The one holding the cigar screamed at the one in the chair in a strange language. The one in the chair spat in his face.

This proved to be a mistake. The one with the cigar cocked back an arm to strike, then thought better of it. With another strange phrase, he snapped his fingers. One of the men by the fireplace walked over to the cage and raised his rifle. The man in the chair began to scream, before–BANG–the world went dark.

Tony woke up in a cold sweat and didn't fall back asleep for nearly an hour.

April 1957

"And every time, he walks over to the cage and shoots me right in the fuckin head!"
Fat Lou sat across the table, chewing his sandwich while he listened. "I dunno Tony, you really think you're..." He searched for a word, mouth full of capicola. "...having visions of your own death?"

"I can see it clear as day, Lou. I don't know what I'm doing in that cage but that's how I'm going down." The lunch crowd around them bustled, completely unaware of the existential crisis taking place at their table. Soft rain pattered against the window.

Fat Lou took another huge bite and shrugged. "I don't see no cage right now. Besides," with great effort, he heaved himself up from the booth. "We gotta go see Angelo in half an hour."

The two of them rode through the rain in moody silence. Fat Lou's nephew was due to arrive from his meeting in New York that afternoon, and there would be plenty of business to discuss. Tensions with the New York families had been growing and so had the volume of whispers speculating on an impending war. Angelo was Tony's last ditch effort to prevent them from getting drawn into it.

New York had always looked down on Tony, but in a pesky-little-brother sort of way. There had been an understanding. He and his crew would stay on their side of the river and pay their tribute; in return, he could run his business as he saw fit. Not much of a deal, some would say, but Tony knew all too well what might happen if he refused to play nice.

The problem now, was that New York was asking too much. They wanted twenty points on every car he moved to Philly, plus they took issue with his forays into a certain white powder that had begun making its way into the ports. It was low level stuff, they said, beneath their dignity, but not so far that they didn't demand Tony's backing when the Bonannos butted in on their bookmaking business. Enough was enough, and Tony hoped that Angelo had been able to make them see reason.

Rain began pounding the windshield as they pulled into the motel where they'd agreed to meet. Their car was the only one in the parking lot.

“How the horses doing?” Lou asked.

“They’ve been winning,” Tony replied with a grin. His Arabian had been doing well lately. A few more weekends like he’d been having at the racetrack and Christmas might come early.

“Good. That’s good.”

Fat Lou fidgeted in the driver's seat as they waited, shifting his massive weight back and forth, and the car along with it.

"You got something you want to say?" Tony asked, irritated.

Fat Lou paused before blurting out, "Tony, are we going to war? People have been talking, you gotta know this. Word is they want a bigger piece of Atlantic City and there just ain't that many ways to cut the pie."

"We'll see what Angelo says," Tony said, moodily staring out the window. "We're not doing shit til we hear what happened on his trip."

They continued to wait as the wind picked up around them.

Thirty minutes passed, then sixty, then ninety. Both of them wondered when Angelo would show up–he wasn't one to be late to a meeting.

Out of the mist, suddenly came a black car behind them, but it wasn't Angelo's. Tony glanced back in the side mirror so they wouldn't see him looking. They weren't slowing down.

Gravel was sprayed into mud as the black car skidded to a halt behind them and a window rolled down. A man whose face was obscured by the mist threw a package at the passenger door and the black car sped off.

"What the fuck," Tony growled, grabbing his .38 and stepping out of the car into the downpour. He tried to shield his eyes from the rain to catch their license plate, but all he could make out was the dark background that told him it came from across the river. He cursed to himself and glanced down at the package.

It was wrapped in butcher's paper and tied with twine. The rain was quickly soaking through, and he noticed–no, it couldn't be blood. Fat Lou had reached halfway across the front seat and watched through the passenger's window. He didn't want to open it, but he leaned down anyway, half knowing and half fearing what he'd find.

Tony opened the package. Inside was Angelo's head. Fat Lou poured out of the passenger's door, straight into a mud puddle, wrecking his circus tent of a suit. He began to vomit at the sight.

"Guess we got our answer," Tony muttered to himself. The rain continued to fall.

Seven months later

The men were hurting and Tony knew it. The war with New York had taken a toll on them, not to mention the state in which it left his own mind.

Four weeks earlier, they'd buried Little Vinny after his card game had been shot up. Two weeks before that, Ralph lost an eye after an attempt on his life. Johnny, Giorgio, and Nicky Three Piece had been murdered before that. As cold winds blew into New Jersey, so did the violence.

Luckily, Tony had planned for this. New York had turned up their nose on the drug trade at first, but it was paying off for him in a big way. Wars cost money as well as blood, and he was secretly very pleased with himself for dipping into narcotics ahead of his rivals. It didn't hurt that it paid for a shitload of bullets, either.

Death haunted him in a way he wasn’t used to. His temper grew worse than usual. He'd even taken to fainting at times when his anger glowed too hot–none of the capos knew this, of course. It was going to be a long winter.

Tony and Fat Lou sat in the deli with Frankie, a young, loyal soldier who had risen through the ranks out of necessity in recent months. He’d taken over Little Vinny’s books, and a few more good ideas might see him take on even more responsibilities.

"We need a new way to move the shit, Tony. There's too much of it, not that I'm complaining or nothin." Fat Lou continued to stuff his face with fresh mozzarella and peppers as he spoke. "The meat trucks have been busted twice now, we gotta figure out something new."

Tony took a bite of his own sandwich, turning the problem over in his head.

Frankie spoke up. “Fella down at the warehouse told me there’s a new customer you might want to talk to. Guy’s from Michigan, runs a cereal company or some shit. Got at least two or three trucks a day coming in and out, supposed to be twice that in a couple months.”

Tony became incensed, slamming both heavy paws on the table. “Someone’s coming through my warehouse and I don’t know?”

“I’m just the messenger, T.” Frankie turned his attention back to the prosciutto in front of him. “I only mention it cause I thought you might want to convince him to help. New customer tax and all that.”

“He’s from where, Michigan you said?”

Frankie nodded.

Gears began to turn in Tony’s brain. They did need support for the war with New York, and he’d been trying to get on Detroit’s good side for close to a decade.

“Lou, let’s you and me pay him a visit tonight.”

“I can’t, T. I’m heading up to New York in the morning, remember? Genovese called a meeting with all the bosses and you told me to be there.”

Tony paused, thinking. “That’s right. Frankie, you come along with me since you know the warehouse. You happen to know what kind of loads this guy is bringing through?”

Frankie looked up from his plate of cold cuts, mouth full. “Health foods or some shit. My guy said it was some kind of cereal. Corn flakes.”

As night began to fall, the two sat in Frankie’s car outside the hotel where their mark was staying. They'd been waiting nearly an hour when they finally spotted him - a short, spectacled man, exiting a town car and walking toward the entrance. Tony nodded quietly and they followed him inside to his room.

Frankie knocked on the door. "Room service," he called out in an unconvincing impression of a maid.

Confused, the man responded from inside, "I didn't–" but never finished. As the door opened, Frankie and Tony barged in, knocking his meek frame back several steps.

"What's going on here? Who are you?" he protested.

Tony laughed. "Relax, we're here to give you an award. Why don't you have a seat and we can talk." It wasn't a request, and the man complied.

"You're the guy who makes the corn flakes, right?" Tony asked, peering at him intently.

"Why yes, that's me. My grandfather started the company to serve the Western Health Reform Institute in–"

"And you sell a lot of em, right?" Tony interrupted.

The man looked frightened. "Yes, we're pretty successful."

"Good," Tony replied. "Now we have a little business proposition for you. My associate and I have been looking for a way to send packages from here to Detroit in a very...let's say discrete manner. We happen to know you’re using our warehouse in Paterson, and we thought you might be able to bring a few shipments back home when you go. If it's not too much trouble, that is," he added with a wink.

"Hang on just a minute, who are you?" the man sat stunned.

Frankie got in his face. “He’s the guy who says what goes in and out of that warehouse, and right now he's sayin what's gonna go out of it." He’d always had a bit of a temper; Tony put a hand on his shoulder to calm him.

"What kind of packages–"

"Important ones,” Tony said. “Important cargo that we can't just send in the mail. We need some extra packaging so they don't get, uh...damaged. I've seen those cereal boxes you have in the stores and I think they might just be perfect for what we need."

"I could go to prison if I say yes," the man said cautiously. He tilted his head, still sizing up the two men standing over him.

"Guess what'll happen if you say no," Tony replied coolly. "Mister, what was it, Williamson? I heard somewhere you're into horses. Arabians, right? I got a few myself I like to race. Horses, I mean. So I can imagine how expensive they are to keep. Must be tough when the investment don't pay off and one of em gets sick or something happens to him. Not to mention tragic. Beautiful animals."

Williamson’s eyes grew wide. He gulped hard. "You obviously know where the warehouse is. I'll be there in three days if you wanted to stop by to, um, check to see whether our packaging will be suitable to your needs. First thing in the morning."

Tony smiled wide. “Grrreat.” He clapped Williamson on the arm cheerfully, and as he turned, his tail brushed the executive across his cheek.

Williamson whimpered as the two of them left.

Three days later

As the air began to turn pink with dawn sunlight, Tony and Frankie had already been at the warehouse for half an hour.

“Where the fuck is he?” Frankie muttered, rubbing his hands together for warmth.

Tony pulled his jacket tighter and said nothing.

Another thirty minutes passed before a car pulled in behind them. Williamson got out and Frankie opened the driver side door to meet him. “You said first thing,” he spat.

Williamson recoiled slightly, muttering what sounded like an apology.

By now, Tony was out and the sun was almost completely over the horizon. “Let’s see the packages,” he said, striding toward the loading bay.

It was still early; the industrial park was mostly deserted save for the three of them. As Williamson pulled up the sliding door on the bay, a clatter resounded off the buildings around them.

“This is it,” he said, gesturing at hundreds of palettes stacked with boxes.
Tony smiled. He’d heard the cornflake business was good, but this was far more stock than he’d expected.

He walked over to the nearest palette and opened the top box with a switchblade, pulling out a carton of cereal to inspect. His grin stretched wider as he measured it with his eyes.

“This’ll work. This’ll work just grrreat.”

Frankie pulled a small brick of heroin from inside his jacket. “Let’s see how it fits in there.”

As the three of them stood in the maze of cargo, an engine revved outside. Tony’s ears perked up.

Moving with catlike speed, he had Williamson by the collar.

“I told you to come alone! What are you, trying to make an asshole out of me?”
Williamson cowered. “I did! I don’t know who that is, I swear!”

Tony released the coward and left him choking on the ground. A car door slammed. Frankie handed him the brick, and with a claw, he sliced it open, dumping its contents into the cereal box he’d left on top of the stack. Footsteps. He closed it as best he could, tucking the small cardboard flap in on itself.

He glared at Williamson, who was finally getting to his feet and brushing himself off. “Not a fuckin word,” Tony growled.

“Hello?” a voice rattled through the stacks. “Anyone in there?”

No one responded. They all held their breath.

The footsteps drew closer, and Tony’s grip on the cereal box grew tighter. “Hello?” the voice called out again.

From around the corner appeared a black patent leather shoe, and as the rest of the figure followed, Tony nearly laughed at the absurdity of the situation. It really couldn’t have been much worse.

“Tony,” the officer smiled. “I was hoping I’d find you here.” It was Lieutenant Corrigan, one of the few cops in town Tony hadn’t been able to buy.

“Lieutenant,” Tony greeted him. “How you doin?”

Corrigan stepped forward and looked around, marveling at the palettes of cornflakes around him, making a real show of it. “Just patrolling the area, thought I’d stop in and see if you were free to chat,” he said. His voice carried a whiff of smugness, and Tony could tell he was just waiting for someone to guess at why he’d really come.
Frankie and Williamson stood to the side as Tony and Corrigan stared each other down.

“Well I guess you found me. Just talking with Mr. Williamson here about an exciting new business opportunity.”

“I’ll bet you are,” Corrigan replied. “Well hey, I’ll cut right to the chase. Anyone in your family up in Apalachin, New York, on business this week?”

Tony froze, his overly friendly smile locking his cheeks upward. How did Corrigan know about Fat Lou’s trip?

“What, do I gotta keep tabs on everyone I ever shook hands with?” He’d play dumb and see how things developed.

Corrigan smirked. “Okay. Thought you might want to know the state troopers pinched Lou LaRasso running through the woods thereabouts late last night. Cracking down on a big get together up at Joe Barbara’s estate.”

If Tony’s smile was locked on before, his facial muscles were paralyzed now. To Frankie and Williamson, it looked more like a menacing snarl.

“Really,” he finally said. “Well, I wouldn’t know nothin about that.”

Fat Lou had been attending the meeting as a representative of the family. Ever since Vito Genovese took over, Tony’s wasn’t the only family at war. The meeting was a final attempt by bosses from not only all over the country, but all over the world, to try and split the pie evenly and put old disputes to bed once and for all. A bust would mean…what would it mean? But Tony kissed any hope of peace in the near future goodbye.

“Yep,” Corrigan continued, savoring the obvious discomfort. “Caught him and about sixty other fellas. Got em all in custody now. The world’s finally gonna see how folks like you really operate.” He added a threatening emphasis on folks like you.

Tony restrained himself. “Who? Local businessmen?”

Corrigan actually laughed this time. “Yeah. Right.” He turned on his heel, facing back toward the door. “Anyway, I should have guessed this would come as a total surprise to you,” he said sarcastically. “Just figured you might want to know they’re all upstate squealing like little rats in a cage.”

Tony’s breath grew short and his head foggy. Rats. In a cage.

Memories of the dream flooded his mind. The bars around him. The shadows on the wall. The gun pointed in at him. The scream and the blackness. He reached backward for the edge of the crates but he couldn’t find it. His paw swiped air and he stumbled, the box of cereal dropping to the floor and spilling open.

Corrigan turned back around at the sound. Frankie rushed over to catch his boss before he hit the ground.

“Jesus, you done here?” he asked Corrigan.

Tony braced himself on the concrete floor. “I’m all right, it’s my blood pressure,” he lied.

Corrigan looked genuinely concerned for a moment, before he saw the cereal spilled across the floor. Toasty yellow flakes mixed with…something white, almost like frost on all the front lawns this time of year.

He bent down to get a closer look. “What do we got here?”

Tony regained his composure and climbed back to his feet, shooing Frankie away. He shot Williamson a glance.

“It’s, uh, a prototype. New product we’re trying out in select markets. I was, um, looking for some testers,” Williamson stammered. For a salesman he sure was a lousy liar.

Tony and Frankie nodded in agreement as Corrigan lifted a single flake to his nose and sniffed.

“Testers, huh?” he asked. “Then you don’t mind if I have a taste?”

Williamson raised an arm to protest, but Tony interrupted. “Be our guest,” he said cordially.

Corrigan popped the frosted flake into his mouth and crunched down, chewing. He grabbed a handful more from the concrete floor, eyes never leaving Tony’s.

Tony maintained a friendly smile. “Pretty good, right?”

Corrigan swallowed. “Good?” Tony, Frankie, and Williamson stood rooted to the warehouse floor. “They’re not just good. They’re great!”

A collective sigh blew like wind through the stacked crates. Corrigan grabbed another handful off the floor and began popping them into his mouth.

“No seriously, when are these-” but he couldn’t continue. His eyes began to droop and he fell forward. At first he caught himself, but his arms gave out. His face hit the concrete like a bat connecting with a home run - he was clearly out cold.
Tony exhaled deeply, before pulling a .38 from his jacket and swiftly shooting the unconscious lieutenant in the head.

By the time the gunshot’s echo had faded, only Williamson’s frantic screaming remained. Frankie grabbed him by the shoulders, yelling “Shut! The fuck! Up!” before slamming his back into a nearby palette. Williamson melted into a puddle on the floor, weeping.

“Well that couldn’t have gone any worse,” Frankie quipped.

Tony brushed a paw over his forehead and began pacing. The cage. The bust. The war. He needed time to think, time he just didn’t have.

After a few minutes, he broke the silence. “Frankie, you get rid of this,” he pointed at the dead cop. “And meet us back here tonight with a few more pounds.”
Williamson was still crying when Tony picked him up. “Are…are you going to kill me?” he blubbered.

Tony glanced over his shoulder at the blood, pooling up now and snaking its way toward the white dusted cornflakes. “No,” he said. “I got a better idea.”

Liam dodged the punch in the nick of time. It had been thrown with enough force to knock out a much larger man than he, but there was no time to breathe a sigh of relief. He quickly stepped left and struck the man in his exposed ribs–two quick jabs, met with a light groan. He bounced backward as the man caught his balance and reattained his protective stance. By the time he was ready, though, Liam was on him again, pounding away at the bloody mess that used to be his nose.

Around them, a crowd roared beneath the dim lights of the warehouse. It was late enough the sound wouldn't attract attention from the master of the shipyard, not that he and his men hadn't been paid off already. Even if they hadn't been, most had a stake in the fight and stood among the spectators.

The brawl raged on. Liam ducked a nasty right hook and landed three body blows in quick succession. His opponent grunted, instinctively moving to guard his solar plexus. That split second was all Liam needed.

With the motion of an avalanche somehow flowing in reverse, at once he stood straight and delivered an uppercut that connected squarely on the man's chin. Force rippled through not only his skull, but the air around him, as a crack resounded off the aluminum walls. His head bounced back and never returned as dead weight dragged him to the mat.

Nothing seemed to move in the fraction of the second it took for him to fall. The air was still and calm, and Liam felt a peace he could get nowhere else.

As the man crumpled to the mat with a thud, his senses rushed back to him. Deafening cheers resounded off the roof and, almost certainly, out over Dublin bay. The dingy orange light felt like a bright summer day and the sweat on his torso was enveloped with the warmth of his crew rushing him, shouting praises into his ears.

"Ye dropped the boy like a sack of potatoes!" Sean roared. "Defend yer crown? More like make a right mess of the dumb fuck who thought he could take it!"

Sean had been like an older brother to Liam since he'd run away from the orphanage when he was twelve. He'd taught him where to find bread, whose pockets he could pick, and most importantly, how to take a punch. It was thanks to him, in no small part, that Liam was now one of the most dangerous fighters the after hours dockyard bouts had ever seen. The days of bare-knuckle fisticuffs were long dead, but the world of underground boxing was as strong as ever. And Liam reigned as its prince.

He grabbed the champion by his shoulders and held him back to look upon his bruised face. "I'm proud of ye, lad."

Liam raised his arms and howled at the roof. Another night, another conquest. Around him, those foolish enough to wager against him counted out their losses, grumbling. The smart betters crowded the bookmakers hastily, awaiting their payouts. Conor O'Toole, the man he'd knocked out, still lay on the ground, motionless, surrounded by a crew of rough men shooting dirty looks toward the victors' corner. Liam removed his gloves to accept a pint of ale handed to him by his cut man, and continued to howl between swigs.

Hours later, the calamity had died down. The onlookers had gone home, most with pockets considerably lighter, and sunlight was beginning to shine through the filthy windows near the ceiling. Liam and his crew remained in the corner, still drinking.

"Ye hear that poor sap's head hit the mat?" Sean asked to a roar of laughter, attempting a crude impression of O'Toole's reaction to the finishing blow. He began to blubber, which made the rest of them laugh even harder.

Liam, sitting on a high crate, smacked his knee. "I thought the lot of em were going to cry when he wouldn't wake up!"

O'Toole had been carried out on a plank when he couldn't be revived. One of the spectators, an unscrupulous doctor who tended to show up at fights for occasions just like this, had declared something got knocked loose in his head and he'd need to be taken to the hospital if he was to live through the night.

Angus, the cut man, held up a tooth he'd found on the mat once the crowd had dispersed. "Sir!" he cried out. "I'd like to put a wager on the challenger! Please sir, this is me life savings!" And the group descended into hysterics again.

The laughing stopped abruptly, however, when a figure entered the doorway, casting a shadow over them all. A tall, sinewy man wearing a newsboy cap stood looking on, his face a mask of disgust. It was Evan McEwan, the organizer of this fight, and all the others at the docks.

He stepped in and removed his hat. "Thought you fellas oughta know," he began. "Conor's passed on just now." The air became heavy and no one dared flinch.

"Doctors said his jaw cracked like a spiderweb starting out from his chin. Was blood on the brain that did him in, though."

The men gazed at him fearfully. O'Toole had been a young boy, tough but not a true warrior. McEwan, on the other hand, was a dangerous man, feared across Ireland for what he'd done in the ring, let alone what he'd done outside it. Rumor had it McEwan learned his viciousness from his father, a high ranking member of the IRA during the Easter Rebellion. Everyone in the neighborhood had heard stories. Once, it was said that McEwan shoved a corkscrew into bartender's ear, making him deaf, for not serving him quickly enough. Whispers around town told of another time when he drowned a man in the bay for trying to fix a fight. He was a cruel man with blue eyes cold enough to put out a candle. When he entered a room, so did fear itself.

He stepped toward Liam, who stood up from his crate. Sean and Angus got to their feet as well, but he held up a hand, directing them to stand down.

"I'm sorry to hear it," Liam said carefully. "But we all step in there knowing full well what might happen."

McEwan smiled just a hair. A terrifying expression, given who he was. "That we do, that we do," he said. "But tell me... did Conor know about this?" From behind his back, he produced a boxing glove, and Liam's face went ghost white in an instant.

Nobody moved as McEwan reached into the glove. He pulled out a small lead weight and dropped it onto the floor, where it rang with the force of a million churchbells in the silent warehouse.

"Evan, I–" Angus began, but never finished.

From inside his coat, McEwan drew a long-barrelled pistol and fired it into his chest.

"Sit! The feck! Down!" He now pointed it at Liam, who had gasped and lunged toward Angus, who wasn't moving. Liam knew better than to disobey, and leaned back, taking a seat on the cold stone floor.

"I set these fights. I know the winners, and I know the losers. The only reason," his voice shook with rage, "you make money punching the shit out of these sods is because I allow it!"

Liam sat forward on his knees, hands raised in surrender. "McEwan, I never–"

"Shut the feck up!" McEwan screamed, firing off a round into the roof.

Sean began sobbing, real tears this time, staring on at Angus and the growing pool of blood around him. He closed his eyes, covering them in shame with both hands.

McEwan emitted a low, cruel laugh. "I've been running fights at these docks for near on a decade now, and I don't take to cheats and cowards." He held his aim on Liam. "Stand up and face me, ye feckin lowlife."

Liam, who had just hours before soared with pride and savage victory, was now reduced to a frantic mess. "Please–"

"Get on your fecking feet," McEwan growled. Liam did as he was told. "I dunno who the fuck ye think ye are, that weighting yer gloves seemed like a good idea. But I won't have my boys cheated, and I damn sure won't see em dead." He cocked back the hammer.

Liam began weeping. "Please, I never meant it! Colleen's got a baby on the way, don't make me boy grow up like I did, please! Don't kill me, I'll do whatever ye ask! Don't let me boy come up without a father! Please!"

McEwan grinned coldly. "I'm not gonna kill ye," he said, and turned to Sean, still a sobbing pile on the floor. He fired a shot into Sean's head as Liam wailed, screams incomprehensible, resounding from a deep animal part of him.

"But ye will do whatever I ask," McEwan whispered wryly, turning away and walking toward the door. Liam collapsed onto Sean's body, shuddering with agony. The man had been a brother to him, and now he was nothing but a pile of meat and bone, bleeding on the floor, pieces of his head sprayed across the shipping container behind him. Liam clutched his body, screaming at the top of his lungs, primal noises that humans weren't meant to make. And as he cradled his dead friend, he didn't even notice the two men step into the warehouse, clutching heavy lead pipes wrapped in tape.

Twenty one years later

The man behind the bar held a rag in one hand, a glass in the other, as he began to clean. It was a slow day by all accounts, although some of it could be chalked up to the tempest outside. The rain had fallen steadily for going on a week now, but today was especially severe.

"That's how ye know the weather's bad," he joked, sweeping an open hand at the empty bar. "It'd have to be to keep Irishmen from drinking."

The only patron in the tavern smiled slightly and raised his pint. He was a man in his late sixties, the bartender would have guessed, although he'd have been off by more than twenty years. One couldn't have blamed him though, not even the old man. His arms and legs moved as if they'd been shattered years ago and never quite healed. He slouched over like a hunchback, even sitting. One eye was missing, a cloth wrapping his head to cover the place it used to be, and his hair grew pale nearly all the way through.

"Aye," he said, taking a hearty swig. "Or maybe it's just the smart ones stay home with their families, while the dumb old fucks like me don't mind it."

The bartender laughed hesitantly. He didn't know this man, and hoped that self deprecation was just his sense of humor, not bait to reel him into a fight. No matter if it was though, he supposed. The man was thoroughly crippled, he kept a stout club under the bar, and although the police never showed much in this neighborhood, he knew friends nearby who'd show up in a moment if they heard trouble.

"Maybe," he hazarded, "but it's the dumb old fucks who keep the lights on in here."

The old man fell silent and shot a glare in his direction. The bartender gulped. Perhaps he'd misjudged the grizzled stranger.

Then suddenly he let out a roar of laugher, almost howlish in nature. "That we do, my friend," and the bartender chuckled along with him, relieved.

Just then, the door swung open, sounds of waterfalls rushing into the otherwise quiet room. A tall man wearing a newsboy cap stepped in, thoroughly soaked, and pulled up a stool next to the old man.

"Pint here as well, when you've got a moment," he said to the bartender, depositing a heavy pile of coins onto the counter.

"Coming up," the bartender replied, failing to notice the old man's recoil at the sound of the dropping metal.

"Liam," said the tall man, removing his hat. "Appreciate ye making the trip out to meet."

"Right, as though I had a choice," Liam replied with disgust, although he knew in his heart what would happen if he hadn't.

"It's time to settle up," McEwan began, accepting his pint and sliding two coins from the pile forward toward the bartender. "Ye knew this day would come, and now it has. I've got a job, and if ye see that it gets done, we'll call the whole thing square."

For years, the dread of this moment had weighed on Liam's conscience. After McEwan's men beat him to within an inch of death in the warehouse that night, he'd received a letter outlining the terms of his life being spared. Someday, McEwan would call upon him to perform some task. He couldn't say what and he couldn't say when, but Liam would have to fulfill it. If he didn't? Colleen and his newborn son would burn alive in their home, and Liam knew that McEwan had the pull to make sure their deaths would be ruled accidental. He dared not show an ounce of reluctance.

His son was grown now, of course. A strong lad, scrappy, but sharp in the mind. Extremely short, but built like a bull. By day, he worked on the same docks where his father used to fight. By night, he kept peace at a couple of local bars, kicking out those who got too drunk and using whatever means necessary to settle scores that couldn't be let go with a round on the house.

Liam hated to see him on this path, but Lord knows they needed the money. He'd been unable to work a respectable man's job since the beating. Sean's brother let him help out around his shop now and then, but he mostly paid him out of pity. Liam suspected that deep down, he always held a grudge for Sean's death, but some sense of honor made him take Liam in. And for that he was grateful.

His son might have been a strong young man, but there wasn't a man in the county strong enough to escape McEwan when he put out the word that your time had come. Liam knew this, and even in McEwan's old age, his heart still trembled with fear at the knowledge of his dark deeds.

"So what is it you need me to do?" Liam asked. "I can't see what it is a man in my state can do to help ye."

McEwan smiled. "Man I know needs protecting. Important man, into some very serious business," he said cryptically. Liam only stared.

"The man's leading a parade up in the Bogside, just an old historical thing, commemorating the Siege of Derry and that. Don't expect trouble, but the Catholics are making a racket about it and we need good men to make sure nobody comes to harm."

Liam continued to stare. "No trouble? Evan, not a month ago they was rioting in Derry. A man was killed! And you're gonna sit here and tell me ye don't expect trouble?"

McEwan smiled slyly. "We don't expect none. But if some finds us...well, that's why I need a strong lad who can handle himself."

The pieces snapped together in Liam's mind.

"Feck off," he said. "My son ain't going near that powder keg up north. Absolutely not."

McEwan's smile remained constant, and he produced a book of matches from his overcoat. He took one, striking it against the box, and held it inches in front of Liam's face.

"Ye don't have a choice," he whispered, blowing it out, acrid smoke curling up Liam's nose just enough to make him cough. "Think about it."

And with that, he took his hat and exited back into the storm.

Three days later

"What the hell do they need people for in Northern Ireland? Ain't there a war about to start up there, and they're throwing parades?"

Liam and his son walked briskly, or as briskly as Liam could manage, through the streets on their way back to the bar.

"I wouldn't ask this of you if I had another choice," Liam said. "But McEwan's a man of his word, and this is a debt I must settle," the last bit was twinged with unease as he remembered the matchstick burning in front of his face just days prior.

"Well who knows, maybe there'll be a pot of gold at the end of this rainbow," his son joked. Liam pretended not to hear him as they arrived.

Inside the dimly lit tavern, McEwan sat at the bar. Again, they were the only patrons. McEwan stood to greet them, utter smugness coating his expression. "Ah, so this is the boy I've heard so much about."

He extended his hand. "Name's Lucky. Pleased to meet ye," the young man said.

McEwan beamed. "Ye weren't kidding, Liam, lad's an absolute unit. He'll do just fine. Just fine indeed."

Lucky tilted his head as the two men exchanged intense stares. "Pardon, Mr. McEwan, but what's all this business about an important man? What would ye have me do exactly to pay off this..."

"Old debt," McEwan finished. "And it's very important business indeed. Friend of mine is leading a parade up at Bogside, bringing an ancient treasure through the city. Y'ever heard of the Siege of Derry? Couple hundred years ago the boys held their city in rebellion against the exiled King, and we're throwing a parade in remembrance that they held strong until supply made it through the royal lines.

"The Catholics are still sore about it, naturally. Us bringing the spoils of a war they lost ain't ever gonna sit well." McEwan smirked, "But fuck em."

Lucky looked puzzled. "What's the treasure? There gold in this for me?"

McEwan simply laughed as Liam hung his head. "There might be," he replied. "And as for the treasure, don't ye worry about that. Just know that it must be protected at all cost, from anyone who'd take it."

Though Lucky began the day in hesitation, his curiosity was now piqued. As for Liam, this reaction was exactly what he'd dreaded. All those years in the fighting pits flooded his memory. It's not that he hated fighting–quite the contrary. But he'd done it to secure a future for his family, and it had all come down to this. He could still feel the metal pipes raining down against his bones on that hot summer night, wondering if he'd survive to see his son grow old. Now that son was here with him, and he was sending him off to provoke war.

McEwan had Lucky firmly in his grasp, and knew it. "See to it that this man's treasure remains safe and ye might just find more protection work. The type of work that'll make ye a rich man indeed," he added with a wink.

Everything in Liam's being told him to scream and run, to remove his family from this cursed city and risk the consequences. The night two decades prior played a thousand times in his mind, and he'd have given anything to take it all back. The fight. The weights in his glove. The killings.

Liam shuddered, sick with himself. He knew he couldn't take it back, and seeing his son standing with the man who'd caused so much pain, he knew nothing good could come from this. And he knew that McEwan would find him no matter where he went. He could not refuse.

Lucky, on the other hand, beamed with excitement. This all sounded like a grand adventure to him, and Liam could tell the hooks were embedded deep. He only prayed that he'd see his son return alive.

"Just one more thing," Lucky said. "Who's this man we're going to meet?"

McEwan grew serious at once. "I'll tell ye who he is, but ye must never utter his name outside of the territories he controls. The man has spies everywhere and he don't take to strangers talking about him."

Lucky looked anxious as McEwan leaned close and whispered, "The man is General Mills."

Liam and his son exchanged a nervous glance, as McEwan stepped back solemnly. "Come on now, we must be off." He turned back to Liam. "When yer boy returns home, ye won't hear from me again."

And they left the bar together, as Liam hobbled over to grab a seat and order what would be the first drink of many.

Fog blanketed the woods as the brothers huddled together. They crouched behind a bush, directing curses toward the chill air. Remains of a snowfall three weeks prior lay around them - it was not quite warm enough to melt, but still cold enough to put a shiver in their bones. They could do little more than rub their hands together, though. They knew they'd need to keep still. Beneath the road just in front of them was five hundred pounds of black powder, and they could see lights coming around the corner.

They'd been planning this job for months. Paul, the self-appointed leader of the crew, had a nasty habit of taking things too far. They'd been under a lot of heat since he popped that guard at the last place they hit; all the newspapers said he'd get the chair if the police ever caught up with him.

Paul didn't seem worried by this–if anything, it emboldened him. And why should he be afraid? Paul was a tough boy from the old country. Came to America at age five and scrapped for every penny he'd earned - if you could truly use the word "earn" to describe his work, that is. Perhaps "scrapped" doesn't quite fit either. Most of his loot was backed more by blood than by gold. Writers kept saying the Wild West era was over: law and order had won out, and the days of every bandit in America were numbered. But Paul wasn't what you'd call well-read.

The brothers fell in with Paul's crew, the Flatheads, after a new round of layoffs at the mine where they worked. The guard on duty had been shot in a robbery and the owner hadn't thought to insure the operation. They found their names - Sam, Carl, and Pete - among two dozen others in red ink on a notice when everyone arrived for first shift. They ran into Paul that night at the tavern, and put two and two together when he accidentally flashed his Colt after buying the place a round for the third or fourth time.

If you can't beat 'em... well, the boys did need jobs.

Across the road, Paul put a finger to his lips and nodded in the direction of the approaching truck. It would be directly over the black powder in about thirty seconds.

Onboard was payroll for the mine up in Coverdale, and Pete just happened to know a boy who worked there. That boy's foreman just happened to have made a pass at his sister and bragged to the second shift that he'd gone all the way with her at the theater. That boy just happened to know exactly what time a truck would roll in, carrying bags and bags of money. And the owner of the Coverdale mine just happened to be a little smarter than the one where Sam, Carl, and Pete had worked. He had insurance.

The air was thick with more than just fog now, as the armored truck appeared slowly around the bend. A trail car followed, but they'd planned for that with another mound of explosives just behind the main one.

Paul's wild grin began to spread across his face as the front axle reached just the right spot and–

POW!

The force of the blast flipped the truck into the air, then gravity brought it down onto its roof. The eerie silence that followed the explosion came rushing back as sound waves echoed off the mountains, and it morphed into a high pitched whine that would leave everyone's ears sensitive for a week. Smoke from the engine clouded the road, and if it was difficult to see before in the fog, it was now nearly impossible.

Paul and the brothers rushed in, guns drawn, though it was clear that all the guards were either stunned or knocked out.

"On the ground!" Paul roared as the truck driver came to. He and Sam handled the truck, while Carl and Pete closed in on the trail car. They all glanced down the road to make sure they were alone, and they were, just as the boy said they would be.

The truck driver cowered. "Please, mister, I got a family!"

Paul drew back his pistol and whacked the side of the man's skull, crumpling him in a heap the ground. He stepped back, took aim at the unconscious body, but Sam grabbed his arm.

"Not this time," Sam growled. "We got enough attention on us already. Let's grab the cash and get outta here."

Reluctantly, Paul stood down, but not before firing off a menacing glare in Sam's direction. "Pop, grab the bag," he said, using Pete's code name they often employed when they were forced to leave targets alive. "Crackle, keep an eye on the other driver and make sure he don't try anything funny," he told Carl.

He turned back to Sam. "Snap," he said, "gimme a hand with this loot." And they pried open the back of the truck with a crowbar.

September 1927

Sam, Carl, and Pete huddled over a table near the back of the tavern, waiting. He should have been here by now. They'd agreed to meet at eight o'clock and it was almost eleven.

After two hours without a word, Pete finally broke the silence: "How long are we gonna stick around here?"

Carl gritted his teeth hard. "He'll come," he murmured. "He has to."

"How the hell would you know?" Pete whispered a bit louder than he meant to. "When has he ever been late? Next person who comes through the door might be him, or it might be ten cops looking for others in the gang to flip on him."

After the truck robbery, Paul had made a show of dividing up the money - more than a hundred thousand dollars in total - and taking half, explaining his plan to travel south loudly so the driver of the trail car would hear him and tip off the police. What he didn't say was that the brothers would be taking the cash, and he would take decoy bags full of rice instead. Since he was the leader (and already wanted on murder charges), they figured the police would chase after him, and they could all catch up to split the take later. But the plan went to shit when the cops tracked him down in a wooded cabin thirty miles away.

Sam, knowing how quickly these two could conjure a fight from nothing, put a hand on each brother's shoulder. "Give him another hour or so, then we're gone."

Pete's face turned so red he looked as if he might burst. "Then what? What's he going to think when he shows up to collect and we're nowhere to be found?"

A few other patrons around them had grown quiet by now, and the brothers realized they were being stared at. Pete lowered his voice back to a whisper. "He'll think we double-crossed him and then he'll come for us."

Paul had spent about five months in jail after his capture, but he was back on the run now. He and another prisoner grabbed hold of a guard's rifle and shot their way to freedom three weeks prior. Word was that he would be heading back west, and all he needed to go was his share of the money.

"Keep quiet. We wait a while longer," Sam said, although to be truthful, he wasn't sure whether Paul would show.

The hour went by without another complaint. The brothers were as afraid as they were anxious. Paul claimed a body count somewhere upwards of twenty. Sam, Carl, and Pete knew it to be almost twice that. A desperate man just out of prison was nothing they wanted to mess with, especially when that man was as dangerous as Paul. And especially when they owed him thirty thousand dollars. But as the crowd thinned out and midnight turned over into morning, they knew he wasn't coming.

Carl was the first to stand up, but just as he did– POW POW. Two bullets whizzed over his head and stuck into the wall.

The brothers had realized the rest of the patrons had cleared out, but they'd failed to notice just how much. Even the bartender was nowhere in sight. The only other inhabitant now was a grizzled old man sitting at the bar. He wore a cowboy hat and a long black coat, a puzzling choice for the damp heat of the Pennsylvania summer. In one hand he held a glass of deep amber bourbon, which he shot back as he stood up to move toward them. In his other hand, a smoking gun.

"I been huntin' you boys for damn near two weeks now. Pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, though I don't guess you'll be returning the courtesy," he said, closing the space between the bar and the table with a few long strides

The man kept his gun trained on them. "Now don't you think about making any funny moves. Paul Jaworski's got a price on his head, dead or alive, but they want to talk to you boys before they fry you."

Sam, Carl, and Pete exchanged nervous glances. How stupid they'd been to sit in the corner worrying about officers storming the place, or the million hypotheticals of dealing with Paul and his money. The bounty hunter at the bar had been watching them all night and they'd been too caught up to realize it. They'd slipped.

"Suppose you just...let us go," Carl began, but the bounty hunter only laughed.

"Son, your business associate just killed a man and wounded six more on his way out of Allegheny County, no way in hell are you walking free," he said plainly. "Now come on with me. Them first two was warning shots, but my trigger finger don't like to be teased."

The brothers stood reluctantly. He had them, no way around it.

"Just tell me one thing," Sam said. He needed to be careful. "How'd you find us?"

The bounty hunter laughed. "Word gets around. Asked down the road if anyone saw three dwarfs around and I connected the dots when they said yeah." Sam winced. He had known the risks posed by coming into town all together. They'd done it anyway and they'd lost.

Gun still trained on them, the bounty hunter reached into his jacket. "Now I'll say it again, don't you boys try anything funny–"

But Pete did try something funny. As soon as the bounty hunter lowered his gaze, he lunged. Two things happened simultaneously: several pairs of handcuffs fell from the man's jacket, and his gun went off again–POW! The bounty hunter was old, but it was clear he had not lost a step with age. The back of Pete's head exploded and slowly ran down the wall behind them as Sam and Carl screamed and moved to catch him as if they thought he might have simply fainted.

"Shit!" the bounty hunter cried out, fumbling for a moment before putting both hands on the grip.

Sam and Carl fell to the floor next to their brother's body, screaming and weeping and trying in vain to wake him. The bounty hunter regained his composure quickly. "I told you boys not to make a move!" he barked, kicking the handcuffs in their direction. They paid him no mind.

"Put these on!" he ordered, but Sam and Carl in their grief either did not hear or simply did not obey. "Good lord," he muttered and fired the gun again, this time into Sam's knee.

Sam screamed in agony, Carl screamed in grief, and the bounty hunter paced back and forth, wondering how to regain control of the situation. "Put on the damn handcuffs!" he screamed, and Carl took heed, finally seeming to apprehend their situation.

Pete was dead, Sam was badly hurt, and Carl knew he was their last chance at escaping the electric chair. All he needed was a plan.

"Put them on, Sam," he urged his brother, who was now hyperventilating, gripping his ruined leg with white knuckles as blood poured from the wound. He looked back up at the man with the gun. "I'm gonna help him, don't shoot again."

"Hurry up now," the bounty hunter said, motioning toward the handcuffs with his gun. "He needs a doctor before he bleeds out, or I'm down to a third of the price on your heads."

Carl cursed the man's base calculus but knew he was right. He also knew this was an advantage for him. The quicker they got outside and on the road, the better Sam's chances of survival, and with the man occupied by driving, the better his chance of escaping. Carl composed himself and helped carry Sam out to the man's truck, as the man himself carried Pete's body.

His LaSalle darted through the forest road as swiftly as it could go. The bounty hunter knew his payday rode on getting Sam to a hospital - he'd already thrown away a third of his prize and he wasn't eager to lose out on more.

They rode in silence, except for an occasional groan from Sam, and not ten minutes went by before they heard a POP! and then the unmistakable thud of metal hitting dirt and dragging against it. The car bumbled to a stop as the situation turned from bad to worse–they'd hit something in the road, and a front tire had gone flat.

"Goddammit," the bounty hunter growled. He paused for a moment. "You just– you just stay here," he ordered from the front seat, pointing his gun backward at the two of them.

"Hurry the hell up," Carl cried out. "We gotta get him some help!"

The bounty hunter, flustered by this point, ignored him and got out to retrieve the spare from the rear fenderwell.

Sam did everything in his power to keep his heart rate low to slow the bleeding. He'd been pressing a bar towel on his knee, but it didn't seem to be doing much. Carl sat up next to him, trying to help apply pressure, though the handcuffs made this difficult. They heard the bounty hunter fiddling about just behind them, grunting with the exertion of removing the spare's hubcap to remove it from the vehicle.

POP!

A gunshot rang out through the dark forest, followed by the thump of a body hitting the ground just inches away from where Sam and Carl sat. They fell still, neither knowing where it came from, nor daring to wonder when the next one would come. An eternity passed. The sound of breathing was all they knew. Lights appeared ahead of them on the road.

As the lights drew closer, Carl realized another car was approaching, and for the first time in his life, prayed it was the police. Twenty feet away, it stopped and the driver opened the door.

Not a single atom in the two brothers' beings moved. All they could do was wait.

As the mystery driver appeared, shadow enveloping his face, Carl began to mutter incomprehensibly to himself. He'd always known it could end like this, but never seriously considered that it actually would. The driver neared, gun in hand, and opened the door.

"On the ground! Faces down in the mud–" he began to shout, then stopped. He lowered his gun. "Sam? Carl?"

It was Pete's friend, the boy from Coverdale mine.

"Chester? What in the hell are you doing out here?" Carl exclaimed. Each was as surprised as the other.

"Took a page out of you fellas' books; turns out robbing cars as they pass through is easy as– good lord, is he okay?" Chester exclaimed as he noticed Sam laying across the blood-soaked upholstery.

"No, and Pete's dead in the rear compartment," Carl replied, survival instincts overriding his surprise. Chester began to speak but Carl cut him off: "I'll explain later. Your car run okay? We gotta go. Now."

"S-sure," Chester stammered.

"Okay then, you grab Pete out the back. I'll get Sam laid down–don't worry, I'll clean up the blood–and let's get the hell out of here." The two of them began moving at once.

"Does Sam need a doctor?" Chester said, heaving Pete's body out of the broken down LaSalle.

"No doctors, no hospitals," Carl said through teeth gritted with the exertion of Sam's weight. "I know someplace else we can go." And within a few minutes, they began to drive there.

February 1929

They were almost out of wood, and even in a cabin this small, heat from the fire didn't go very far. Sam limped over to the door and reached for the axe. "I'll do it," Carl piped up, although he didn't move from the hearth right away. Responsibilities like this usually fell on him now; Sam still had bullet fragments stuck in his leg and Carl could tell this year's harsh winter was causing him more pain than usual.

On a supply run into town, Carl had discovered what became of Paul. He'd been recaptured in Cleveland in the fall and his execution was scheduled for the end of the month. He learned this in January, so Paul was most likely dead by now.

They had a small memorial service for Paul when the day came and went. There had certainly been opportunity for them to practice–they'd buried Pete under an oak tree out back, what, almost a year and a half ago now? Paying their respects to Paul was the least they could do. It was his cabin they were staying in, after all, the same cabin where he'd been arrested following the truck heist.

Paul kept a place up in the mountains as a vacation home, in his words. The police called it a hideout. They'd come looking when Paul was first recaptured, but the brothers caught wind of the raid in time to cover their tracks. The law hadn't sniffed around the place since.

The cabin was small, but they could make do. Maybe they'd go west when Sam's leg healed, they would always say, as if they really believed he'd ever walk normally again. Or maybe when people simply forgot about the price on their heads. It was nice to pretend things would go back to the way they were. For now, at least they had food. It had been well-stocked when they arrived, and the town nearby was small enough that nobody asked many questions when Carl showed up every few weeks to pick up supplies.

The fake money bags full of rice from the truck heist still piled up in one corner, although with all that had happened, the three of them felt it somehow wrong to disturb them.

Chester had stayed with the brothers ever since his inadvertent rescue. He never planned to, but in the weeks following they grew attached and by now he was almost a stand-in for Pete. Not a replacement of course, never a replacement, but Sam and Carl liked having him around. Of all the regrets they had (and there were plenty), the biggest by far was failing to protect their little brother.

They'd even taken to calling him "Pop." At first it happened by accident, but after they decided Pete wouldn't mind, it stuck.

Carl began to stand up as Sam went back to the fire with an exhausted half-smile. "Thanks," he said as he took a seat.

POW! POW! POW!

Their three hearts dropped at once as someone pounded at the door. The police hadn't been around in months, was this the day they decided to perform one last check of the property? They'd kept a fire going for weeks. If it was the law, there was no escaping this time.

POW! POW! POW!

Three more knocks. Carl grabbed his gun and looked at the other two cautiously. If it was the police they'd have broken the door down by now.

POW! POW–

Carl opened the door, rifle drawn and cocked.

"Sweet Jesus, don't shoot!" It was the postman.

"How the hell did you find us up here?" Carl demanded, not lowering his gun an inch. "This is private property. Why don't you get your ass back down the mountain where you belong?"

The postman looked ready to piss himself. "I-I-I don't want no trouble, mister, I'm just here to deliver this." Carl noticed something in one of his raised hands: a small scrap of paper, not even postcard-sized.

"Well give it here then," he said, making great effort to hide his anger. The postman could have been followed and he couldn't take any risks, not now, but–his mind flashed back to the truck heist. Paul was about ready to kill the first guard who regained consciousness after the explosion, but Sam had stopped him. Sam had never liked killing, and as he sat by the fire watching now, Carl softened up.

He lowered his gun slightly and the postman handed over the card. "Now listen up," Carl said, "don't you ever come back here no matter what. Forget what you saw. Forget you even know people are living up here. If I ever catch you in this neck of the woods again, I'll shoot your head clean off and nobody will find your bones."

The postman began backing off slowly before hitting a dead on sprint away from this awful place. It seemed they'd reached an understanding.

Carl turned back to Sam and Chester. "What'd he give you?" Sam asked.

He turned the card over in his hand and read:

To Snap, Crackle, and Pop: Sorry to be brief and cryptic but I don't have much time. Guess you already know what happened to me. Here's to better luck for you. Anyway, I sent this the only place I could think to, so I hope it reaches you. You ever need to, you can write me at 45 Hellsfire Road, 6/14 mile from Hell. Though I guess I'll see you soon enough. - Pow

Carl shivered. Paul must have sent this note just before they fried him. Of course he hadn't heard about Pete–how would he? Carl choked up as he realized he may be holding in his hands the final words Paul ever wrote to anyone. He missed his brother. He missed Paul. He missed honest work and mom's vegetable stew and not hiding out in a cabin in the dead of winter.

"What's it say?" Chester asked, beginning to stand up, but Carl didn't answer him. He felt as if he'd just spoken to a ghost. "Well?"

Sam and Chester both looked more and more concerned, but before Carl could speak, he noticed something on the card. One of the i's was dotted all wrong. It was–no, not dotted wrong, there was a separate inkblot soaking through from the back of the page.

He turned the card over and read:

P.S. That stuff isn't really rice.

"Carl, you okay?" He walked over to the pile of bags in the corner and took a deep breath.

The air became pink as the sun continued its descent behind the mountains. Shadows from the window panes had started as neat squares on the floor; now they cast into long rectangles that crept up the walls on the opposite side of the house. Night was falling outside, and Pedro was nowhere to be found. And his animals had not yet been fed.

Pedro was a lavish man, and his name was known better than God's throughout the town. A few times a year, he would arrive in a cloud of dust kicked up by his newest imported car. When he and his army of security guards came down off his mountain, fights seemed to break out in the bars more frequently. Policemen didn't stop them because they knew better than to patrol those nights. Doctors met in secret with women in the months following each visit, husbands pretended not to understand why, but nobody complained because the trucks full of fruit and medicine continued to pass through a town that cost them more in fuel to visit than they'd ever recoup in sales (which were discounted to an almost suspicious extent). Nobody asked questions because they already knew the answers. The trucks that weren't full of supplies...well, it was no one's business.

For all the chaos Pedro brought into town, he spent far more time in his mansion entertaining private guests. Sometimes his visitors were groups of girls from Chile and Argentina. Sometimes they were local militia leaders and sometimes they were farmers. Most of the time, they were men who wore aviator sunglasses and brightly colored dress shirts and seemed to laugh too loud on purpose, as if to demonstrate the force of their existence.

No matter who came to his home, though, Pedro made sure to show off his animals. He had panthers, an orangutan, a tiger, entire rooms full of poisonous snakes and spiders. His taste for the exotic was a major point of pride, and nothing made him as proud as the twin toucans that lived in his study and oversaw every business deal he conducted.

The animals grew restless now, however, as afternoon turned into a deep dusk. Pedro failed to come home from time to time, but he always arranged care for them. A few hours had passed since feeding time, and one could no longer tell whether the growls coming from Pedro's menagerie were rooted in hunger or ferocity.

Just as the last of the pink light faded into darkness, the door burst open with a clatter. Pedro stumbled in, crashing face down onto an expensive carpet in the middle of the cages. When he sat up, they could all see his face covered in blood and the growls turned to outright roars. Something wasn't right, and even his prized pets could realize that Pedro was in trouble.

Two men followed with rifles, and then a third with a fat cigar. As he pulled it and the cherry lit up his face, a dark smile shone through the darkness. From the floor, Pedro let out a deep groan.

"You think you can double-cross me?" the man with the cigar said, obviously not expecting a response as he walked over and kicked Pedro in the ribs. His associates circled the room, menacing the creatures with their rifles.

"Well," said the man with the cigar, apparently calming down. "I guess you realize what a mistake that was."

Pedro tried to sit up, but his right arm was badly broken and he fell flat again. One of the gunmen laughed, and Cigar Man snapped: "Did I ask you if anything was fucking funny?" Both gunmen lowered their heads a bit and faced the door to keep lookout.

Cigar Man turned back to Pedro. "Now that we're clear on who owns this town, let's get clear on some other business."

Pedro looked up at him, still struggling to sit up with one arm. Cigar Man crouched down to address this "business," and Pedro spit a mouthful of blood on his crisp, white shirt. "Fuck you," he sneered.

The cherry on the cigar lit up, illuminating a sinister grin. The man snapped his fingers at one of his men: "Juan. The tiger." The man walked across the room to a cage holding Antonio, Pedro's prized Bengal. The man snapped his fingers again and the gun cracked, leaving Pedro to wail through broken teeth.

The rest of the animals went berserk at the sound of the gunshot, but the intruders paid them no mind. Cigar Man snapped his fingers at the other guard, pointing to the fire place. "Get us a fire going; I think we're going to be here for a while."

Hours passed. Night had turned over into morning, and Pedro sat tied up in a chair. One of the men had gone out to the truck for a duffle bag of tools, and somehow the animals knew to look away while he worked on their master. Pedro's screaming reverberated into the jungle around them, and for the first time in his life, he wondered if building his mansion so high above the town was such a fine idea after all. Not that the villagers would come to save him anyway. For all they knew, the screams were from one of his guests, perhaps a businessman who'd been too forward at dinner, or a local policeman who'd asked a question he shouldn't have. It wouldn't have been the first time the townspeople had ignored the strange terrors happening above them, although it was beginning to seem as though it would be the last.

Cigar Man had long since rolled up his sleeves, sweat ruining his once-slick hair. "I'm gonna ask you one more time, my friend. What were the feds doing on my boat last month?"

Pedro had once commanded respect from all of those who knew him, and if not respect, then fear. He'd made many friends and, clearly, just as many enemies. When he walked into rooms, the air pressure seemed to change. The man tied to the wooden chair in the middle of the cages was not that man, however. This man was small and weak and broken.

"I told you I don't know nothing about that. I don't know nothing about your boat," he moaned. The animals looked on as if they could tell this was the end.

Cigar Man turned back to the duffle bag and pulled out a screwdriver. "I don't like doing this, man. I really, really don't--" but before he could finish, a crash.

One of Pedro's toucans had flown from its perch, swooping at the man with the cigar, diving and clawing and biting at his face. Squawks filled the room and the rest of the animals found new energy, roaring and raising calamity, as if to cheer him on. A man with a rifle fired to try and shoot it out of the air, but missed badly. The other took a shot that whined off a brass lamp, striking his partner, who fell quickly and stopped moving. The two remaining men swatted and hollered, but the toucan continued to fly.

"Thank God the breeder hasn't come yet," Pedro thought. He normally kept the toucans' wings clipped to prevent them from flying about, but it had been far too long. He worked at the ropes on his hands amid the chaos.

Bang. Another shot rang out and the toucan fell out of the air, landing with an unceremonious thud on a table.

Cigar Man ran a hand through his hair, pulling back a small streak of blood the bird had drawn. He began to laugh menacingly. "You and your beasts are going to pay for that," he said, starting in on his captive again.

But in all the ruckus, Pedro had slipped his bonds. As soon as the man with the cigar got close enough, he lunged with the last of his energy, toppling them both over onto the carpet, rolling.

The scuffle did not last long. Aside from the massive amound of blood he'd lost, Pedro had the fight plucked out of him with pliers in the hours leading up to this moment. He held the upper hand for a split second, before the man with the cigar pulled a long knife from his belt and stuck it between Pedro's ribs.

Murmurs had been echoing through the room all night, the animals keenly aware of the wickedness taking place before them, unable to act. But when Pedro fell this time, all was silent.

Cigar Man stood up and dusted himself off. Pedro lay in a heap, his final moments to be spent in agony. "This is what happens to snakes," the man said to him, voice full of contempt. "They get their heads chopped off." He motioned around at Pedro's animals and started to laugh.

"Well... I suppose it's not just snakes."

Pedro lay helpless as the remaining guard walked from cage to cage, firing into each one, exterminating his beloved pets. They were more than simply tokens of his wealth, though. Pedro hadn't been born into the house on the mountain. He remembered running barefoot through the slums as a child, flash forward to the first time one of the older boys showed him the powder that had dictated the next twenty five years of his life. Each of his animals represented a step he'd taken along the way, and watching them be snuffed out one by one felt like watching his life play back in reverse, waiting for the final (or first?) act to finish so he could die.

Maybe it was better this way; Pedro was not unaware of his brutal reputation. Frankly, it was well-deserved. He'd hurt a lot of people to get here, and only as he lay bleeding out did he think that perhaps he could have chosen another path.

As the guard approached the last remaining animal, Pedro's second toucan, Cigar Man stopped him. "Wait. I'd like to finish this one myself," he said with a sneer. Pedro couldn't bear to watch.

The man sauntered up to the elaborate gold perch, one of a pair on either side of the fireplace. The toucan turned its head as if curious about what would happen next. Cigar Man pulled out a revolver from his waistband and pointed it at the bird.

"Check the safe!" squawked the bird. "Check the safe! In the foyer!"

Cigar Man lowered his gun and grinned. "This one can talk," he chuckled.

"Check the safe! In the foyer!" the toucan continued to squawk. He repeated it over and over, each time more urgent than the last.

"Must have learned to snitch from his owner," jeered the gunman from across the room. Both men laughed coldly.

Cigar Man kept the gun at his side, pondering for a moment. He looked at the toucan, a bit incredulous he was about to ask an exotic bird for help, then shook it off. "Okay then, pretty bird, where are the keys?" He gestured toward his associate as if to say get a load of this, not wanting to look foolish for speaking to an animal. Their work was done that night, but if Pedro kept some loot lying around, better for them to take it than to leave it for the inevitable police raid that would come in the following days.

"Keys in the dresser! Keys in the dresser!" the bird cried out.

Cigar Man and the guard looked at one another for a brief moment, before shrugging. It was worth a shot. The guard walked to an elaborate mahogany bureau in the corner, peeked in the top drawer and exclaimed, "Hey! The bird ain't lying." He pulled out a set of silver keys.

Until now, the men had lost all interest in Pedro, who lay in a bloody pile, sputtering. "How's it feel to get ratted out by a bird?" the guard spat in his direction, before both he and the man with the cigar began to laugh in unison. "Now where did he say that safe was?"

"Follow your nose! Follow your nose!"

The two men looked at each other quizzically.

"Follow your nose! Follow your nose!" the toucan continued to squawk.

"He said it was in the foyer, you idiot," said the man with the cigar. "Let's go see if we can't get out of here with more than the blood on our hands to show for it." They left the room through the door they'd broken down some hours earlier.

As soon as they were gone, the toucan flew down from its perch and waddled over to Pedro, who was fading out of consciousness quickly. It rubbed its beak against his hand, as if begging him to wake up again. Pedro looked into its tiny black eyes. "That's right...you haven't been fed tonight, have you?" he whispered hoarsely. For all of the evil in Pedro's heart, there was nothing but love for his animals, even as he lay dying.

A great explosion erupted from the foyer, shaking the house to its foundation. The crystal chandelier above Pedro and his toucan clinked against itself, threatening to fall and crush them both. The hearth was nearly blown out with the gust of air forced through the door. The smell of blood from all the dead animals had begun to fill the room before, but now there was only dynamite and smoke.

The toucan looked toward the door, as if expecting the man with the cigar and his guard to walk through at any moment. Pedro knew they wouldn't, and he smiled at his bird, stroking his massive beak with a fragile hand. He'd loaded that safe with explosives months ago, knowing he might need it in a situation like this, although he'd always imagined he would be the ones to lead the robbers into the trap.

He stroked the toucan's beak, before it grew tired of this and began to peck at him. "Follow your nose!" it squawked.

Pedro reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a handful of colorful grains. He always kept a bit on him when he was home - he was proud of his pets, and perhaps even more so of the fact that he fed each of them by hand.

The toucan pecked the grains from his bloody palm. It was a special blend he'd had made by a farmer in town, the same farmer who kept quiet when Pedro demanded rights to a certain part of his property to grow a certain variety of leaf. They were round with holes in the middle, and came in a rainbow of colors. Pedro was a lavish man, and he enjoyed the idea of feeding his animals only the best. And because he favored the toucans, he had spared no expense in obtaining these mysterious multicolored rings for them. The farmer had called them "loop grain."

This wasn't such a bad way to go, Pedro supposed, the toucan continuing to feed from his hand. Just him and his bird.

The smoke in the room was getting thicker now, and he realized the blast from the safe had ignited something in the foyer. No matter. He would bleed out before the fire reached him, and the bird would fly free once it finished its loop grains.

The toucan nudged him for more, but Pedro looked into its beady eyes apologetically. He'd only had that one handful to give. Somehow the toucan understood, and its nudged turned gentler, almost comforting. The fire intensified around them.

A beam crashed down somewhere in the front of the house, and they both knew it was time to go. Pedro had grown weak, and could feel himself struggling to remain conscious. The toucan sensed it too. He reached up once more to stroke the bird's beak. A wave of emotion rushed over him - gratitude, nostalgia, and just a bit of sorrow at the knowledge he'd be dead in minutes.

The toucan stepped back a bit, and Pedro touched his beak once more. "Thank you, Sam," he said, and he closed his eyes forever.

Sam knew he would be in danger if he didn't get out, so he took quick flight through the open door, dodging embers that had begun to float through the air. He was sorry to see his master die, but was also proud that he was able to give him an ounce of dignity and comfort before he passed.

As he hit the warm night air, the house behind him began to collapse. He looked behind to watch the roof cave in on itself, burying the crimes that had been committed there not only that night, but over the past twenty years. He was sad to see it go, but only for a moment.

Right now, Sam had more pressing matters to attend to. The handful of loop grains were enough to satisfy him for now, but his master was right: the animals had not been fed. He flew over the dark jungle, hungry, and looking for more.

My waking thoughts are all of thee. Your portrait and the remembrance of last night’s delirium have robbed my senses of repose. Sweet and incomparable Joséphine, what an extraordinary influence you have over my heart. Are you vexed? do I see you sad? are you ill at ease? My soul is broken with grief, and there is no rest for your lover. But is there more for me when, delivering ourselves up to the deep feelings which master me, I breathe out upon your lips, upon your heart, a flame which burns me up ah, it was this past night I realised that your portrait was not you.You start at noon; I shall see you in three hours. Meanwhile, dolce amor, accept a thousand kisses, but give me none, for they fire my blood.

Yours For Ever,

Horatio

Twenty months had now passed since he'd seen Joséphine. Fourteen months since he'd sent that letter, six since he'd given up hope of hearing from her, and three since he received news from Joséphine's sister that she'd fallen ill with pneumonia and was buried by the time his last letter reached her. That was when he sailed for the New World.

Horatio still dreamed of her sometimes. It was among the last comforts he had on the cruel sea, between the ache in his bones from lack of nutrition and the countless friends he'd seen washed overboard by storms. He knew the risks when he signed his enlistment papers, but with only a third of the crew left, he often wondered how they'd make it back to land - or if they would at all. Rations were low, tempers were high, and tonight was the night he would take fate back into his own hands.

At first, he couldn't tell if it was the ocean shaking him.

"Horatio - wake up. Wake up, it's time," whispered Carlyle. Horatio wiped the sleep from his eyes and took stock of his surroundings, no longer in the garden with Joséphine but in a wretched galley, surrounded by disease and rot.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Carlyle silenced him. They'd been planning for weeks, and could not afford to blow cover with a stray cough or sneeze, let alone a misplaced word that might echo into the captain's ears.

Carlyle was the first mate, but even he had grown tired of the captain's hollow promises and stilted rationing policies. They'd lost a dozen men to starvation, and a dozen more to madness. It wasn't that supplies were low - the hold was well stocked with potatoes and salt pork and rum - but the captain was hell bent on reaching the West Indies with them and selling off the excess. The last man who'd been caught with more than his fistful of bread for the day had been whipped half to death and thrown into the sea. At this rate, the ship may reach the islands, but what good is gold if no one is alive to spend it?

Captain Jean LaFoote slept quietly above in his quarters, his own belly full of the rations for which the crew was finally willing to risk it all. Tonight they would dine well. They'd open each crate of oranges, slaughter each chicken, and hold a feast. And when they were done they would gorge some more, maybe even breaking into the secret crate of supplies the captain had kept all for himself.

One by one, Carlyle and Horatio woke them and they grabbed their swords. The sun would come up in a few hours, but the boat's wake would run red long before the first light colored it.

The group of them - now less than twenty - crept above carefully, making sure not to creak the boards more than was necessary. They snuck across the moonlit deck toward the doors to the captain's quarters, and when they'd all crowded around, Carlyle gave the signal.

He held up his first finger. The men were practically drooling mad already at the thought of eating bread that wasn't rotten for the first time in a month.

He held up his second finger. Bloodlust filled their hearts, each sword as hungry as the man holding it.

He held up a third and kicked down the door.

Click. Carlyle, once leading the charge, found himself staring down the barrel of a flintlock pistol. Captain LaFoote may have been possessed by greed, but he was no fool.

"So, we've got ourselves a mutiny," LaFoote mused, his mustache curling at the edges as the air in the room sapped all energy from the coup and replaced it with cold fear.

Carlyle dropped his sword, slowly raising his hands. "Shoot me and you'll be sliced to ribbons," he said carefully.

LaFoote stepped forward, driving the men back outside. Over his shoulder, Horatio spotted a golden chest in the cabin, providing a surreal light that filled the otherwise dark room. The men continued to backpedal.

"I've taken us this far, nine-tenths across the ocean, and these are my wages, eh?" LaFoote said. No one dared answer him. "We're heading toward a mountain of gold and you fools are worried about - what is it - food? Sleeping quarters? I've got the same rats as you biting me while I sleep; I've got the same watery shits and my wife's just as dead as yours."

At the last line, he turned his pistol on Horatio. "You kill me and you'll go mad before you spy land - nevermind set foot on it."

Horatio backed up but, unlike Carlyle, held fast to his sword. The men around him cowered, but he tried to keep an even keel. "You've been holding supplies for yourself," he said without an ounce of fear. A crew's worth of eyes trained on him, but he held his nerve. "We can't sell our cargo if we don't live to get it to the New World."

A murmur of agreement rose up but LaFoote smiled wryly and turned back to Carlyle. "You have no idea what we're carrying on this ship, do you?"

"Nothing worth dying for!" he cried out, as LaFoote began to laugh. The air around them grew suddenly darker, and a bolt of lightning lit up the Captain's face.

His eyes had sunken into his head, more than Horatio had realized, but his pupils filled out round as ever - mad man's eyes. Scars from past voyages streaked over him like mountain ranges spanning the continent of his face, and his beard had grown thin from malnourishment. And most horrifying of all, Horatio noticed what appeared to be gold flakes littering it. Tiny yellow crystals flaked his beard, each like a goldfinch caught in a fence. Another lightning bolt struck - closer this time - and the men realized his beard was almost entirely covered in tiny golden crumbs.

"I tell you what," LaFoote called, addressing the men he once called loyal. "We hit land in two weeks. We have food to last us one."

This caused a stir among the crew, and the storm drew ever closer. "Look at those around you!" his voice was practically booming now, so loud that even the thunder could not drown him out.

"When we reach the New World, we'll be rich beyond our wildest dreams. But he's right," the pistol swerved back in Horatio's direction. "We can't sell our cargo if we don't reach port. That won't be the case for all of us - many more will starve and be driven mad by the sea before we arrive, and all the gold and riches in the world do no good to a dead man. So I ask each of you this..." His wicked face contorted into something that resembled a smile. "What good will the riches do you?"

Armageddon erupted as the sky unleashed a pent up fury for the ages onto the ship. LaFoote turned back to Carlyle and pulled the trigger, a steel shot entering through his cheekbone, took off the back of his head, and buried itself in the main mast. Deckhands drew swords against boatswains, and cooks took arms against gunners. Calamity ensued, clashing swords rang like terrible bells in Horatio's ears, and as the next bolt of lightning was upon them, he saw LaFoote rushing at him with the ferocity of a hungry wolf.

Horatio raised his sword in time to counter a blow that might have taken off his head. LaFoote's remark about Joséphine had stirred a deep rage in him that he was all too happy to focus on the captain. He blocked, struck, and grazed LaFoote's coat with the tip of his sword. LaFoote stood back for a moment, fingers examining the damage, coming off with a speck of blood.

"I can't wait to throw you to the whales myself," he growled, rushing back at Horatio.

The two exchanged blows, back and forth. The sound of the storm enveloping them was interrupted periodically by screams of men being taken apart by metal that had grown rusty and dull from disuse. Horatio had learned much in his time as quartermaster, however. His sword remained razor sharp and drew sparks against LaFoote's, sometimes visible between lightning strikes, as they traded slashes meant to kill, each more hateful than the last.

Horatio and LaFoote made their way up the stairs, to the helm of the ship. LaFoote's golden face still shining madly, although he was clearly on the retreat. The storm raged on as Horatio's attacks grew ever more fierce.

At last, LaFoote slipped. His oversized captain's coat, now thoroughly soaked and weighing him down, caught fast on the ship's wheel and threw him off balance. Horatio struck at his arm, and while the blow did not land quite squarely on muscle and flesh, it was enough to cause LaFoote to lose hold on his sword, sending it spiraling across the deck.

The captain fell to his knees, gripping his wound. "Yield!" Horatio cried over the storm. LaFoote glared up at him in pain. "Yield," Horatio told him again, now realizing that he would not. Jean LaFoote had descended too deeply into madness, and the crumbs in his beard seemed more plentiful than ever, glittering with the now-sparse flashes from the sky.

Horatio closed in, placing his sword under LaFoote's chin. LaFoote spoke up: "If you're going to kill me, let me die on my feet." Horatio, against his better judgment, allowed him to stand.

The moment LaFoote stood up, he made a mad dash for the edge of the ship, catching Horatio off his guard, stumbling to reach him. At first, he thought Jean was making a run for his sword, but he soon realized a far more terrible truth. LaFoote had hoisted himself onto the edge of the ship, black waves crashing into the hull some thirty feet below.

"I'll find you someday," LaFoote growled. "And when I do, you'll pray I'd gutted you on this ship."

With that, the captain dove into the water below, a certain death whether by drowning, the jaws of some roaming creature, or the impact of the sea on his wounded body. Horatio looked over the edge, but he was too late even to see LaFoote hit the water.

The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and as hints of sunlight turned the air pink, Horatio looked upon the deck. An abbatoir of guts and moaning bodies that he once might have recognized as men littered its surface. He heard prayers for death and obliged to play God, walking through the killing field with his sword, granting a dark mercy to the mutineers, blessing each survivor before sending them to Hell.

With a ship full of dead men and spoiled meat, Horatio raised the sail himself, taking the wheel. But he couldn't help but wonder... what did LaFoote mean when he said the ship was carrying secret cargo?

It flooded back to him: the glowing chest in the captain's quarters. As futile sunlight washed away the horrors on the deck, Horatio limped down the stairs into the chamber where LaFoote went mad. The chest was still there, somehow glowing even brighter, and Horatio wondered if he dare open it at all. Whatever was inside had surely been responsible for LaFoote's descent into chaos; if he opened it too, would he survive to see land?

He sat on the unmade bed, pondering for nearly an hour. At last, curiosity got the best of him, and he unlatched the chest at its golden hinge.

What was inside was more beautiful and terrible than he could have imagined. Bright light rinsed his face, illuminating old scars and widening his eyes. Horatio had never seen anything like it. He continued to stare, transfixed at what lay before him. Now he understood. Now he knew why LaFoote hardly ever left his cabin. If he'd had this treasure himself, surely he would have gone mad protecting it as well - perhaps even more quickly than LaFoote had. He gazed upon what was inside the chest, unaware that he was not even blinking. He lost sight of the grim scene outside, the sea around him, and even of his own body. Finally, once he could bring himself to move, he reached down and touched it. He grabbed a handful, and if guided by the Lord's own touch, brought it to his mouth. He did this again, and again, and again, until the taste of the treasure was all that he knew.

Massachusetts. Thirteen days later.

Farm animals paraded slowly through the streets. A boy swept up the edge of the dock, and a man who might have been his father called out to him: "When you've finished cleaning up after the beasts, go and see the baker. Our pantry is low and he hasn't yet delivered."

The boy finished up and the man took a break from his own work to look out upon the sea.

A ship had crested the horizon, bearing a flag he didn't recognize. It was bright red, but it bore no sign of Saint George's cross. He might have thought it was Spanish, but he knew well that the crown of Spain had focused their full attention on the islands far to the south. No, this flag was from a strange nation whose mark he had never known.

The man ran to the bell tower and sounded the alarm. By the time the militia had assembled, guns at the ready, the ship was nearly upon them with no sign of slowing down. They continued to ring the bell to no avail, and they shouted at it to slow, although none of them saw a single crew member on board.

The ship did not heed. It crashed through the docks at full speed, running itself aground causing such great damage to its hull that not even a team of master shipbuilders could ever make it sail again.

The townspeople were not injured, but they had riled themselves into a furor at the massive damage caused by the vessel. Carts were overturned, the cobblestone street had cracked halfway through, and the ship's nose had split the blacksmith's workshop nearly in two.

Mixed with their anger was fear. It wasn't every day that a ship entered their small port village, let alone ran aground without a crew. Men blustered about what they'd do to the first person who stepped foot off the boat, but nobody dared to take action.

The boy, just returning from the baker, dropped five loaves of bread into a puddle when he rounded the corner toward his home and saw the ruin before him. The militia had assembled and pointed guns at the ship, but the entire world seemed motionless. He carefully walked forward, below the rifles, and no one had the presence of mind to stop him.

There was a gaping hole in the hull of the ship, just large enough for him to squeeze through. By the time anyone realized what he was doing, their shouts echoed off the bow and he was gone into the hold, climbing among ruined crates, looking for...well, he didn't know exactly what.

He found his way to a ladder, then another ladder, and he climbed them both to reach the deck. Bones littered the deck, shifted into a grisly pile near the stern due to the crash. Flies swarmed the boy, but he was overcome with a feeling that he must press on. Not everyone was dead here - at least not in the normal sense, as the boy understood it.

He noticed light through a filthy window. The door next to it had come slightly ajar, and he steeled his nerved before walking towards it and grabbing the handle. That's when he heard a groan from inside - he was right, there was life on this vessel yet.

The men on the shore continued to shout at him. "Come back," they said, "it's dangerous," and for the rest of his days, the boy would come to wish he had heeded their warnings. But on that day, he did not, and he opened the door.

Inside, he saw a man lying on the ground, bloated and covered in some combination of vomit and his own waste. He wore a bright blue captain's jacket, and a matching bicorne hat. He looked to be in bad condition, and upon close inspection, the boy noticed something glimmering in his beard. It appeared to be gold, but the particles were far too fine. They were almost like crumbs, but more crystalline, like sugar.

Suddenly, the man tried to sit up, and the boy realized the man was absolutely covered in these mysterious particles. They not only dotted his beard, but there were so many that he realized the man didn't have a beard at all - he was caked in this strange material. His fingers were covered as well, but were bright red and raw - it looked as if the man had been sucking on them for weeks on end.

"Sir...?" the boy ventured. The man looked at him, greedy eyes darting between the boy and a large chest that had toppled over, crushing his arm and pinning him to the ground. "Sir, are you all right? Can I get you some water?"

The man did look parched. His lips were encrusted with the same material as his fingers and the rest of his face, and the boy could tell they were badly chapped. He would die soon if he didn't drink something.

"Sir, I'm going to get you some water," the boy said cautiously, and the man tried to answer. The boy got closer, the sound of the ghost-ship's captain too feeble to hear from the ten feet that separated them. The man had something in his mouth: more of those awful golden flakes.

"Don't speak sir, help is on the way," the boy said. He'd never seen a dead man, let alone one who was dying, but something in his hard colonial upbringing had steeled him for this moment.

"Nowaer....mil..." it sounded like the man said. The boy inched closer, crumbs spilling from the man's mouth as he tried to speak.

"Let me get you some water, sir, you look like you're in bad shape," he said. The man sat up, clearly in pain, and to the boy's disgust, swallowed whatever was in his mouth.

"Not water..." the man whispered, his parched throat hardly letting a voice escape. "Milk."

The boy sprinted outside onto the deck, looking down at the villagers below, who had finally lowered their guns.

"There's a survivor! Someone's alive! We need help up here!" he shouted down to them.

He returned into the cabin, where the man had passed out and collapsed onto his back, arm still crushed beneath the chest. The boy hadn't realized it at first, but the chest was glowing softly, even in the midday sun. He couldn't take his eyes off it. Sure, the boy had heard stories about treasures at sea, and pirates, and desert island adventures, but that's all they were - stories. Or were they? He had been so worried about the dying man that he hadn't stopped to ponder who he was or what he was doing here, let alone what else might be on board with him.

Shuffles rippled up through the boards below deck. Villagers were climbing on board slowly, but the adults would have a much harder time navigating the mess of smashed crates than he had.

Now that the imminent danger had passed, the boy became curious. "What's your name?" he asked the man, who was fading in and out of consciousness, increasingly aware of his mangled arm and his fragile condition.

"Captain Crunch," the dying man sputtered. "But you can call me Horatio,"

The boy stood over him now, looking down. He paused. "Horatio. That's my name, too."

He turned his attention back to the chest, and the dying captain tried to raise his good arm, almost as if he wanted to stop the boy from touching it. "Don't..." he said, before fading, his breath getting slower and slower.

The boy cocked his head, looked at the captain pitifully, and removed his hat out of respect. The man was fading quickly, and this gesture was all the boy had to give. Before placing the bright blue bicorne hat on his chest, however, he had second thoughts. The boy placed it on his own head, looking in a dingy, broken mirror hanging over the bed. "Captain Crunch," he whispered to himself, almost a question and answer all in one. The sounds of rescuers were getting closer, and he turned back to the chest. With both hands gripping its edge, light emanating from within, he slowly opened it to see whether it held gold doubloons, maps of forgotten lands, or something else entirely.