Not fairy tales

The response was some kind of inhuman howl or moan. Poly clutched at her sister’s hair as she stepped into the living room.

Una tried to break free, turned around, and stumbled from another jolt. The can flew out of her fingers and hit the wall, spilling its contents all over it. Her sister forgot about the offender, rushing to the spilled puddle. Instinctively stepping back, Una suddenly bumped into something and fell awkwardly, hit the back of the holovisor.

The device wobbled on a thin leg and collapsed; the projector cone extinguished.

Moaning and rubbing her bruises, the girl rose to her feet.

Her father’s beastly roar shook the room.

A shiny bat of blond wood sank on Una’s head.

Her black hair soared, her skull crumpled under the impact and burst: bloody bits of bone scattered in all directions.

The girl collapsed to the floor. Dead gray eyes stared up at the ceiling, glowing with dots of diodes.

The man, no longer paying any attention to her, tossed the bat aside and fiddled with his holovisor. Straightening the base, he flicked the remote. A vague intermittent picture apparently satisfied him. Back at his rookery, the fat man plopped down on it again, froze, almost unblinking, stared at the screen.

Poly giggled against the wall, licking up the slime-like slurry. When she’d finished, she looked around the room with completely glassy eyes, stumbled over her sister’s body, and hiccupped.

The mother only turned around at her direct address, as if she had not heard the preceding noise.

«Ma-a-a!»

Staggering, the girl stood up and walked closer to the corpse. The mother came up too, fluttering her eyes incomprehensibly. Her aged mouth, with its bright lipstick smeared over it, formed into a mannishly surprised «O».

«Where… where we should put her now,» Poly hiccupped again, «lying here… I wanted to take her away… I earned it didn’t I?» she grinned crookedly. «Yes, I did»

«Well done, my daughter, well done,» the mother chirped like a sparrow. «I guess… I guess… I don’t know… Boo, tell me,» she turned to her husband.

He squinted, snorted, scratched his belly, smearing bits of gray-pink brain matter all over his light-colored T-shirt, and waved it off briefly.

The mother sighed, turned away, chewed her lips, then noticed the orange stain.

«Here,» she pointed her finger at the bag, «there’ll be pickers today, really.»

Still swaying, Poly looked back and forth between her sister and the garbage bag, then she mumbled, swallowing the interfering saliva, and nodded.

When they lowered the holder, the two of them shoved the body upside down into the sack, and straightened it: they couldn’t even fit her legs in the bent position. After twisting them this way and that, they looked at each other, shrugged and tied the ties as they were, with a bow on the protruding ankles. Then they took the trash pack out into the corridor, the mother returned to her interrupted rummaging, and the daughter plopped down next to her father, also clinging to the hologram.

About an hour later, the front door opened.

In the outer gallery stood an austere woman in a dark gray jumpsuit. At her knees, like a service

dog, a compact robot-carrier was frozen.

The visitor’s gaze traveled over the huge orange bag. Small feet in high blue sneakers peeking out of its throat could not go unnoticed. The attendant blinked, raised an eyebrow, curled her lips, but almost immediately her face took on its former aloof expression.

The scanner in her hand beeped the report: «90% organic substance».

«Biological garbage. Take it away,» she commanded the robot. «Furnace number 6.»

Pies

The brew in the cauldron bubbled and gurgled. Strangely dark steam rose upward and puffed across the ceiling, forming little manmade clouds. But these walls have seen more than that.

The old house, built of gray rough-hewn stone, with oak beams in the ceilings and a dirty plank floor, did not give the impression of a permanent dwelling at all. It was more like a cave, a burrow into which one had to crawl out of necessity.

The tiny mica windows let almost no light through, and now, in the twilight, they looked like cracks in the walls. Weapons hung here and there – bows, axes, clubs, short spears, a couple of crappy swords – drew crooked shadows under the dancing candle lights. In the fuzzy glare the gray, shaggy coat by the door looked like a beast, clawing at the stonework for some reason.

Wolfe stirred the stew with a wooden spoon on a long carved handle, added herbs, stirred again, and sniffed. Yes, he thought, it’s ready.

He pulled a deep clay bowl out of a pile of dishes piled beside the stove – a black one with a red rune pattern, looked closely, spat on it, and wiped the cracked glaze with his shirt sleeve. Then he filled the plate to the brim with chunks of stew.

After extinguishing the overhead fire in the crooked stove, Wolfe set the bowl on the unexpectedly good-for-life striped wood table, sat down on a three-legged stool, and began to eat, occasionally burning and snorting.

A knock on the door made him raise his head.

«Go ahead, come in,» his voice sounded hoarser than usual. He craned his neck and coughed.

Two men entered the house: sheriff Hunter and his eldest son. The heir and his shift are dragging him everywhere. Wolfe smirked, baring strong white teeth.

«Greetings, Mage-Commissar,» the visitors bowed, not too flatteringly, though.

Wolfe only gave a brief nod in response.

«There’s a rumor going around,» the sheriff hesitated, «you know. We’d like to know if it’s true.»

«I don’t know what people are talking about,» the man muttered between spoonfuls of food. «Ask me straight out, Hunter, don’t be a pussy. I don’t like it.»

«Ahem. Ahem. Mage-Commissar Wolfe, is it true that you destroyed two witches who were plaguing the surrounding villages?» he swallowed and stared expectantly at his inhospitable host.

«Ha!» Wolfe smirked again, his face creased so that it looked like crumpled paper – his deep wrinkles had long been his companions, only his yellow eyes still looked young. «See for yourself,» he nodded to the far corner of the room, hidden by the shadows.

The sheriff went to the table, picked up the dirty candlestick with the lit candle, and stepped toward the place. Immediately he recoiled, unable to contain his trembling. His son suddenly turned strangely green, covered his mouth with his hands and, unsuccessfully struggling with gagging, jumped out into the street. A disgusting uterine sound was heard.

«Ugh, he ruined my bushes, the devil takes it,» magician cursed. «You’re taking him with you too soon for duty.»

«It’s all right,» Hunter said, «let him get used to it. We don’t live in the capital.»

He shined the light in the corner again, examining more carefully the two female corpses lying there, an old one and a very young one, brutally chopped up and mangled.

The sheriff shuddered with disgust, but to give him credit, he managed to hold himself together.

«So that’s all?!» there was more fear in the question than in reaction to what he saw. There was also hope.

«Everything is over. Everything.»

«And they won’t… well, they won’t… rise again?»