Dusky Fellows

I. Water Whiskey Yellow

Carver Williams stood with arms crossed, sweaty back against the cool brick, listening to the Watchman on the other side of the door rant and wail about his rights. The old oil refinery was stifling hot under the sweltering afternoon sun. Slanting beams of glittery sunlight struck through the holes in the boarded windows, splashing his pant legs and chest with warmth where they hit. He took another swig of whiskey from the flask at his hip. It was hot and too watery. He grimaced.

"The Watch will have your head!" the watchman screamed. He pounded on the iron door with his fists, sending sharp jolts through Carver's head. As if the heat and the whiskey weren't giving him enough of a headache. He glowered down at the oily, black dust that covered his arms. His linen tunic had once been white, worn by some upperclassman that washed it weekly. Now it was yellow, stained with smears of black and old, dark blood. A tear had been mended with an uncrafted hand and unmatching thread. His sweat dyed the front and back gray. The only wash it had seen was when Shy Derrik pushed him into the river. It really took on its yellowish hue then. Pale-piss yellow, Shy Derrik had said.

"Pale-piss yellow," sighed Carver aloud. "Water-whiskey yellow." He uncorked his flask and took a long drink. He uncorked his flask and took a long drink.

The watchman had settled. His footsteps pattered closer and farther and closer again, stopped, resumed. The oil refinery had been shut down years ago, but the boilers still hummed and pipes still groaned. Finding a safe place to store their watchman had been tricky; the boilers were full of corroded oil, the distillery's roof had caved, and Slackjaw cleared the adjacent building for bunkspace. In the end, the watchman was shoved in a storage closet and the key placed in Carver's pocket.

"Let him rot for a week or two," said Slackjaw.

Carver felt as though he might be rotting instead. The summer heat made his skin sticky. The dust in the air clung to his face and neck, and everything he touched left a dark smear. And he could smell himself; the salt, the musk, the sharp acrid scent beneath his arms. He couldn't imagine what the watchman might reek of. He had been in storage for two days now, in the sweltering dark, feeding on moldy cheese, stale crackers, piss-yellow river water. Carver's stomach rolled.

The steel walkways clanged under heavy boots. Carver glared up to see Slackjaw making his way over the boilers below, one hand propped nonchalantly on his pistol, the other swinging at his side. His familiar leer was smeared across his lips. It faltered when his steely gaze met Carver's. "I thought Derrik was taking your shift," he said.

Carver dropped his gaze. He felt Slackjaw's eyes burn into him. "Derrik asked me to cover him another shift... he took Lashes to the boathouse."

"Lashes is on dinner duty. What the hell?" Slackjaw shook his head and held out his hand. He had big hands. Big, rough, and calloused from the hard life he led. Carver thought he'd make a good watchman. He was big, mean, and sharp. But life had taken him elsewhere. He was the leader of their gang, the Bloody Barbers.

Carver fumbled in his pocket for the key. He passed it over and stepped aside. Slackjaw jammed it into the lock. Inside he heard the watchman move against the far wall. He knew Slackjaw's voice. He feared it like they all did. Slackjaw pulled the door open. It squealed on its hinges. His looming frame cast a monstrous shadow over the cowering watchman.

"Ready to tell us about that shipment yet?" Slackjaw growled. There was playful danger in his tone that sent a web of shivers down Carver's spine. The watchman steeled himself, and set his mouth in a hard line. Slackjaw let the door slam against the wall. The watchman flinched. "Think long and hard before you tell me no again," said Slackjaw. "I've gotta make dinner arrangements for over forty mouths and yours isn't gonna be one of them." He fingered the hammer of his pistol. 

"You'll kill me anyway," said the watchman. He had regained some composure. "You'll dump my body in the river."

Water whiskey yellow. Carver crossed his arms and stared down at his shirt. The watchman's undershirt was still white--whiter than his. He wondered if it would fit him.

"Maybe it'll float on down to that shipment, eh? Tell you what, if you give us a hint, I'll break your legs and let you crawl home. But if you tell me the exact location and point it out on a map, I'll let you walk. Deal?"

The watchman sighed. He stood for a long minute, crouched against the wall, his damp, pale hair plastered to his forehead. At last he said, "Show me the map."

Slackjaw grinned with white-toothed wickedness. He withdrew a folded map from the inside of his faded waistcoat and unfurled it before the watchman, careful to keep his armed side aimed toward the door. Timidly, the man moved forward and studied the map. He murmured under his breath over its age, then pursed his lips and jabbed a finger at one of the warehouses along the northeastern harbor.

"Ganmark?" said Slackjaw.

The watchman nodded.

Slackjaw straightened, tucked the map back into his waistcoat, and strode out of the storage room. "Follow me, sir," he said. Carver watched Slackjaw turn down the steel walkway toward the front entrance. As the watchman crept from the dark, sweaty confines of his storage room, Carver fell in behind him, watching his every move.

It was a brisk walk from storage to the vestibule. Moth eaten coats still hung on the coat racks, like the silent sentries of employees long laid off. Carver ran his fingers over a sleeve as they passed them. It disintegrated under his touch... and left an oily mark. He scowled.

Slackjaw pushed open the front door and held it for his followers. Once out, he swept up behind the Watchman, grasped him firmly by the shoulders and steered him left down a narrow alleyway. Carver cocked an eyebrow, but said not a word. He could see where stairs lead down to the empty market square, and beyond that was the lazy river, polluted gray against the wash of dilapidated buildings that crowded it.

"Where are we going? This isn't the way," said the watchman.

"How do you know? We brought you here with a bag over your head!" Slackjaw said cheerily.

They three crossed an empty, littered street and moved down the stairs. The air was cooler than in the refinery, but stank of fish and trash. The entire district had once boomed as the oil industry had--whale oil, to be precise. But few whales were left in the seas, and no whales meant no oil. No oil meant no jobs. The district was all but abandoned.

Slackjaw moved to the front and lead the two out onto the dock. Once upon a time, fishing boats docked there. They sold whale meat, fish, and crabs straight off their decks to refinery employees and their families. Merchants from distant continents sold spices, handmade wares, and clothes. Nothing was left but their carts, rotting in the damp, oily air.

Carver stayed at the base of the dock. Shy Derrick had pushed him off at that dock. He could still taste the water in his mouth. It was dirty, slimey, fishy. His feet had scraped the bottom. He cut his ankle on something sharp. It was most likely just glass, but to him it felt like bone. Maybe it was teeth? The river was shallower than it was then. Its muddy banks shone like the soiled undergarments of a miner.

Slackjaw's grip on his captive's shoulder was as hard as iron. He steered the man to the edge of the dock. His mouth moved in words that Carver could not hear. The watchman opened his mouth to argue, but before he could, Slackjaw swept his feet from beneath him and drove him to his knees. The watchman hissed in pain. He glanced at his hands, still bound before him, and then down at the murky depths of the river. "You said I'd walk," he yelled.

Slackjaw nodded. "I figured you'd swim just as well as you walk, given you're a codfish." He stepped back, planted a heavy boot on the watchman's back, and shoved him into the water. Carver moved forward. The watchman floundered helplessly, kicking at the bottom that was just out of reach and flailing his worthless fists. Slackjaw pulled his pistol from its holster and fired once, point-blank. The watchman's body jerked. The gray water turned red-black around him.

As Slackjaw left the dock, Carver could only stare. The watchman's white shirt turned pink where the bullet hit his back. Around the hole, the cotton was yellow.

Pale-piss yellow. Water whiskey yellow.