Witch's Brew by John-Paul Cote

As they walked through the once-abandoned warehouse, the aromas that surrounded them changed. At the start of the process, there was a scent like that of fresh bread, warm, grainy, and sweet. This changed to a yeasty smell with overripe apples or pears underneath. Then something sharp and pungent as the alcohols presented themselves. Finally, the distinct earthy, smoky scent of peat smoke that gave their Scotch whiskey its distinctive flavour that the speakeasies paid top dollar for. Even with their magics hastening the process, all of these smells existed.

Ivy smiled and enjoyed these strolls through the facility. The Humrik Flour Company went under twenty-some years ago and took the village of Humrik with it. This red brick building was all that remained. But it was a solid core to construct their brewing operation on. Cordelia, walking with her, was ignorant to the charm of the building and its scents, focused rather on the number of bottles and cases being produced.

“Three thousand bottles go out tonight. Three thousand. Understand?” she said to an employee hanging on her word.

“Yes, I have counted them myself. Three thousand at twelve per case, two hundred and fifty cases.”

“Raymond,” Cordelia said with a teasing smile and a kiss on his cheek, “you are brilliant. I don’t know what we would do without you.”

The most amusing part to her was the blush of his cheeks whenever she praised him such.

Across the room, Edith supervised the loading of the trucks for the delivery tonight. She was the unofficial head of the operation with her skills for organization and administration. There was no fight from the other ladies. They were happy to let her tend to the ‘boring’ details of the job.

“Ivy! Cordelia!” Sylvia announced as she walked towards them, a smile beaming on her face, arms wide open, and Beatrix was with her. They would be accompanying the delivery to its destination, a speakeasy called Pastor John’s. Sylvia and Beatrix reached the women. They took each other’s hands and kissed each other on their cheeks. “Sisters!”

While they were not truly sisters, it was difficult to tell the five women apart. Each had long black hair, deep purple eyes, and a green tint to their skin. They were sisters by choice, by their membership in The Coven.

“Sylvia, it’s wonderful to see you,” Ivy said. “My, what a stunning dress you have!”

She wore a scandalously short, knee length, black dress. The sequins sparkled as she twirled to show her sisters what it looked like. The fringe swayed and shimmered. Her shoulders were exposed. It was a bold, modern style, that symbolized a new era of freedom and rebellion for women.

“Oh, this? It’s just something I threw on,” Sylvia said with a twinkle in her eyes.

“You didn’t mention the hat,” Beatrix added. “It took forever for her to choose the right hat.”

“Oh, Beatrix, you tease me too much!”

The women laughed together.

“So, we shouldn’t be expecting you home early tonight?” Edith said as she joined the conversation.

“Perhaps not at all,” Sylvia replied.

“As long as the load gets there, we are not worried.”

“Yes, Edith. Business, business, business.”

With the announcement of Prohibition, The Coven had seen an immediate windfall. Their whiskeys and beer were in demand before the United States became a dry nation, never mind now. The Coven was a trusted brand built on quality, unlike most of the bathtub gin that was brewed up in people’s basements for the Syndicate. No one ever went blind, insane, or dropped dead because of their product. And they aimed to keep it that way by staying independent, no matter how much pressure they received from the criminal outfits.

“The trucks are loaded and ready to go,” Edith said.

“Well, then, no sense in letting the boys wait,” Sylvia answered. She and Beatrix each hopped into a truck, and they were off.

The factory was a few miles outside of the suburbs north of Chicago, out in the countryside. The road was rough but navigable. The moonlight lit their way as much as their headlights did. Sure and steady would keep the load safe. As they rounded a corner, the driver in the lead brought the truck to a stop. Six men stood across the roadway.

Six armed men. Shotguns and machine guns.

Sylvia opened her door and walked to the front.

“Boys, could you kindly move out of the way? We have places to be tonight.”

The men raised their weapons. Beatrix exited the rear truck and joined Sylvia on the opposite side of the lead vehicle.

“Ladies, I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake,” a man with a Thompson machine gun said. “You seem to be hauling some of Mr. Balmut’s liquor without telling him.”

“What we have is our own,” Sylvia replied. “I don’t think you want to have trouble here. Just clear off and we can all be on our way.”

“You know Mr. Balmut owns everything that comes into this city, including your load.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It means that you owe him half.”

“Half?”

“Half. Turn over half, then we can all be on our way.”

“I’m afraid that’s not going to happen, boys.”

“We thought you’d say that.”

The men began to unload on the vehicles. Sylvia and Beatrix moved so quickly off the road into the forest that it seemed they had just disappeared. The windows on the truck busted inward as the drivers were filled with lead. The men stopped firing, unsure of where the witches had gone.

“You have made a terrible mistake,” Sylvia said in a low, loud growl. The hijackers began to fire blindly into the forest.

Suddenly, roots and vines sprung up from the ground and twisted around one of the men. They gripped tightly as they snaked around his legs and then torso. Panic set in. The more he fought, the stronger the grip was on him. He screamed and did so until it turned to a gurgle as blood was squeezed out of his throat. In the moonlight, the others could see the shimmer of blood oozing out between the tendrils.

As they watched, the eyes of the man next to him widened. He stood motionless at first, his breath catching in his throat as he felt the first prickling sensation on his skin. A single ant crawled up his leg, then another, and before he could react, hundreds of them swarmed over his boots. His eyes widen in panic, his body tensed, but it was too late. The insects were everywhere.

Tiny legs skittered across his flesh, a crawling, writhing mass that emerged from the earth itself. Ants, beetles, millipedes, and flies filled every inch of his exposed skin. He swatted at them wildly, but for every one he knocked away, ten more took its place. Their numbers multiplied, surging up his legs, spilling into the cuffs of his pants, and burrowed into his clothes. His screams pierced the night.

His arms flailed uselessly as the insects invade every opening, crawling into his ears, his nose, his mouth. He coughed and sputtered, choking on the wriggling mass of insects, only to have more pour in. Their tiny, biting jaws pierced his skin, drew blood that quickly soaked his clothes. His flesh felt as though it was on fire as their acidic bites tore into him.

They crawled over his face, into his eyes, blinding him with their sheer numbers. His skin began to break down, gnawed at by countless hungry mouths, tiny pieces of him torn away with each bite.

As he collapsed, a voice boomed overhead.

“I told you, you have made a terrible mistake.”

A third man swung to his side and fired his shotgun into his compatriot. He hollered, “NO!” as the pellets tore through flesh, muscle, and bone with brutal efficiency. Blood splattered on his face. The body hurled backwards into a fifth man, knocking him to the ground. The man stood and turned to run but the ground under him turned to mud. He tried to pull his feet free, but with every desperate jerk, the muck pulled him deeper, swallowing his legs to the knees in seconds. Panic flooded his mind, his breaths coming in short gasps as he thrashed, but the more he struggled, the faster the mud gripped him.

His hands clawed at the ground around him, but the mud merely flowed through them.

The cold, wet muck pressed against his chest, crushing him as he sunk. He screamed for help, but there was none to come, his remaining comrades paralyzed by fear.

The mud reached his neck thick and heavy, making him gasp even more. Any breath could be his last one. Finally, it swallowed him nearly whole, and then turned back to solid ground. Only a forearm and hand poked through, muscles flexing and trembling until they stopped entirely.

From the top of the forest, Beatrix came down, shrieking, grabbed the third man, and sank her teeth deeply into his throat. She soared upwards, carrying on into the other side as the man cried out and they disappeared into the tops.

One remained.

“A terrible mistake,” said the voice.

The last man staggered about, firing his Thompson wildly at whatever he heard.

And then he was trapped. He couldn’t move his limbs or his body. A million white threads engulfed him, sticking to him, entwining him. He began to cry out and then saw a thousand black dots move towards him. Then he could see the tiny legs that scurried and carried them.

Spiders.

Hundreds of spiders.

They surged up his body, their tiny legs moving in chaotic unison. They swarmed him, covering his pants, creeping under his shirt, and scaling his chest. The crawling sensation spread across his entire body—along his arms, his neck, up to his face. His breath quickened, panic seizing him as they invade every inch of exposed skin. They crawled into his ears, his nostrils, his mouth. He gagged, spitting them out, but more pour in, their legs tickled his throat as they burrow deeper. His screams became muffled by the swarm, his voice choked by the mass of wriggling bodies. And just as suddenly, they seemed to disappear, leaving him still trapped in their web.

Sylvia and Beatrix came out of the dark, lit only by the moon. Beatrix’s face shimmered with blood. They stopped next to him. Sylvia extended her arm and ran her fingers gently through his hair. She smiled, showing the points of her teeth, moving in close so that the man could feel her hot breath on his skin.

“You, you get to live. You will deliver a message to your masters. The Coven are their own. We pay no tax or levee to anyone. And anyone who tries, tell them what happened here. Can you do this?”

“Y-y-yes,” he stuttered in response. The man imagined he could feel the tiny hairs of the tiny legs brushing against him again.

“Good.”

Sylvia stepped back and waved her hand. The spider web fell away. The hijacker stumbled forwards then backwards. He stared at the two women and then ran.

“I didn’t expect that from our night,” Sylvia said.

“No, not at all,” Beatrix answered. “Quite the surprise. Shall we continue?”

“Yes, we shall.”

The women walked back to their trucks and moved the bodies of the drivers with a spell off to the side. They then started the trucks and were off down the road.