Thirty Miles South Of Dry County by Kealan Patrick Burke Page A

so starved-lookin’ his ribs showed through his coat like wires under a garbage bag. His tongue were hangin’ out, his unclipped nails ticking on the ground as he approached me, head lowered, as if he thought I might be wearin’ a coat full of steaks. I rubbed his head and found it greasy. Probably sick from the hunger, the poor thing, and I wondered if he might be regrettin’ his decision to run off from his owner, because it seemed to me too much of a coincidence that the mutt fit the description of Moses, June Wheeler’s long lost companion. If he’d ever had a collar, it were gone now, and his eyes was somewhat sunken and spoke of pain. I wondered if mine did too. I sat there for a while until Moses gave up sniffin’ at me for sustenance, and when he sat down, I stood, my knees crackin’ loudly.
    “You goin’ to stay here?” I asked him. He raised his head, gave a half-hearted wag of his tail.
    “I’ll take that as a yes. Well, if you’re here when I come back this way, maybe we can get you somethin’ to eat.”
    He were only a dog and I guess I were talkin’ just because it were nice to find some innocent company in this place, especially after what I had imagined Moses to be when the fog had hidden him, but damned if he didn’t look at me with a gleam of hope in those sad little eyes of his.
    “All right then,” I said, and gave him a smile before makin’ my way up the hill. “Maybe if we make it out of here, I can claim the bounty on you.”
    He barked only once after I lost sight of him, and, because I wanted to, I took it as an expression of farewell.
    A temporary farewell, I hoped.
    * * *
    At the top of the hill, the ruins of the tavern proved the fire had been a bad one. Little more than the foundation and some blackened, splintered walls remained. The roof were gone, and inside I saw some of the heavy, charred beams lyin’ on the floor in the debris. The wooden floor had been burned away, leaving a ragged hole down into a dark cellar. Rains had tamped down the soot, but the place smelled strongly of it. I noticed the bar were still standin’ at the far end of the room, but it weren’t goin’ be much use to anyone anymore. Nothing but burned and busted up wood crowded it now. Behind it, I noticed the frame where a mirror must once have hung.
    I were still takin’ this in, when a voice that sounded like somethin’ out of a science fiction movie broke the silence and damn near scared me to death.
    “Help you?”
    Startled, I looked to my right and saw a figure dressed in a black plastic raincoat sittin’ at the remains of a table that looked like it shouldn’t have been standin’ – it were burned to near nothin’—but somehow, whether by means natural or supernatural, still were. Not only were its splintered legs supportin’ the man’s weight (though he didn’t look like he weighed much more than a bag of dry sticks), but also rows of what looked like pennies, which he went back to countin’ as soon as he were done with his question, and a half full bottle of whiskey. There were two equally wrecked chairs at the table. He sat in one while indicatin’ the other. An invitation that after a moment of hesitation, I accepted.
    “You must be Cadaver?” I asked, curious that a man who looked like his name wouldn’t somehow be offended by the constant reminder.
    He nodded, raised one hand and touched a slim silver tube to a rusty metal box that had been jammed into his throat. Cancer, I guessed, which made his appearance somewhat sadder but still hideous. I’ve seen dead men look healthier. “I am.”
    His silver hair were flat against his skull, his hooked nose dividin’ milky eyes that looked sightless, and yet I could tell he were seein’ me. A nasty pink scar ran from the middle of his brow right down to the dimple in his chin, makin’ it look like someone had once tried to cleave the man’s face wide open.
    “What can I do for you?” he asked, touchin’ the wand to his