Dieselpunk: An Anthology (5 page)

“
Hey, boss!” Sal yelled. “Looks like we got ourselves a squirter!”

As the melee continued to grow more chaotic, Don Dragna guided his Packard to skirt along the edge, away from the danger.

Charlie hopped to the passenger side as Kennedy took over and gunned it, hitting the Packard like a missile. They slammed into Dragna’s left rear fender, sending the Packard into a full spin.

The godfather kicked open his door and he and both of his torpedoes opened up with Thompsons, one round catching Charlie in the arm. She screamed and collapsed against Kennedy. He threw the car into reverse. They backed up, bullets riddling the front grill and shattering the windscreen.

An electric blue ball suddenly exploded against Dragna’s driver. The man looked down at a torso that was a bloody, charred mess and collapsed. The other two slammed doors with looks of panic, Dragna’s bodyguard moving to get into the driver’s spot before the next shot impacted the vehicle.

They never stood a chance. A squad of steel Wehrmacht swarmed the land yacht and began to dismantle it like army ants on a cockroach. Kennedy squeezed his eyes and turned his head against the screams that filtered in through the busted windscreen. The things were tearing those poor bastards limb-for-limb for shooting their maker.

Kennedy put the cab in gear and prayed. It lurched, but then leaped forward and away from the cemetery. Sal nursed Charlie’s bleeding shoulder the best he could.

“
You gonna be okay, doll?” Kennedy asked after they cleared the cemetery gates.

She groaned and looked up into his eyes. “Guess we’re even?” she whispered.

“Kiss on it?”

Charlie huffed, but Kennedy took the time to lean over and plant a kiss on her smudged forehead anyway. He never made it that far. Charlie raised up at the last second so that their lips collided and Sal had to scream at Kennedy to watch his driving over the vulgarity and whatnot.

The only casualties of the Battle of Evergreen were members of the mafia and one mayor … and those were temporary.

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The Incident at Sycamore Ridge

By Gary Madden

Alan Roth momentarily glanced over his shoulder, checking on the barrel-chested man guarding the office door before looking back to the man behind the polished teak desk. Steven Mudd, Billet’s sole survivor of Black Tuesday, had been railing against the enemies of the American businessman for twenty minutes now without getting any closer to revealing why he’d requested a reporter be sent to his office. An evangelistic peak in the old man’s tone drew Alan away from his thoughts and back to his host.

“They’re Communists, Mr. Roth.” The veins in Mudd’s neck bulged, his face red with conviction as he retrieved a handkerchief to dab away the perspiration that beaded on his liver-spotted brow. ”Like a cancer, they will infect and destroy this community unless something’s done.”

“I can see this is a subject you’re passionate about, Mr. Mudd,” Alan said, grabbing the initiative. “But I’m not sure I’d call your position fodder for a news story. Every major paper on the Eastern Seaboard is filled with op-ed pieces about the evils of unionization. Excuse me saying so, but there’s nothing newsworthy about one more concerned voice joining the choir.”

“Oh, this is more than one man complaining about a group of deviants and their sick political ideas. Twenty-four hours ago they seized my Sycamore Ridge mine. They’ve barricaded themselves inside, cut off communication, and taken possession of
my
property. How’s that for newsworthy?”

“You’re sure of your facts?” This revelation piqued Alan’s attention, a suspicious boss might not be a story, but an armed standoff amounted to something more. He opened his notebook and prepared to scribble details.

“They didn’t return to their homes at the end of their shift and the telephone line in the mine office is dead.”

“Which all could be coincidences.” With a sigh, Alan closed the notebook. “But I think what you have is nothing more than a lot of supposition. Since the crash, every capitalist in this country thinks his workers are plotting behind his back.”

“I see.” Mudd folded his hands, looking at Alan over the rims of his glasses. “Then you’re not interested in my story?”

“I don’t
see
a story.”

“Mr. Roth, owning the bank and most of the profitable businesses in Billet gives me a unique insight into the lives of its citizens.” Mudd pushed his glasses up on his nose, reading from a paper on the desk. “My sources say you’re not exactly living the high life right now. In the last month you sold your gold watch, your car, you even pawned your Underwood
— I’m not sure how a reporter is supposed to make a living without a typewriter.”

“I’m not sure what you’re after, Mr. Mudd, but I think we’re done.” Alan swallowed his anger and picked up his hat, preparing to leave. “I only came because my old boss at
The
Daily Register
said you had some work for a reporter.”

“Pride will get you nowhere, Mr. Roth, especially when you haven’t earned it. Now, have a seat.”

The big man rose from his chair, signifying the wisdom in assenting and, bereft of options, Alan obeyed.

“Apparently, I’ve gotten on your bad side somehow. I’ve been out of work for three months, during that time I haven’t written anything more scathing than an obituary. We definitely don’t move in the same social circles unless you have a secret pension for slumming it with the cheap whiskey crowd. What could I possibly have done to offend someone like you?”

“You haven’t
done
anything, Mr. Roth.” Mudd let his glasses slip down his thin nose again. “I don’t discuss problems, I solve them.”

“Then why bring me here?”

“You’re a newsman, Mr. Roth.”

“I used to be.”

Mudd knitted his fingers under his chin. “How would you like to return to the business? I just bought a controlling interest in
The
Philippi Courier
and I’m looking to make some changes.”

“You didn’t have to bring in a knee-breaker to make a job offer.”

“Perceptive, that’s a good trait in a newsman.” Mudd maintained his stare. “As I said earlier, I’m a staunch opponent of the soulless worms who would undermine this great country. I plan on resolving the problems at Sycamore Ridge today and I want to be sure the papers accurately reflect the facts.”

“You mean you want the paper to give your side of the story,” Alan countered.

Mudd shrugged. “Call it what you will.”

“Sycamore Ridge.” Alan searched his memory. “As I recall, over two hundred of your men were laid off when that coal seam ran out.”

“And now it’s an exploratory operation for the company, a place for
special
employees.” Mudd leaned forward. “Do you accept my terms or not?”

“Somehow, I doubt that you or your doorman will take kindly to my turning down this glorious opportunity.”

“It’s a free country, Mr. Roth. Nobody’s going to force the smart, or healthy, thing on you.”

Alan glanced at the Cro-Magnon guarding the door. Even if he managed to escape, where could he go? He barely had bus fare, definitely not enough money to go into hiding. Besides, he needed the job. It wouldn’t be sacrificing any high ideals. He’d given up on the white knight routine years ago; to be any good as a reporter, you had to get in bed with seedier sources than Steven Mudd.

“Alright, I’m game.”

“Good, I’ll need you to compose a simple press release. I’ll dictate the contents and you take it to your former boss at the
Register
and convince him to publish it in tomorrow’s morning edition.”

“Mr. Mudd, I’m your man, but I’m going to accompany you on this little errand.” Alan pulled a rumpled pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket and patted his pockets for his lighter. “Consider me an uninvolved observer.”

“It will be ugly.” The businessman sat back in his massive chair, the admission not registering in his blotched face as approaching morally troubling.

“I can do ugly. Besides,” pulling the lighter from his vest pocket, Alan lit the cigarette that dangled from his lips and spoke through the cloud of smoke he exhaled, “it will help me write the copy, give me ideas.”

“Alright, Mr. Roth.” The old man stood. “We will start immediately.”

A black car idled behind the building, its driver awaiting Mudd’s arrival. Down the alley, four men loaded a battered Model A with clubs and guns, the tools of their trade. Alan watched the process, smoking and thinking about the terms of the deal he’d made. When he emerged, the old man summarily dismissed his usual driver, instructing the brute who’d minded the office door to take the wheel instead. As the old man climbed into the vehicle, Alan dropped his cigarette, ground it under his toe, and took his place at Mudd’s side.

They pulled out of the alley and onto the streets of the tiny town, making for the mountains that hemmed in the valley. As they passed the last of the outlying industrial corpses, Alan’s mind settled into the task of gathering information about the coming conflict.

“You’ve had problems with the workers at Sycamore Ridge before?”

“They’re nothing but problems.” Mudd’s bony fingers contracted, clutching his knees. “I moved them to the facility to separate them from the other workers. It’s hard enough motivating the common, uneducated man without instigators encouraging their base urges.”

“Why not just fire them all? You’re the boss; there are hundreds of men out of work. Why not just rid yourself of the trouble all together?”

“This is a matter of principle. I need to send a message, let them know in no uncertain terms that going against me is a
very
bad idea.”

Alan turned back to the window, watching the grey countryside roll by. “So you intend to rough these instigators up?”

“No, not personally.”

Alan caught a glimpse of the driver’s smirk in the rearview mirror. They were headed into a bloodbath and he’d been hired to put a polish job on the heavy-handed tactics. His reporter’s mind cleaned up the copy, edited to the old man’s desires. “Local Business Magnate Stands up to Union Threat” the headline would blare. The column that followed would distort the facts and color the motives of the involved parties as needed. Drawing a deep breath, Alan leaned his head against the window for the long ride.

Forty minutes of navigating the winding roads that climbed into the Appalachians left Alan queasy. He cracked the window, allowing the cold, rain-scented mountain air into the close quarters of the vehicle. The brawny driver turned off the road and onto a narrow track that led down into a hollow. Rivulets spilled from the rock face, forming a rushing stream that accompanied the road down to the valley floor before wandering off among the trees. A blackened timber tipple reared from the trees, marking the mine’s location. Soon the car bounced over the unmaintained rails that once ushered untold tons of bituminous coal from this valley.

The mine’s gates stood open, hardly resembling the armed encampment Mudd suggested they’d find. Unopposed, they drove into a sort of muddy courtyard formed by the tipple, mine office, bunkhouses, and ramshackle outbuildings. Mist drifted down from the destroyed mountainside, filtering between the scattered, spindly trees and flowing over the hills of tailings. The driver brought the car to a stop in front of the mine’s office; when he shut the motor off a chilled silence drifted in on the fog.

“Where is everyone?” Alan stepped out of the car among the ruts and puddles as Mudd’s carload of head-busters pulled through the gate.

“The slackers have abandoned their posts.” Mudd squinted at the scene. “They must have seen us coming and hidden.”

Alan surveyed the poisoned landscape. “It doesn’t look like there are many places they could go.”

“They’re here somewhere. Fifty-two men and not one went back to his family; instead they would rather hole up here.” Mudd shook his head, turning to the men who’d climbed out of the Model A. “Check the bunkhouse and outbuildings.”

The old man started for the mine office, his driver trailing behind after retrieving a double-barrel shotgun from the car’s trunk. Like the gate, the door of the mine office wasn’t locked. The bare bulb that hung from the ceiling swayed drunkenly at the intrusion into the dank room, casting a sickly light on the scene of disarray inside. Papers lay strewn about the floor, marred by boot prints rendered in coal dust and mud. A chair lay overturned in the middle of the floor beside the mine manager’s small desk. Beside this, cubbyholes held a few acetylene lamps.

Mudd muttered his disapproval at the scattered documents before crossing the room to the desk. The old man stooped, collecting the receiver that dangled by its cord from the overturned candlestick phone. Returning the phone to its rightful place, Mudd turned his attention to rifling through the desk for evidence of his Communist conspiracy. Alan stepped inside, closing the door and watching as his employer rummaged and cursed.

A gust of cool air ruffled the papers in the musty office as a round-faced gunman stepped inside. “The other buildings are empty, Mr. Mudd.”

“That means they’re holed up in the mine.” Mudd retrieved a map from one of the desk drawers before turning his attention to organizing the search. “Take lamps. If they think we won’t go in after them, they’re in for a tough lesson.”

As the men collected lamps from the cubbyholes, Alan examined the mine manager’s desk. The papers seemed commonplace: pay records and equipment status reports, nothing indicating pending insurrection. An inkwell lay on the floor, its contents spattered on the dirty wall indicating the force with which it had been overturned. The sight unsettled Alan, leaving him feeling he’d walked into a crime scene, not the nucleus of unionization Mudd suspected.

“Surely you don’t intend to just poke around in the mine, hoping we’ll run into the missing workers,” Alan protested, leaving the disarrayed desk. “They could hide out in those tunnels for years before we’d find them.”

“Three years ago the entire mine flooded. We closed most of the tunnels down due to damage.” Mudd unfolded the map, tracing one of the warrens with a bony finger. “They finished the deep shaft at the end of last month and were supposed to be cutting new exploratory tunnels. Rats like deep burrows, they’ll be down there.”

“How much damage can they do from the bottom of a hole in the ground?” Alan glanced around the room, looking for any sign of agreement and finding none. “I can write that you came to reason with them and they refused to meet with you. It’ll make you out to be the bigger man.”

“It’ll make me look feeble,” Mudd snapped. “These Communists only respect force.”

“Then call the sheriff. Have him bring in armed deputies or the National Guard.” Alan nervously drew a cigarette from the pack and retrieved his lighter. “That way nobody can say you resorted to violence. The press you’ll get has to be worth something.”

“Mr. Roth, I hired you as a publicity man, not as a strategist.
You
insisted on being here. It’s unfortunate if you’ve suddenly realized you don’t have the stomach for the business at hand. I guess you could start down the mountain on foot.” Mudd’s hard eyes fixed on Alan. “However, I’ll tell you right now, that I’ll consider you walking out as reneging on our agreement.”