularies had to restrain individuals. Used by few in the first instance, when word got out of its exoticness, Red Root became a terrifying blight in the region. At its height, those on Root could turn a simple bar-room altercation into a bloodbath. This spree of violence ensured its quick pursuit to prohibition.
Good people had been lost by it, some Franco had known personally. Their indulgence reduced some to shells, others to twitching, incoherent masses.
‘Red Root,’ Franco muttered sullenly.
‘It’s more than that, lad.’ Wilheim dropped his cigar and set it underfoot. ‘This right here is the cornerstone of rebuilding my empire. It’s almost impossible to grow under artificial conditions. I should know. I tried. Most places where it grew naturally were purged with fire since word of its recreational uses got out and that Juniper decided to stamp it out. It’s a horribly temperamental plant requiring exact concentrations of light, heat, humidity, and oddly enough, metal. I couldn’t begin to understand why, nor do I remotely care. All I know is that in this grand place of mine, it seems to flourish.’
‘And you’re gonna flood everywhere you can with it … to rebuild the market.’
‘Supply and demand, Franco, like I said. My men have already had small amounts shipped to them, whetting the customers’ appetites, but certain contraband laws have made its movement problematic. Now I am a patient fellow. This whole affair is evidence of that.’ Wilheim gestured before his eyes fell cold and cruel. ‘But I can only be patient on my own terms. Now, when people pursue things, I tend to have to rush. Shift the schedule as it were.’
Again, his voice went stern.
‘Marshal Juniper has been far too imposing on my affairs since our last meeting. He has been on some damned crusade to rid the world of illegal liquor and somehow somebody knows that I may still be in business. Keeping that in mind, most of my people are constantly watched and I don’t want to do anything to cause them unnecessary grief in a potentially volatile situation. I’ve had to coax some helpers to shift some product across the Sand Sea. This could have all been done fine-a-plenty if you weren’t so difficult in giving up the Gambler’s Den. None of this ever needed to happen. Could have made things much easier. Instead, I had to contract some help. So ask me that burning question you so wish to ask. Come on. I know you’re just itching to do so.’
Wilhelm leant forward, a hand cupped to his ear. It took time, but the words were eventually spoken.
‘What have you done with the Morning Star?’ Franco croaked.
Wilheim exploded with laughter.
‘What have I done with the Morning Star?!’ He roared in jubilation. ‘What indeed. I’ve contracted your little entourage to do a job for me. They have, under my word, been tasked to do what my own cannot. I need shipments of product dropped off at numerous locations under the veil of legitimacy. It’s perfect. They put on the show and all the while, the law look elsewhere. Your girls are unloading the goods and helping mine in this oh-so-noble endeavour. Those on the Morning Star are my personal couriers, Franco! Accomplices. Misu, or whatever she calls herself now, was far too accepting of the position.’
There it was: the horrible truth. Powerless, all Franco could do was clench his fists tightly but even this was a gargantuan effort. His last ounces of strength were spent as Franco rocked his head back.
‘If this is true, then what am I?’
‘Why, you’re my payment of course.’
Of course he was. It was a damn trap, pure and simple.
‘You bastard.’
‘Oh that I am, and a jolly one too. And you, you’re not even that. While you may be my payment, if your women don’t do what’s expected …’ Wilheim spat with malice ‘… then they’ll need to forage in the dirt for scraps of change.’
Wilheim left, preparing to heave the doors to a close, but before doing so turned back to emphasize the situation.
‘They have fifteen days left to ensure your life, Franco, and even then I’m not in the habit of making promises. What I can elaborate on is that should they try and do anything stupid – turn on me, get in some help or whatever – you will die. Horribly. Slowly. I don’t need to elaborate on the methods and the desert wolves will be the only witnesses. You better pray Misu is worth what you’ve invested in her.’
And with that, as the doors slammed shut, Franco was once again left in the dark.