Raising The Dead With The Metal Queen

Of Muscle Cars, Zombies & The Bond Between Barbarians & Cowgirls...

Another layup, this time with some history. In 2022, I first discovered the Storyhack anthology series Sidearm & Sorcery, and was intrigued by the premise of nonmagical characters contending with fantasy scenarios, and for two years…I was cockblocked by life itself from submitting. Be it thanks to college or private matters IRL, and through no fault of Bryce or any of the talented authors involved, my inability to find the time for the idea pissed me off. Like “threatened to sour me on the whole thing” pissed me off.

Until now.

Consider this my sidearm-and-sorcery pitch-reel, a small-scale taste of the kind of tales I enjoy telling in the framework: high-octane, peplum-flavored western fantasy. I’m treating you all as beta-readers, so if something isn’t clicking, comment below, and I’ll see what I can do to fix it. The final edit may be collected in my forthcoming anthology, or it may not. Either way, I hope the stars align for a tale in this vein (or perhaps with these characters) may get the chance to go up for consideration. For now, enjoy, and if you haven’t already, check out their latest volume.

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Barbarians seem to have the best taste in cars. A taste for speed, for slaughter, and for sheer electric thrill. That was the rule of thumb Mara Li held to as she ran the dealership twenty miles out from the village of Aula, and five from the nearby encampment of Balzoth Rock, a landing space that cycled through travelling hordes like clockwork. She made sure to keep the lot filled with all manner of muscle cars, souped-up trucks, all built for warring, that would keep the lads coming back. It was lonely work, with only a few “metalheads” in each camp that pass through the area, but it paid well, and kept the Citadel’s taxmen off her back.

One morning, just as she had pulled in and parked her comparatively mousy pickup, she spotted the first and last customer of the day, ambling down the road.

He cut the classic profile, from his muscular, six-foot build to his minimal ensemble of knee-high gladiator sandals, leather cuffs, the bottom-half of a tunic, and a large belt holding it up. The thick head of neck-length blonde hair, plus the short scruffy beard, made him stand out from the many long-maned brunettes she had entertained as customers. The sword on his hip remained standard issue, however.

“Looking for Mal!?” she hollered playfully, stepping out in her Canadian tux and beige cowboy boots.

“I believe you call them automobiles, no!?” To the country girl’s surprise, the voice was round, full, and remarkably articulate.

“Yeah!” Mara smiled, “Just not used to the lingo catching on.”

By the time the bronzed man had sauntered onto the lot, he gave a perplexed stare, before realizing the confusion. “Ah, I see. We aren’t all oafs, I hope.”

“Not at all,” Mara replied, shaking her head. “Just not used to—”

“Not used to the plain-speaking among us.” he growled playfully. “Name’s Jaal B’ak. ‘Spose I ought to beat my chest, toss you in the first one that takes my fancy, and bring you to the harem, eh?”

The short, auburn-haired girl burst into laughter, and the broad smile splitting the warrior’s face told her she would in the company of a most special man. “Name’s Mara Li. Guess I don’t have to sell you on how much enemy blood it can tank.”

“Such details wouldn’t hurt.” he teased. “Show me the lot.”

They walked amid the excellent Mustangs and mighty vans, and Mara took to asking all the question she usually did, sizing up needs and wants. Warriors like Jaal were what she jokingly called a “Samson,” for his strength was such that the bending of metal came easy. One kick of the gas too many, one wrong tug at the gearshift, and that car would be bent out of shape. Fortunately, she had every single machine reinforced to hell and back now (after a few years of trial & error), so the worst a man like Jaal could do was stress the floorboards, not puncture them.

The walk around lead both client and saleswoman to a silver-and-black Chevelle, dated back several centuries. He rested a broad tan palm upon the machine’s hood, patted it gently, and surveyed the rest, from its broad tires to its sleek build.

“Magnificent.” he beamed. “How many can she fit?”

“Five ideally, six in a pinch.” replied Mara. “What’s the plan? Lead on field, outer side of the lance?”

“Wife and four kids.” he said solemnly. “Clan’s moving again and we just lost our horse of 30 years. Had a good run, but time takes all as they say. There were none to spare, and I can’t have my woman going it on foot any longer. So here I am.”

“You’re a good man.” the young gal nodded. “She’s a bit overpowered for domestic needs, but’ll do good in battle, and the kids’ll love ‘er. And I won’t speak for your woman, but a strong man like yourself in a strong car paints a helluva picture.”

Jaal chuckled lightly at the remark, the “barbarian’s blush” as Mara so called. “Shall we test her?” he asked innocently.

“How long a one?” she asked in kind.

The towering man gave a solitary blink before realizing the insinuation. “You really have had men run off with these, haven’t you?”

“I’m not saying you would, I just—”

Before she could finish, slapped into Mara Li’s palms was an ingot of solid gold. No satchel of coins, no haggling, just a single brick plucked from the man’s belt. “Consider her bought, and consider the test drive a courtesy.”

First there was silence, and then the rustic saleswoman’s wry charm. “Still room in the harem?”

It was an expert breaking of tension as she handed Jaal the keys, and both customer and saleswoman climbed into car, laughing hysterically.

The barbarian fixed the seat to give him plenty of legroom, swung down the brake and clutch, and twisted the key. The Chevelle roared to a lion’s life, the engine settling into a warm purr as he pulled the machine out of its space.

“Why sell rides so far from the towns?” Jaal asked, easing the car onto the road.

Mara Li shook her head in dejection. “You guys are better for these ol’ goats. There always clans at Balzoth Rock, and always a few of you metalheads among them. Not a lot, but that’s the price I pay for principles, I suppose. You should see the devils they drive the Citadel’s way, the vomitous sacks-a-shit. Thin sliver headlights, no bumpers, pussy-willow engines. They all look the fucking same no matter who slaps a logo on the hood and they got a 0-60 a snail could beat.”

Jaal chuckled at her disgust. “Thing still takes gas?” he quizzed again.

“Ya. We’ve hybridized them for desert travel too, so even if you run out, the solar backup lasts for millennia.”

Jaal nodded. “Let’s see what this one’s made of.” He brought his flat sandaled foot down on the throttle, the silver-and-black beast sent screaming into action. Mara Li, flung back in her seat, looked over to see her favorite seal of approval; the warm smile of a barbarian’s face, that primal love of all things swift written all over. Jaal let out a deep, hearty laugh in his throat as he felt the engine rumble through his veins.

“Gold well spent?” she asked, peeling herself off the bucket seat.

“Every last ounce,” he growled with pleasure. The floorboard grunted as he shoved the pedal down harder, his mighty hands clung tight to the wheel, but neither bent out of shape from under the weight of the warrior’s ecstasy. Her favorite part really was that devilish smile they always got. She saw that radiant fire of battle in their eyes whenever they ran a machine like this.

Unfortunately, it all came to an end in the middle of nowhere. The Chevelle’s tires shrieked, the car lurched to a sudden stop, but Jaal’s foot was still flat on the gas.

The Chevelle’s wheels spun frantically, smoke spewing from rubber, but it couldn’t budge even if it wanted to. When Jaal swung the brakes down, and looked into the rearview, there was nothing. Same for Mara riding passenger side, just the long, half-paved highway, passing through land that couldn’t decide on if it was desert or forest.

“Back her down, and try to take off.” the denim-clad gal suggested. “See if it’s something we can rip thru, whatever the hell it is.”

“This isn’t a thieves trap, is it?” he asked, reversing the car.

Mara shook her head. “Not this far out, and not while I’m palling with you. Besides, closest I ever got to witchcraft was card tricks.”

When the Chevelle was in place, Jaal ripped her into gear, and hit the gas again. The tires squealed, the muscle car bolted forward…and was stuck again.

The burly warrior slammed the brakes in frustration, and Mara looked for looking something, anything to explain their ensnarement. All she could find was that clear blue sky and the menagerie of desert sand and impossible trees. Her eyes then fell to the warrior’s sword.

“You fellas still keep your blades hexed?” she asked in full Southern drawl.

Jaal nodded.

“Grab it, put her in park, and come with me.”

Both barbarian and cowgirl stepped out and crouched down by the silver Chevelle’s trunk. “Just a good clean slice thru the air down here.”

With a swing of his blade, the invisible trap was revealed; a bloody, rotting arm. Its severing was marked by a hoarse scream, and a pool of blood pouring from the limb and onto the road. He uncurled the dead fingers from the axle with the tip of his blade as the duo exchanged perplexed glances.

“Shit,” she sighed, mopping the flecks of red from her face. “I thought that was just gonna be some crazy cosmic lasso. Who the hell slipped that there?”

Jaal shook his head. “Failed necromancy perhaps. What in all the worlds they’d want out here is beyond me.”

When both stood up and looked to the road ahead, both found their answer.

Ahead in the sands of a roadside plateau, came withered skeletons, moldering flesh, and the rotting husks of war, all dead men walking. They faded into being like a filmic dissolve, and aimlessly wandered into each other and away. Whatever they had severed, it was some lock between life and death itself, and when Jaal and Mara looked to each other, a flash of worry came over their faces.

“Well.” the young woman resolved. “Can’t bury ‘em standing here.” She dove back into the passenger seat, and Jaal behind the wheel. He was to quick to hand her the sword, but Mara refused, the denim-clad gal producing a matte black automatic pistol.

“I wouldn’t want to taint it.” she teased. “Besides, you’re driving 4000-pound piece of American muscle that does 120 on the dial, but 200 if you treat her nice. One stomp’ll get ya 10 skulls every second. You’re the man with a mobile battle-axe here, I’ll just cover the headshots.”

Jaal had never heard a woman talk like this before, even among the female warriors of the hordes, though he was getting used to it. “No wonder you are so well liked among us,” he smirked. He flung the blade in the back seat and kicked the throttle. The Chevelle launched into action, bolting towards the growing mass of undead.

Mobile battleaxe echoed thru Jaal’s mind as the car raced closer and closer to the mob. He had never gone into battle behind the wheel. He had known enough to drive someone’s ride, be it at the end of a fight or to keep a hoard moving, but so long as his horse could stand, he’d be there upon her, swinging his blade and cleaving everyone who ran against him. The thought of being one with the blade in this manner was the kind of excitement that finally made it all click, and by the time it did, the sedan’s silver bumper was kissing the rotten legs of the zombified soldiers.

He nailed a handbrake turn and smeared ten of the undead devils beneath his wheels, and without a second thought, gunned the Chevelle and cut a line straight through the shambling, bloody carcasses and time-stained bones. Mara was landing her shots, but knew exactly what was coming up as the bodies were cleaved by the speeding hot rod. Up the window went, and the cowgirl kicked her boots up on the dash, blowing the smoke from her barrel.

The engine screamed as the putrid cocktail of rot and blood sloshed against the windshield, one Mara was quick to turn the wipers on for. “They’re good in rain too.” she winked, as the first slap revealed a cliff ahead.

Jaal slammed the brakes, and the Chevelle skidded, her momentum carrying her front wheels and half the car’s length off the cliff. Just as the car’s nose dipped, a twenty foot drop to their deaths staring them down, the warrior murmured a feverish incantation under his breath. The final, snarling word set the nose of the car rising and the mountainous man gunning her backwards.

“There’s my Sol.” he soothed, patting the wheel and whipping into another handbrake turn. “Let’s go find the bastard who laid this wretched trap.”

“Whatchu say there?” Mara asked, catching her breath.

Jaal looked puzzled at first until he realized what “it” was between the 160th and 170th zombie sent flying through the air. “Praying. Praying to my dear steed of long ago. This machine can never be Sol, but I have a good feeling she’ll have earned her name before the day’s end.”

Mara nodded, checking her pistol’s magazine. “I’d love to nail this bastard too, but where the hell do you keep generals of the dead around here?”

“Their animating force can’t be too far,” answered Jaal. “Must be up on a ridge overlooking the mass. Let’s climb one and get a good look at where they might be heading.”

They carved a trail of black blood through the sickly hoards, pulverizing even more of the undead beneath the Chevelle’s mighty wheels. They made their way up a winding, sandy road to a nearby cliff, a road the sedan handled well after all the abuse.

When they ground to halt and got out, the pungent odor made even their strong stomachs wretch. “We can clean her back at the dealership.” she coughed, turning away before the stench broke her. When they turned their eye towards the undead, the impromptu duo were met with more questions.

It was a clear, humidity-free day, so you could see the spires of the Citadel itself, far off to the south. Mara could spot her ant-sized dealership to the east, Balzoth Rock was behind them to the north, and to the west were even more rock formations lording above the plateau, forming a canyon pass to parts elsewhere.

For the shambling, shuffling crush, there was no direction, no guiding force. The undead stood milling about where half their brainless brethren had been massacred, with the trail of blood signing a cross on the space. Some who materialized closest to the ledge fell as soon as they appeared, affording them mere minutes of undead life. It was the purposelessness of it all that repulsed Jaal the most. “By all the gods,” he murmured gravely. “Who would leave a pocket to the underworld like this?”

Mara racked her brain for an answer, but never before had she been this deep in preternatural insanity. It was like grasping for a pool ladder in the middle of the ocean.

“So a dead man’s hand grabs the Chevelle,” she pondered. “We cut the hand and it unlocks a pack of zombies that don’t know what to do with themselves. They ain’t looking for brains yet, they ain’t being wielded for anything…oh Jesus, did we just?”

Jaal snapped towards the woman as she slapped herself upside the head.

“Fucking burial ground!” Mara bellowed. “We just opened up a fuggin’ Injun-burial ground!”

The towering barbarian gave her a baffled glower before she explained the whole conundrum. “Read about this once on an off-day, but we’re standing, right here, at a cross-section of faiths. We’s in a part of the country that used to have folks from way, way back, dealing in all sorts of spirits. Animal, nature, you name it. You folks worship gods of the north, the state worships the God of Abraham. This is hallowed ground that they can’t escape, but also land they are destined to remain on. A Norse blade unleashed ‘em, but we nailed them down by drawing that cross.”

She pointed to the sanguinary icon they had drawn with the Chevelle’s tires.

“Alright, so we’ve spoiled some ancient rites,” Jaal surmised. “How do we restore them? And furthermore, what was so special about this car at that moment that the dead should want to return?”

“Rites is easy!” Mara smiled, holding her nose and grabbing the rotting hand stuck in the Chevelle’s grill. She slammed it down into the sand, the hand beginning to spasm as its knuckles cracked. She spoke her own strange set of words, and slowly, both the hand before them and the dead below them faded away, even the putrid remains that dressed the car. All that remained was the black cross embedded in the sand.

“I thought you didn’t deal in magic,” observed the perplexed warrior.

“I don’t,” she replied, “I just pulled the words from memory. No sense arguing with your eyes, that’s belief enough. If the rite says one hand stands guard over the dead, then one oughta stand guard.”

They gave it a few moments, hoping she hadn’t sneezed on the last word and spoiled the whole shebang, but after a good minute of silence, the sheer simplicity of the solution sent Jaal bellowing with laughter. “The strangest wench in all the land! Speaks fleetly, moves between gods, but says she can’t cast a spell.”

“Play all sides, and come out the middle fresh as a daisy.” she chuckled. “We can still hose her down at the shop if you like.”

“I think her wheels have been washed,” Jaal sighed, leaning up against his metal steed. “You still haven’t answered the second question: why her?”

Mara looked off into the distance, then back to the Chevelle, then back to where she planted the now invisible hand. “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be selling cars.”

The gentleman warrior nodded in deference. “Guess I’ll be saying another prayer for this beast, then.” he smiled, climbing back behind the wheel. Mara followed suit into the passenger seat, and the metallic mare roared back towards the dealership.

“Hope I didn’t take up too much of your business,” Jaal sighed, a touch wistful as Mara stepped out.

“The days tend to be slow anyway,” she smiled. “Besides, I’d ride into battle for ya any day. Maybe the next one will be a bit juicier. Felt sorry to have to waste all those old warriors after their rest.”

Jaal nodded solemnly. “Here’s to our bodies standing upright for a while longer.” He clutched the woman’s upper arm, and her his in a proper Romanesque handshake. “I’ll be keeping that offer of aid in mind when next we meet.”

“One last question for you, Mister.” the cowgirl cheekily pressed. “What you naming her? The Chevelle.”

“Mal-Fer,” he smiled. “In our old tongue, ‘metal guardian.’”

With that, the Chevelle and her newfound master vanished into the dust of the highway. The rest of the day was spent buried in mythological quarterlies and the rare glance up awaiting the customers yet-to-be, but in following weeks and months, a hell of a lot more business cropped up in the area. Word got around that an auburn-haired enigma a few clicks south of Balzoth Rock was the Metal Queen of the Desert itself, served to arm the common warrior, and had a knack for spiritual observation. While she had to clear up the latter misconception, the former held most true.

In those newfound halcyon days, machines flew off the tarmac, ingots grew in volume, and the second a raider arrived to torch the office or abscond with a machine, it was the blade of valued customer who cut the man down on-site. Worth more than the sight of old iron horses riding off with engines afire, or the dragon’s stash of gold accrued, was the warm friendship of every blood-drinking, war-crying, mad-as-a-hatter warrior who made the job a little less lonely. The new sign she hung up atop the building said it all: “Mara-Li’s Mobile Battleaxes”

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