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

bluefire...oremailnecromancer@thedeadlands.com, 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.