Out Through the Attic

  Book Description

  Out Through the Attic takes you on thirteen amazing and very different journeys from cross-genre author Quincy J. Allen, including science fiction, steampunk, fantasy, alternate history, horror, and paranormal. In this first volume of his short fiction, you’ll go down more rabbit holes than you can eat … err … well, you know what we mean….

  Includes:

  “Family Heirloom”

  “Brainstorm”

  “Cornelius”

  “Sol Crystalis Miracalis”

  “17”

  “Lasater’s Lucky Left”

  “Cap’n Plat and the Wrath of Caan”

  “Baby WEI”

  “Entropy Seed”

  “Vessels of Abaddon”

  “The Resurrection of Samhain”

  “Salting Dogwood”

  “Out Through the Attic”

  Kindle Edition - 2017

  OUT THROUGH THE ATTIC

  © 2017 Quincy J. Allen

  Originally published by 7DS Books & Twisted Core Press. © 2014.

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transferred without written consent.

  Published by

  RuneWright Publishing

  RuneWright LLC

  Aurora, CO

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity with real persons or events is purely coincidental. Persons, events, and locations are either the product of the author's imagination, or used fictitiously.

  Contents

  Book Description

  Title Page

  Dedication

  2017 Acknowledgments

  Family Heirloom

  Brainstorm

  Cornelius

  Sol Crystalis Miracalis

  17

  Lasater’s Lucky Left

  Cap’n Plat and the Wrath of Caan

  Baby WEI

  Entropy Seed

  Vessels of Abaddon

  The Resurrection of Samhain

  Salting Dogwood

  Out Through the Attic

  About the Author

  Other Books by Quincy J. Allen

  Dedication

  For Querida—the reason for being.

  2017 Acknowledgments

  I want to start by saying that I’m still very grateful to the folks over at 7DS Books for their support over the years. They believed in me early on, which is a hard thing to come by in this business.

  I’d also like to thank Kathryn S. Renta, the graphic designer at RuneWright, for teaching me to make better covers. I also want to thank the growing list of my clients who gave me the opportunity to improve my book design skillset. I’ve turned the process of making books into both a craft and a livelihood, and I’ll always be grateful to those writers who continue to give me the opportunity to help them make their own writing dreams come true.

  Family Heirloom

  (Appeared originally in the inaugural edition of Steampunk Trails published by Science Fiction Trails, September 2013 )

  JULY 7TH, 1916

  My father and I were picking strawberries when we heard a clattery, thumping noise coming out of the rising sun. We put down our baskets and walked to the front of the house just as the chattering cut off.

  When we cleared the corner, we saw a machine descending towards us, lining up over the dirt road that cut through our swaying oat fields. Grandpa Billy had come in his latest invention.

  The spinning blades atop the machine made a swoosh-swoosh-swoosh as they spun. The machine touched down a hundred yards from the house, bounced once, and rolled towards us with a hissing crunch of gravel beneath its wheels.

  “Well, I guess he got another one working,” my father said with a smile and a shake of his head. We waited as Grandpa came to a stop in front of our gate.

  His machine had a triangular, metal frame about ten feet long. Up front was a bathtub-like cockpit built for two. Behind the cockpit squatted a motor half the size of a hay bale, with a four-foot propeller sticking out the back. The tail section stretched behind the motor on long struts, and the fins made a cross that Grandpa had painted bright red. A thick, steel shaft rose up above the motor, canted backwards slightly, and the two long steel blades spun on its axis.

  Grandpa climbed out of the cockpit. His faded overalls were clean as always, but the permanent oil stains speckling the fabric were ever-present. Tan workbooks, similarly speckled, stuck out from the rolled-up cuffs of his pants. His curly, white hair puffed out around the strap of his goggles, and the brass frames set a stark contrast to his ebony skin.

  Grandpa had been working on the two-seater for months. He’d already built a couple of single-seaters, and he called them choppers, on account of the blades, I suppose.

  He opened the gate and walked up to us, a serious sort of look on his face.

  “Good morning, Papa,” my father said, smiling.

  “Son.” Grandpa nodded his head once. I’d only ever seen him smiling, and I wondered what was bothering my favorite Grandpa.

  “I want to take her to Evansville,” he said, looking at my father. There was a pained look on his face. “I want to show her … and tell her the story I never told you.”

  My heart soared. Evansville was sixty miles away. I was going to go up in Grandpa’s flying machine!

  I looked up at my father, expectant and hopeful, but dreading he would say no.

  My father had a funny look on his face, sort of surprised and sad all at once. They stared at each other for a few seconds, and then my father nodded his head and silently walked back towards the house.

  At first, I was surprised he didn’t object to me going. Father rarely got between Grandpa and me—me being Grandpa’s favorite and all—but I would have thought going up in a flying machine was something else entirely. I was thrilled at the thought, but I couldn’t help thinking about the looks on both their faces.

  When my father disappeared into the house, I turned to Grandpa.

  “What is it you want to show me?” I asked, worried excitement pitching my voice up.

  It seemed as if something was eating at him, flattening the laugh-lines around his eyes in a way that made me more and more uneasy.

  For as long as anyone could remember, Grandpa Billy had always been the one smiling, even when things went wrong. He was the one who cured it all. Scraped knees, pets that went to Heaven, broken hearts … they all melted in the warmth of his smiles.

  He didn’t answer my question. He just handed me a pair of goggles and said, “You’ll see.”

  We went through the gate, and I slipped on my goggles. Grandpa helped me into the back seat and fastened my harness, cinching it up tightly. He leaned forward, flipped a switch on the control panel, and reached up, grabbing one of the big, upper blades. With a heave, he started it to spinning, grabbing the next blade and pushing harder. With a satisfied nod, he stepped behind the motor and gave a mighty pull on the propeller. The motor coughed once, kicked over, started chattering as the propeller spun faster than I could see.

  My whole body vibrated with the steady rhythm, and I shivered with excitement.

  Grandpa hopped into the front seat and buckled himself in. He turned in his seat and watched the fins of the tail section move as he shifted the control stick between his legs.

  “You ready, Babygirl?” he shouted over the sound of the motor.

  I nodded my head quickly, too excited to say anything.

  Grandpa moved a lever on his right, and the motor roared. We started rolling forward faster and faster. With a lurch, we lifted off the ground, and Grandpa angled the nose upward. My heart did a somersault inside my chest.

  I was flying!

  The ground slipped away from us, and the machine tur
ned in a wide circle. Grandpa eased back on the lever, and the sound of the motor softened as we leveled out.

  Wind streamed by my face. I was giddy and worried and scared all at once as we sailed over the rolling oat and corn fields of Indiana. The Ohio River was on my left, and Grandpa seemed to be following it southwest.

  The sun rode low on the horizon behind us, casting long shadows from the tall oaks and white farmhouses that passed below. Shadows stretched away in long dark lines, pointing like signposts towards our destination.

  I couldn’t say anything as we flew. My emotions were all mixed up. In spite of flying for the first time, I couldn’t keep from thinking about what might have stolen his smile away.

  Almost an hour later, we were sailing over Evansville. I could only guess, but I figured we were five-hundred feet off the ground. It was strange to see the crooked, dusty streets spread out below us. The blotch of brown roofs made Evansville look almost like a scab on the green skin of Indiana. People, horses, and a few auto-carriages dotted the streets, going about their business. Some of the folks even pointed up at us as we flew over.

  It must have been only a few miles past Evansville when we started descending towards the trees along the Ohio River. Grandpa angled away from the water, lining up with a dirt road that cut through acres of swaying oat fields. As we descended, the trees and tall grass became an even faster blur than when we’d taken off, and I realized just how fast we must be going.

  Grandpa flipped a switch and the motor cut off. There was only the sound of wind rushing by and the swoosh-swoosh of the blades above.

  I wanted to scream. I wanted to laugh. I was so excited and scared that I almost peed my pants, but I tensed up as the wheels bounced off the dirt road and came down again with a jolt. We rolled along for another hundred yards or so, slowing until we came to a quiet, dirt-crunching stop.

  The blades above kept spinning as Grandpa hopped out of the chopper and unbuckled my harness. He helped me out and slowly took off his goggles, tossing them onto the front seat. The band had left an indent in his tight, curly white hair, and where the goggles had been his dark skin gleamed with sweat.

  I took my goggles off and threw them into the back seat.

  He lifted the front seat, pulled out a picnic basket, and then looked down at me, his eyes searching mine. He pursed his lips, licked them once, and frowned, as if he was having trouble deciding what to do.

  He sighed finally, a long sound that seemed to carry an unimaginable weight with it, and then he said, “C’mon, Babygirl. The grave’s back this way.”

  Without another word, he turned and started walking towards the river through waist-high oat grass.

  “Grave?” I called out, confused.

  He didn’t turn. He just gave a wave to get me moving as he walked slowly towards a giant oak that stood along atop a short hill near the river.

  I stood there for a few heartbeats, frightened and curious. I looked around. There wasn’t anything for miles except fields and trees. It seemed like a strange place for a cemetery.

  I swallowed hard and set off after him. The grass swished around me as I walked. I ran my hands over the fuzzy stalks of oats that rippled like water in all directions. I felt nervous—and a little scared.

  When I caught up with him, he was standing under the oak, the river flowing behind him a hundred yards down the hill. There wasn’t a cemetery, just a single headstone set in tall grass shadowed by low-hanging branches and wide, green leaves that rustled in the wind.

  I stepped up beside him and looked at the stone as he took my hand in his.

  ABIGAIL WATSON

  June 18, 1816–July 7, 1864

  GONE BUT NEVER FORGOTTEN

  My breath caught in my throat. Her name, the dates … none of it made any sense. I’d never heard of Abigail Watson before, not from anyone in the family.

  “That’s right, Babygirl,” he said quietly. “You two were born on the same day … just eighty-four years apart.”

  “Who was she, Grandpa?”

  He sighed again.

  “She was my best friend,” he said slowly. His face scrunched up, like he was in pain. “And she was the bravest woman I’ve ever known.”

  “What’s this all about?” I asked quietly. “I don’t understand.”

  “That’s why we’re here. Now that you’re sixteen, you’re old enough to wrap your head around what happened … where I come from. It’s time somebody else knew about her … about what she did.” He smiled, just a little, and a quiet chuckle passed his lips as he nodded towards the headstone. “Hell, most of the folks who were there are with her now. And I ain’t too far behind.” He squeezed my hand and looked at me. “I just hope I get to see her again when I’m gone.” He kneeled, his eyes never leaving the headstone. “Your father knows I come here a few times a year. He knows she was important to me. But I never told him what I’m about to tell you.” Grandpa reached down and ran his hand over the long grass. “You see, she swore us all to secrecy … all two-hundred-and-forty-three of us. I suppose I could have talked about it after she was gone, but my promise to her was all I had left. That and my shame.”

  I felt him shaking, and he looked like he was sobbing. I’d never seen him in such a state.

  He sniffed, wiped his eyes, and then told me his secret.

  MAY 12TH, 1846

  Abigail Watson’s elderly husband, Joshua, owned a few thousand acres of oat and corn fields in the southeast corner of Missouri, right up against the Mississippi River. He also owned sixty slaves to tend them. He was a gambling man, and a drinker with an appetite for whipping his property—including his wife, as he saw it—whenever he lost at cards. But he was a good enough gambler to win regularly, and everyone on the farm was grateful when he did.

  One late summer night he came home from Sikeston after a long gambling session. He had a young slave in tow, literally. The slave, who Abigail guessed wasn’t more than seventeen or eighteen, was dressed in rags, a chain around his neck, and shackles around his wrists.

  Joshua had won the boy and said his name was Billy. He presented Billy to her as a “gift.” She knew it was some half-assed attempt to apologize for all those nights he’d lost at cards and taken it out on her. Like a good wife, she smiled and thanked him.

  She removed the shackles and collar as soon as her husband was out of sight, and in that moment a life-long friendship was born.

  JUNE 18TH, 1846

  Joshua dropped dead in his tracks on Abigail’s thirtieth birthday. She always swore it was the best birthday present she’d ever received. Joshua had no kin, and they’d had no children. This left her with fields to tend and quite a few slaves to tend them with.

  A week after her husband’s funeral, she decided to do things her way. There was no one around to argue with her, so she freed every single slave on the farm. She offered to pay good wages to anyone willing to stay. A few headed north, but most—the ones that knew Abigail for who and what she was—stayed, including Billy. And because of his talents, they ended up making one hell of a team.

  Everyone for miles and miles knew Billy was good with tools and metal and wood. He always had been, even for his previous owner. He made new equipment for bailing oats, fixed up the house with running water, and even built a small autocarriage for Abigail.

  Between the two of them, and with the help of the farm hands, they made the Watson farm more productive than any other for three counties. Abigail had been wealthy before, but a few years of running the farm her way made her the richest woman in Missouri. And her farm hands shared in that fortune.

  Things stayed like that for fourteen years—Billy and Abigail running the farm, laughing together whenever they could.

  OCTOBER 28TH, 1860

  A package from Abigail’s brother, Baxter, arrived early in the morning. At first, she was surprised that he’d sent more than a letter. They had never gotten along, exchanging correspondence a few time a year, generally at the holidays, and purely out o
f familial duty. They both did the same thing with their parents, and for the same reason.

  When Abigail opened it, she knew right away that Baxter wanted something. He was a resident of Alabama and firmly committed to the continuation of slavery. The package contained a roll of schematics and a letter, both done in his own hand.

  As she unrolled the schematics and realized what they were for, an idea formed in her head. Upon reading Baxter’s letter, the idea solidified into a plan. There was a certain symmetry to it that pleased Abigail, touching her sense of irony … and justice.

  In his letter, Baxter spoke of how he could get rich with his invention … that it would make the South stronger. He wanted to do something to help his countrymen, “beat the damn Yanks if push comes to shove.”

  Even in far-off Missouri, Abigail had heard the grumblings of secession by a number of states, and things were starting to look grim.

  Abigail composed a polite, apologetic letter to her brother, explaining that times were hard on the farm and she was barely making ends meet. She didn’t wish him luck, of course, but he probably wasn’t aware of the omission. She doubted he was capable of comprehending what it meant even if he had. Abigail was like that—subtle and polite and ever-kind, even when she despised someone.

  She asked one of the farm hands to take her reply to the post immediately and then called Billy in from the shed where he had been fixing farm equipment. She laid out the schematics on the dining room table, handed him a glass of lemonade, and asked him what he thought.

  Billy took one look and realized they were for a submersible boat. He found the idea intriguing but didn’t see much use for a boat that could travel underwater. It couldn’t be that large, air would always be a challenge, and there was really no practical reason to build one. He said as much.

  Abigail smiled and asked him if he thought he could build the thing.

  At first, he looked at her like she was addled. Then he noticed the gleam in her eyes and understood that she had something specific in mind. He took a second, longer look. After a few minutes, he said that given both the time and materials, it could be done. But it would be expensive.