Gearing it backwards, Wilson pulled Bernard farther from the edge of the cliff. He glanced at the golem. Saw a strange and fascinating sight, just as the sun rose up on the far side of the island and became a thin umbrella of pink. The golem’s head rocked right off its shoulders.
Then the headless golem pulled itself up so that it could put a knee on the edge of the cliff. It finished the climb, wobbled to its feet.
“Fucking perfect,” Wilson said.
The golem’s fingers came loose from its hands and fell to the earth like dog turds. Its penis, which looked like a length of black hose, the kind the cops might use to beat you with, dropped off. The testicles dropped off like rotten apples. The arms came loose and fell, the knees sagged and exploded outward, the torso tipped backwards and tumbled over the edge of the cliff.
Wilson just sat there on the loader seat. He called out, “Bernard?”
There was a wait.
“Yeah,” Bernard said.
“You okay?”
“That’s a relative term.”
“Are you all right?”
“Just had a little nap. Fine now. Lots of pain. Leg and balls both hurt.”
Wilson helped Bernard out of the shovel, which he had lowered.
“We got to get you back to Island Keep.”
“Not just yet. Be my crutch.”
Bernard slung an arm over Wilson’s shoulder. Wilson helped walk him to the edge of the cliff. There were pieces of the golem’s body in the rocks; some of it had darkened the sea near the slick wall, but the water was washing it away and the sunlight was turning from pink to fiery-red, making the water appear volcanic.
“I think we did it,” Bernard said.
“Don’t say it out loud,” Wilson said. “You might jinx it.” He helped Bernard back to the loader, worked a little harder to get up this time. The leg really was bad, and Bernard seemed to have turned much heavier.
“I’m really not all right,” Bernard said.
“I was sort of hip to that, actually. Sorry. I said I was going to abandon you earlier, and I want you to know I mean it.”
“But you didn’t. That’s all that counts.”
When Bernard was in place on the loader, Wilson climbed down. He walked to where the golem’s fingers and appendages lay, and kicked them one by one over the edge of the cliff. He saved the penis and testicles for last. He kicked the penis far out and watched it fall with delight. Then he stomped the testicles, and kicked them over the edge.
When he was finished, he went and looked down. He could see a few pieces of the golem in the rocks, but with the cliff wall being smooth, most of it had fallen into the water. He felt like a kid that had just whipped a bully. Or had helped lick one.
“Motherfucker,” he said, and shot his finger at the ocean below.
§
Kettle had left his Scotch, and Wilson had Bernard drink it, all that was left, and when Bernard had a snoot full, he tried to set the leg. He wasn’t sure how good a job he had done, but at least the foot was facing the right way and Bernard had only screamed for a short time before passing out. It was late afternoon when Wilson found the phone worked again. He called over and gave them a short rundown, waiting to be called a nut, expecting a boat to come over with Kettle driving and another guy with white jackets with reversed sleeves for the both of them, but that didn’t happen. They didn’t even act surprised.
When they came up to Island Keep there were four men and a stretcher, plus Kettle was with them.
“So Number 489 wasn’t dead?” Kettle asked.
“That’s one way of putting it,” Wilson said.
“I’m not surprised.”
“We sure were.”
“I told you he was bad.”
“You were conservative in your tone.”
“Toggle?”
“You’ll find him amongst the downed tree by the dock. A little here. A little there.”
“Oh,” Kettle said.
“Yeah,” Wilson said. “Oh.”
“He has a bad break,” Wilson said to the men who were lifting Bernard onto the stretcher. “His leg is seriously fucked over.”
“Yeah, we figured as much,” one of the men said. “I mean, it’s our job. You know, we look at it and see it’s broke, we figure it’s broke. We’re smart like that.”
“Yeah, and he’s my friend. Be careful with him, smart guys.”
“We get it, kid.”
“Just carry him out,” Kettle said. “You guys can talk wise to one another later.”
§
Bernard spent about two months on the prison island with the doctors and a female nurse he liked, and maybe she was worth an extra week of that time.
Wilson took over all work at the small island for a while, doing repairs on the shed door, a little of this, a little of that.
The powers that be decided a new bulldozer cost too much and wasn’t used enough. They determined the loader was enough.
When Bernard came back over, boated there by Kettle, Wilson went down to meet him at the dock. Bernard was on crutches. He said, “Kid, I’m not staying. I’m going back to the island, and then me and a nurse named Sharon are flying out of there. I’ve served my time.”
“Congratulations,” Wilson said. “I thought you might never leave.”
“I had a talk with some of the suits over there. They think you did your part, time served or not.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying if you want to, you can pack your things.”
“Fuck it. I’m wearing them.”
“Then get on the boat,” Kettle said, coming out of the cabin. “I got three new meats coming in to take your places.”
“How’d you know I’d go back?” Wilson said.
“What would make me think you wouldn’t?” Kettle said. “And Bernard. He said you would.”
“We have to sign an agreement not to talk, and they say they’ll kill us if we do, so are you up for that?” Bernard said.
“Like I’m going to tell people we fought a golem on the edge of a cliff with a bulldozer and a front-end loader, and you scraped a magic word off its head with a pocket knife.”
As Kettle helped Bernard and his crutches onto the boat, Wilson turned and looked back. “It is a beautiful island.”
“Yeah, and it’ll be beautiful without us,” Bernard said, looking up at Wilson on the dock.
“Amen,” Wilson said, and climbed aboard.
About the Author
Joe R. Lansdale is the author of over thirty novels and numerous short stories. His work has appeared in national anthologies, magazines, and collections, as well as numerous foreign publications. He has written for comics, television, film, newspapers, and Internet sites. His work has been collected in eighteen short-story collections, and he has edited or co-edited over a dozen anthologies. He has received the Edgar Award, eight Bram Stoker Awards, the Horror Writers Association Lifetime Achievement Award, the British Fantasy Award, the Grinzani Cavour Prize for Literature, the Herodotus Historical Fiction Award, the Inkpot Award for Contributions to Science Fiction and Fantasy, and many others. His novella Bubba Hotep was adapted to film by Don Coscarelli, starring Bruce Campbell and Ossie Davis. His story “Incident On and Off a Mountain Road” was adapted to film for Showtime’s “Masters of Horror.” He is currently co-producing several films, among them The Bottoms, based on his Edgar Award-winning novel, with Bill Paxton and Brad Wyman, and The Drive-In, with Greg Nicotero. He is Writer In Residence at Stephen F. Austin State University, and is the founder of the martial arts system Shen Chuan: Martial Science and its affiliate, Shen Chuan Family System. He is a member of both the United States and International Martial Arts Halls of Fame. He lives in Nacogdoches, Texas with his wife, dog, and two cats.
About the Artist
Santiago Caruso was born in 1982, in Quilmes, Argentina. He is a symbolist and surreal artist, with an avant-garde concept but rooted in the nineteenth century´s decadentism. Dedic
ated to the fantastique, metaphysical horror and poetry, he had illustrated books for Libros del Zorro Rojo, Dark Regions Press, Ex Occidente Press, Tordesilhas, Tartarus Press, Random House Mondadori, Planeta and Penguin.
His work stands out both for the vigor of its poetry as well as for its technique. Member of the Beinart Surreal Art Collective since 2010, the artwork of Caruso is well represented in galleries and museums of Buenos Aires, United States, United Kingdom, Mexico and Spain.
About Dark Regions Press
Dark Regions Press is an independent specialty publisher of horror, dark fiction, fantasy and science fiction, specializing in horror and dark fiction in business since 1985. We have gained recognition around the world for our creative works in genre fiction and poetry. We were awarded the Horror Writers Association 2010 Specialty Press Award and the Italian 2012 Black Spot award for Excellence in a Foreign Publisher. We produce premium signed hardcover editions for collectors as well as quality trade paperbacks and ebook editions. Our books have received seven Bram Stoker Awards from the Horror Writers Association.
We have published hundreds of authors, artists and poets such as Clive Barker, Joe R. Lansdale, Ramsey Campbell, Kevin J. Anderson, Bentley Little, Michael D. Resnick, Rick Hautala, Bruce Boston, Robert Frazier, W.H. Pugmire, Simon Strantzas, Jeffrey Thomas, Charlee Jacob, Richard Gavin, Tim Waggoner and hundreds more. Dark Regions Press has been creating specialty books and creative projects for over twenty-seven years.
The press has staff throughout the United States working virtually but also has a localized office in Portland, Oregon from where we ship our orders and maintain the primary components of the business.
Dark Regions Press staff, authors, artists and products have appeared in FANGORIA Magazine, Rue Morgue Magazine, Cemetery Dance Magazine, Publishers Weekly, Kirkus Reviews, Booklist Online, LA Times, The Sunday Chicago Tribune, The Examiner, Playboy, Comic-Con, Wired, The Huffington Post, Horror World, Barnes & Noble, Amazon, iBooks, Sony Reader store and many other publications and vendors.
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