*

Who wants a steampunk Western story inspired by the myth of Icarus? Well, you’re in the right place! Enjoy Tony Groeschen’s “The Charred Sheriff of Crete,” an honorable mention for the Icarus Contest.

You can find Tony on Instagram and Soundcloud, where he runs The Underappreciated Movie Podcast.

*

The Charred Sheriff of Crete

By Tony Groeschen

*

Vic stepped over the piles of discarded mechanical contraptions and copper wire coils. From the back of the workshop, the rhythmic sound of pounding metal echoed. The deputy-in-training sorted through the array of multi-sized gears, worn tools, and buckets of random-sized rivets filling every unused inch of the cluttered workshop.

There has to be a nut in this place that’ll fit this bolt. Sheriff Gibbons will be so happy I fixed the office fan.

A blusterous hiss roared from the backroom. Vic stood and dashed toward the noise.

The elderly tinkerer, Dale Dallas, shouted as he burst from the rear doorway, “Run!”

He tackled Vic to the ground, as an explosion of steam and smoke poured from the back room. Collections of brass components on shelves collapsed and the windows shattered as the entire building shook.

Dale lifted his head from the young deputy’s chest. “Hello, Vic.”

The inventor’s toothy grin gleamed white against his oil-stained face.

Vic stood and pulled the old man to his feet. Dale removed his goggles and wiped his face with a handkerchief.

“You okay?” Vic dusted his coat off and shook bits of dirt from his cropped red hair.

Dale scoffed. “Yeah. Miscalculated the steam pressure on a boiler I was adjusting. What brings you by?”

“I stopped by Mrs. Marcis’ place earlier today. The bull-thing is still working great. She said that after it took care of those two cattle thieves last week, she ain’t had no more problems.”

“Minotaur.” The inventor snapped while digging through a pile of wrenches.

Vic’s eyebrow lifted. “Huh?”

Dale turned around with a rusted wrench in hand. “It’s a Minotaur, not a bull-thing.”

Mrs. Marcis was known as the largest cattle farmer on the entire island. But with recognition of that kind came thieves. She commissioned Dale to create a giant labyrinth to keep the cattle moving and an intimidating guard to watch her assets day and night. Nearly six months later, The Minotaur was completed.

“Sorry.” Vic scratched his head, “Hey, is you-know-what finished?”

Dale sighed. “That’s why you’re here. Its nearly done, the bullets are cooling now, and I’m about to pour their wax casings to hold the gunpowder.

“Wax casings?”

“The bullets are folded iridium.” he said, “As dense as can be made. The small gunpowder container attached to these rounds have to evaporate half a second after the bullet leaves the chamber. For now, I aim to use wax. Hopefully, I’ll find a better replacement in the future.”

“What’s wrong with using brass casings? Or steel?” Vic asked.

“In my test fires they all exploded outwards,” Dale pulled up his sleeve to show sutures surrounded by a reddened and bruised area on his shoulder.

Vic nodded slowly pretending to understand the old man’s ramblings.

Dale rubbed his hands together. “Friction from the incredibullets heat the gun rapidly to scorching temperatures. It can probably be fired safely once or twice every twelve hours or so. Any more and the barrel might melt or the cylinder explode.” Dale extended his fingers from tight fists to open, mimicking an explosion.

Vic scoffed. “ You said Max’s gun was gonna be special. It already sounds like junk and it ain’t never been fired yet.”

Dale furrowed his brow. “Junk? This sidearm will fire rounds powerful enough to pierce the Neapoli Locomotive. Straight through. In one side and out the other.”

“Bull. That’s four inches thick. Solid iron.”

Dale exhaled. “I know. I built the damned train.”

The old man climbed over the scrap pile and swung open the rear door. It hung by a pair of screws in the remaining top hinge. Lingering steam and smoke puffed out of the room as it opened. The inventor went up to a large locked door and pulled out a hefty key ring. He fumbled with them, inserted the gold key, and turned. Hundreds of tiny gears connecting and levers rotating and clicking escaped the door before popping open.

Inside, Dale kept his most treasured creations.

As he entered, Vic patted Plato, Dale’s clockwork crow. It’s huge eyes opened and its head darted from side to side before stretching its gleaming wings. Hammers, mallets, and chisels of all sizes were strewn about a workbench.

In the center of the room, sat the Damascus steel and brass revolver. Vic obsessed over this creation since Dale started working on it two years prior. It had taken the inventor half of that time to find a way to fire the bullets without it killing the user or ruining the weapon.

Vic leaned in close to study it. “I hope I get to see her in action one day.”

Dale checked the pressure on the wax cooker. “I hope you don’t.”

*

Sheriff Max Gibbons and his men strolled into the Thirsty Turtle. The delicate notes of a lyre player halted and silence spread as Max and his men moved through the bar. Max brought his deputies Bowie Garis and Gus Leventos with him for a show of force. Bowie a former lumberjack up north until an accident wrenched his shoulder. Years of chopping trees showed in Bowie’s wide back and swollen arms. Out of respect, Bowie waited for Max to retire before the woodsplitter would seek the old man’s position. Smaller than Max and Bowie, Gus Leventos was a dead-eye shot with a rifle. Before coming to Crete, he made a living in tournament shooting, until the local contests banned him.

The saloon, longer than wide, was rebuilt out of an old scuttled pirate ship the owner had drug from the nearby sea. The years of black tar conditioning and weather of the deck retained the definitive look of a ship and the lingering scent of seawater. After the lawmen entered, Sheriff Max spotted Bloody Butch and his gang at the far right table.

Butch’s old wanted posters didn’t do him justice, he’s nearly as large as Bowie.

The sheriff ambled up to the bar, set his hat down, and ordered a drink as the music restarted. Max had remained the sheriff of Crete for half a decade longer than he probably should have. The townspeople weren’t fond of change and loved his mild temperament and sense of fairness. Normally, old Max would send a deputy to check on local gossip like this, but he needed to see this man in person.

Butch put his gun belt on the table and walked up to the bar, alone.

The broad man walked past the deputies and stood on the other side of Max.

“I didn’t think lawmen are supposed to drink on duty, Sheriff?” Butch leaned on the bar.

Butch appeared unarmed, still, Max’s heart sank. There would be trouble of some kind before this murderer left his town.

“It’s mineral water. Doc says it’s good for my health,” Max sipped his glass.

Butch signaled the barkeep. The man’s hand trembled as he poured another small mineral water. The criminal picked up the glass and held it up to his eye. He then opened his mouth and flung the liquid into the back of his throat, gulping it down.

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, looked at Max, and scoffed. “Don’t taste special or nothing. Just tastes like water.”

Max turned his head and stood up straight, looking Butch in his eyes. “Sometimes, in life Butch, things’ll look simple, but are in fact, not that way at all.”

Butch smiled. “Is that right?”

The sheriff nodded. “How long you staying in my town?”

Butch looked back to his men. “Not sure yet.”

“Figure it out quick for me, Butch.”  

The Sheriff slapped a few coins onto the bar, put his hat on, and he and his men strolled out the front door.

Once in the street, Bowie leaned into Max. “Why didn’t we run him in, sir?”

“Can take a man into custody for sitting in a pub. He was pardoned for his older crimes,” Max said.

“Why would someone pardon trash like that?” Gus asked.

“Word is a judge got held up by another fella who intended on ransoming him to have his brother released from jail. Butch happened to be relieving himself on the court building and shot the man in the back. The judge was so grateful he gave Butch a pardon of his past crimes.”

“So what was the point of going to see him if we can’t arrest him?” Bowie asked.

The sheriff stopped in the street. “It’s about presence. He knows who we are now and we know who he is.”

“Why didn’t we bring The Kid with us, Max? Woulda done him some good to be involved in something besides cleaning weapons and flapping gums with Dale Dalas,” Bowie said.

Max spit onto the warm sand and shook his head. “Butch would immediately sniff out Vic out as the weak link in our crew. Best leave him out of this until he’s a bit more seasoned.”

Gus sighed. “I don’t think Butch was impressed.”

“He probably wasn’t. But, he sure as shit didn’t walk over to us with his gun belt on, did he?” Max said.

Gus smiled, with all six of his teeth showing.

*

Storm clouds rolled down from the mountains surrounding the quiet island town of Zakros in Crete. Bloody Butch rode through the sandy plains of Jackie Marcis’ ranch atop his hulking mechanical steed. A known murderer, Butch had earned a hefty bounty in four island territories. Unfortunately, a recent pardon by an Ithacan judge let him move from place to place with impunity. His two men, Chuck Castellanos, and Soosansnake Samir, followed up the rear on their own, less impressive, live horses. Samir tied up his and Chuck’s horses to a tree just outside of Jackie Marcis’ land. After Butch twisted the key on his metal horse, it fell silent. Butch patted the machine’s brass ribs out of habit.

“That thing’s spooky, Butch,” Chuck crouched behind a nearby shrub.

“Yeah but it’s big, intimidatin’ and it don’t shit everywhere,” Butch replied.

Samir crawled behind the two larger men. “How many cattle we need to get?”

“For now, at least three. Dalton needs that just to pay for our bulletproof undershirts.” Butch pulled on his shirt and revealed the mesh undergarment.

“I’d feel better if we all had them. Stead of just you,” Chuck scoffed.

“Don’t screw this up and we will,” Butch said.

“Easy to say when you got the vest,” Samir snapped.

Butch grabbed Samir by his shirt. “Look, you two just distract that damned bull-bot thing and give me enough time to get the cattle we need. It’s damn near midnight already.”

He threw three lengths of rope over his shoulder and the men stayed low as they ran toward the above ground maze. Once close to the outer wall, they split up. Butch watched as his two men climbed the opposite side wall with a handful of rocks and stood on top. Samir chucked a rock at the massive metal beast. His throw went wide and he missed entirely. Chuck’s throw hit the creature in the back of the head. The clockwork beast turned around and charged the two thieves.

Butch kneeled on the wall. He readied his lasso and waited. Well, practiced hands nimbly secured two cattle. He pulled the rope leading them over to the entrance.

Three thunderous crashes rang out.

Butch walked along the edge to get a better look at what the other two were doing.

*

The Minotaur had rammed the labyrinth wall repeatedly, sending Samir tumbling off the wall and down into the maze.

Chuck laid down and held his hand down to Samir.

“Don’t look back, Samir. Run!” Chuck yelled as the creature charged again. Huge metal hooves trampled and steam erupted from the monstrous Minotaur as it built speed.

Samir jumped and jumped. Each time falling short of Chuck’s grasp.

Chuck continued to gasp as he strained to reach his partner. Samir heard the thunderous hooves behind him, turned and screamed.

The artificial beast crushed Samir into the ground and rammed the maze side. This time tearing a gaping hole into the wall and launching Chuck off the side and onto the ground outside.

Chuck limped away from the beast. Making it to his horse before the Minotaur tore free of the maze. He rode off toward town and the minotaur followed. Butch moved to the ruined part of the wall and led the poached steer out to his clockwork horse. As lights began to flick on at the Marcie homestead, Butch started up and chased after Chuck and the beast.

*

The town was silent this close to midnight. Sheriff Max liked to walk the main street a few times late at night to wind the streetlights. It kept them running until morning and deterred any criminal activity. The sound of a galloping horse approached fast from the other edge of town. Max’s view was blocked by one of the large wagons a trader had parked. He walked toward the sound as it grew louder keeping his hand on his sidearm. The noise seemed too loud for a single horse. Then he saw one of Butch’s men ride toward him. At the last second, the man turned off the main street.

Max held his free hand up to his mouth and yelled. “Get back over here. That you, Chuck?”

The wagon exploded into a shower of splintered wood as the powerful beast plowed through.

“Holy Sh–,” Max yelled as he dove on to the ground. He rolled onto his back and shot three rounds into the creatures back. The bullets bounced off at random angles leaving little more than a discolored scratch to mark the impacts.

Max’s three other deputies poured onto the street. At the sheriff’s request, They had been sleeping at the office in anticipation of Butch pulling a late night robbery. Bowie and Gus drew their weapons as they ran over.

 

Vic watched as the other deputies’ rounds failed to damage the minotaur. The massive creature crashed through a building without stopping or slowing. He gasped as Max’s bullets only drew the monster attention back.

He needs the revolver!

Stumbling to his feet, he raced straight for Dale’s workshop.

Bursting through the door, Vic yelled, “Dale I need the gun. Now!”

The clockwork crow bobbed up and down on its perch. It squawked as Dale shuffled out from the back. He rubbed his eyes with his fists and yawned. “What are you yellin’ at, kid? What time is it?”

Vic spoke between winded gasps, “Butch. Let the. Minotaur loose. It’s wrecking. The town.”

The old inventor’s eyes widened. Muffled gunfire echoed in the background and the building shuttered. “Outside of the labyrinth, the minotaur will view anyone without the control keys as a cattle thief.”

Dale put his hand over his mouth as his breathing intensified.

“The revolver, Dale. Max needs it. Take it to him, quickly.”

“I can’t leave now. The thundercoil I’m charging has to be watched carefully or it will blow and burn down half of the town. Besides the revolver’s not ready. Won’t be ready for another month at least.” Dale slumped onto a nearby stool, “This is my fault. I didn’t think it would get out of the maze.”

“We don’t have time for that.” Vic grabbed Dale by his leather vest. “I’ll get it to Max.”

Dale nodded and ran to the back. He returned a few seconds later with the weapon wrapped in a cloth. “Here. Hurry. Tell Max to be extremely careful. Make certain he understands the heat ratio–”

Vic grabbed the bundle and ran out of the workshop ignoring the warning. The young deputy sprinted the three blocks back to Main Street without stopping.

He turned the corner and froze. Sheriff Max Gibbons lay dead in the middle of the street. His eyes and mouth hung open and blood covered his chest. The minotaur tore into the post office’s front porch. Bowie leaned up against the back of a barrel. Blood on the stomach area of his shirt. His hand covering a wound and his chest heaved. Vic ran over to the barrel.

“We exchanged fire kid. Max shot Butch, but he didn’t die. Don’t understand. Butch shot Max dead. I shot Chuck. Pretty sure he’s dead or bleedin’ out. But Butch got me in the gut right after. You need to get out of here. That Minotaur won’t stop. It tore down the post office on Gus, crushing him under the weight of the debris. He shot it too, but it’s bullet-proof.”

“Not against this. Dale made it special. It’ll penetrate anything. But you only got one, maybe two shots.”

Bowie took the immense revolver and examined it. He grunted and took a deep breath. He aimed the oversized barrel toward the Minotaur. His hand shook wildly and sweat poured off his pale face. His hand slumped down and he dropped the heavy sidearm. His voice grew weaker. “I…I can’t, Vic.”

*

The monstrous Minotaur lowered its wide metal horns and snorted steam from its nostrils. It turned to face Vic and broke into a tremendous charge. Vic swallowed hard and lifted the unwieldy pistol with both hands. His thin thumb strained to draw back the thick metal hammer. He pulled with both his thumbs as the beast grew larger. Vic grunted as he struggled, finally the weapon clicked, finally it would fire. He used both hands to aim. Remembering what Gus had told him about breathing. He drew in a long breath and held it, lined up the wide minotaur’s head and pulled the trigger. With a deafening boom, the wax cartridge fired. The strength of the recoil threw him to the ground. A terrible ache radiated through his right wrist and his ears buzzed. The bullet whizzed toward the clockwork beast and connected right between the horns. The kinetic energy of the round obliterated most of the charging minotaur’s head and the shuttering body collapsed to the ground. The remaining momentum continued and the remaining mass of the Minotaur’s body slid toward Vic. Stopping just short of the deputy. The copper and steel beast shuttered with a violent rattling noise, then stopped. Steam poured out from the sides and black liquid flowed onto the street.

Vic used the dead minotaur as cover. Bloody Butch was still on the roof of one of the nearby buildings. A few shots landed in the dirt near Vic. And more rounds bounced off the Minotaur’s broken hide. Vic counted six rounds then listened for the signature click from Butch’s empty revolver.

The criminal climbed down from the roof and walked over to his clockwork horse, tied up the stolen steer and called out to Vic. “That’s some gun you got there, Kid. If you give it to me, I’ll let ya live.”

Vic’s voice cracked in pain as he shouted. “Come get it, scumbag.”

“Okay. I guess you’re the sheriff now? So I have to kill you too.”

Again Vic yanked the hammer back, stood, aimed and fired. The explosion threw him off his feet and the gun barrel blazed orange. The round traveled in a direct path to Butch’s horse, going right through the front and out the back tearing rods and gears through the exit hole. The creature collapsed and Butch rolled off the back falling behind the steer and into a pile of horse shit.

Vic smiled despite his throbbing wrist. He held his arm. The revolver laid on the ground sizzling.

Butch stood up and brushed some of the poop off himself as he looked at the ruins of his mechanical horse, he drew his gun at Vic and pulled the trigger to a click. Empty.  

“Since you are the sheriff now. That means you are the law. That horse cost me a pretty penny.” Butch knelt down. “You got one more round in that fancy gun of yours?  Dale built it I bet.”

Vic clutched his throbbing arm and stared at Butch.

“You tagged that Bull and my horse pretty good, but it’s a lot different shooting people. It gets bloody and messy. Go ahead. Grab that gun before me.”

Vic’s eyes darted from Butch to the revolver but failed to move.

Butch spit on the ground next to him. “No? Okay. I have no concerns shooting a man with his own gun.”

Bloody Butch reached over and snatched the gun off the ground. With a loud yelp, He dropped it and stuffed his singed hand in the opposite armpit. Townspeople began coming out into the street in number now.

Butch stood up and backed away. “Tomorrow, Kid. Meet me here tomorrow at noon and we’ll settle this.”

Running over to a horse trough, Butch soaked his hand. He cut the rope holding a horse to it and climbed on. He rode out of town and led the stolen steer with him.

Townspeople surrounded Vic and cheered. A few of them helped Vic to his feet.

*

In the hours after the deadly gun battle, the locals brought Vic to the Thirsty Turtle.

The town sawbones examined the new sheriff at the pub. “Sorry, Son. It looks like your wrist is broken. I can wrap it up for ya and we can get some whiskey for the pain.”

The barkeep came over with five shots of the Turtle’s best. “On the house, Sheriff.”

As Vic sipped the alcohol, the warmth from his burning sidearm spread to his body.

*

Blusterous squawks of griffon vultures tore Vic from his whiskey driven sleep. Rising up from an unfamiliar couch, he rubbed his head as the smell of burnt leather filled the room. Reaching for his gun belt he then pulled the smoldering weapon from the blackened holster.

Still hot. Dale wasn’t kidding.

Vic looked into the chambers of the revolver. Only one bullet remained. The wax casing of the last round appeared slightly deformed. Vic needed more rounds to fight Butch and avenge his friends.

Someone knocked lightly on the door then opened it. The bartender popped his head in. “How ya feelin’, Vic? You want me to throw some eggs on the fire?”

“No thanks. I gotta hurry and do a few things before noon.”

The bartender nodded. “If it were me, I’d run. Go stay with some friends in Sitia till this blows over. He’ll kill ya, Vic.”

Vic cracked his neck as he straightened. “Butch shot all but one of my friends, so I can’t do that.” Patting the barkeep’s shoulder, he put his hat on and headed for Dale’s workshop.

*

As Vic pulled open the front door it fell off its hinges and crashed to the floor. A weak groan came from the back of the shop.

Horror struck the new sheriff as he dashed to the back and saw Dale laying in a pool of blood. Vic leaned over the old inventor and began tearing clothes off of the bleeding man. He searched his chest and then found the wound in his gut. Dark red blood ebbed out in a small pulsing stream.

Vic’s eyes filled with tears as he held Dale’s head in his arms.

He tore part of his sleeve off and pushed on the stomach wound.

Dale convulsed in pain and knocked Vic’s hands away.

“I gotta hold this on the wound until the doc can get here.” Vic pushed his hands onto the inventor’s wound. “Help!” He screamed toward the door. “I need help!”

Dale coughed blood onto his shirt. “Stop screamin’, Kid. It’s over. I’m done.”

“Who did this? Butch?”

The old man nodded. “He wanted me…to make him a gun like you had used. When I told him I’d rather die. He obliged.”

Vic gritted his teeth. “I need more bullets, Dale. I only have one left. Is there any more?”

Dale shook his head. “No. Didn’t get the chance to finish them.”

“I watched you put together one a few weeks back. If you tell me how to–”

Ragged coughs escaped his mouth as he spoke. “Get out of here, Kid. Run.”

No! He can’t do this and get away.

Vic went over to the workbench. He grabbed the black powder flask and one of the wax cartridges. “I can figure this out, Dale. How much goes in each one?”

I put the bullet and the casing in here to seal–

Vic looked back and saw Dale’s head laid to one side and his body had fallen slack.

He grabbed a mallet from the wall and threw it across the room.

Collapsing onto the floor, the young sheriff cried as he buried his face in his hands.

A young lady came through the door and gasped as she saw the body. “Deputy Carus. Butch was spotted riding this way. It’s almost noon. Doc told me to give this to you.” She stepped up to Vic and held out her hand.

In it sat Max’s blood-stained badge.

Vic stood up and took the badge from the lady, wiped his eyes and nodded.

“All our prayers are with you, sheriff.” She smiled weakly and then left.

Taking a deep breath, he looked at the badge and closed his bandaged fist around it, wincing in pain.

He went to throw it like the mallet, but stopped.

Pulling his tucked in shirt out of his jeans, Vic spit on a clean part and wiped the star clean. He pinned the now bright star to his chest and turned to face the workbench.

*

Bloody Butch stood in the center of town. His bandaged left hand hung next to his worn hip holster.

Vic walked to the main road and stood across from the criminal. His whole body ached now. He struggled to stand as the overhead sun beat down on him. Sweat and blood-soaked clothes stuck to his body.

Butch nodded at Vic. “Afternoon.” He squinted as he leaned in, “Sheriff? Wow. Looks like I get to kill two sheriffs in as many days.”

“I’ve got the gun, Butch. You know what it can do. You need to surrender.”

Butch cocked his head and eyed the weapon. “That’s a mighty impressive revolver you got, Sheriff. I’ll give you that. In the right hands, it could rule this whole island. In the hands of a beaten down punk kid, with a broken hand? I’m bettin less so.”

A loud crack rang out as a rifle bullet struck Butch in the chest. He stumbled back holding his chest. On a nearby rooftop, a local man waved down to Vic. He jerked and fell back as another shot echoed through the street. Vic looked back to Butch. He had drawn and shot the sniper. His shirt and vest had a large smoking hole in the front. Underneath was a slight glimmer of metal.

“You ain’t the only one with friends, Kid.” Butch laughed and tore open his shirt to reveal forged chest armor. “It’s a headshot or nothing. Think you can get one off before I blow five holes in you?”

Vic drew the sizzling revolver. Its unwieldy weight made his hands shake. He struggled again to cock the great hammer with both thumbs.

His bandage wrapped wrist screamed in agony at the strain.

Arms quivered as he continued to struggle.

“I don’t have all day.” Butch laughed. “Okay. Times up.”

Bloody Butch aimed his weapon with his injured left hand and cracked off a shot. It flew left and winged Vic’s arm, throwing him onto his back. Vic rolled onto his side and howled in pain. Blood leaked out onto the street as his eyes filled with tears.

Come on! Just a little more.

He pulled the hammer back.

Every small increment he waited to hear that wonderful click.

Butch walked closer to Vic and leveled his revolver at the kid. He looked at the townsfolk as they watched. “Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of the town.”

Vic spun over to face the criminal, fighting the throbbing pain, he aimed the huge revolver at the criminal and fired.

I hope you never have to use it

An enormous explosion of fire and smoke erupted from the gun.

Butch stumbled backward two steps. His eyes widened below his smoldering eyebrows as he struggled to breathe. The round had punched an apple-sized hole straight through his chest where his heart might have been. Blood and spit bubbled from his mouth as he fell onto the ground with a dull thud.

The townspeople cheered.

The smoke cleared and Vic Carus rose to his feet and limped away from Butch’s body.

a ringing noise filled his ears.

His upper body and arm bandage burned. Numb as he lumbered down the street.  The blackened stump that ended at his elbow left a blood trail as he moved.

Shrapnel had blasted part of his face away making his teeth visible. People stood frozen as the burning sheriff shambled down the street.

The bartender ran over with a small bucket of water and extinguished the flames, but Vic collapsed, dying there in the street.

*

The owner of the Post Office, also a carpenter, carved a wooden statue of the sheriff for the town.

Over the top was his name: Vic Arus.

Later that year, drunken vandals came and poured liquor on that statue and set it on fire. By morning, the top half was charred black as the original subject.

Only the “V” had burned off his name.

For decades after the locals would retell and exaggerate the tale of “Icarus, the Charred Sheriff of Crete.”

*

End

*

© 2018 Tony Groeschen. The content of this article, except for quoted or linked source materials, is protected by copyright. Please contact the author for usage.

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