Fangboy

by Jeff Strand

  “Stop!” shouted Kleft. “Don’t make me shoot you!”

  Nathan hoped he was referring to the horses, even though he liked the horses.

  In a perfect world, Nathan would have been able to suddenly slow the horses down, which would cause Kleft to run ahead of them. Nathan would take advantage of this by speeding up the horses again and steering them to the right, thus trampling Kleft under their hooves. If Nathan had the slightest idea how to slow and steer the horses, it would have been a brilliant plan.

  “Don’t think I won’t shoot a child! I’ll put a bullet in you and not lose a single wink of sleep!”

  Nathan believed him. Such a cruel world when a young boy could be threatened with a firearm and not automatically assume it was an empty promise!

  Should he make a token effort to stop the horses?

  Up ahead, the dirt road sloped downward. Not quite enough to classify it as a “hill,” and far from enough to classify it as a “mountain” or a “cliff,” but easily enough to classify it as “a dangerous slope upon which to drive a horse-drawn coach, if one has no experience with such things.” There were far worse ways to perish, as he’d seen a few minutes ago, but Nathan hoped to remain alive for at least twice as long as he’d already been alive.

  “Leave me alone!” Nathan shouted back. “I’ll leave the horses behind once I’ve escaped!”

  Kleft fired the gun.

  Though Kleft was a murderous sort and would never admit such a thing, he did have a bit of a moral issue with the idea of shooting a child. It was a dilemma he was able to work through, obviously, but still, pulling that trigger brought no joy to his heart.

  He had no intention of killing Nathan. Retrieving the boy in the first place had required a long journey, and to simply pop a bullet into his head would be a terrible waste. Not to mention that other individuals would be extremely unhappy with that decision.

  “Where’s the boy you were going to get?” his wife would ask.

  “Shot him dead,” Kleft would say.

  “Why would you go and do a thing like that?” his wife would ask. She’d stop stirring his scrambled eggs, and Kleft would worry that they might not cook properly.

  “He was getting away.”

  “So you shot him dead? What a peculiar methodology.”

  “Don’t judge me, woman!” he would say. “You weren’t there. You didn’t witness the circumstances that forced my actions!”

  “It is only the end result that matters,” she would say, letting his eggs burn. “And the end result is that you left behind your household responsibilities for several days in order to retrieve this fang-toothed boy, who you then proceeded to murder. If you’d set out to murder him, then your trip could be considered a success, but since your purpose was to bring him back, your trip is an unqualified failure. How are you to continue making money if you’re so casual with your responsibilities?”

  He would want to argue. However, he would not do so, burdened with the knowledge that his wife was absolutely correct, that it had been a poor idea to travel so far only to shoot Nathan in the head, and that despite his best efforts to convince certain individuals that things weren’t so bad, there was really no debating that propping up a dead fanged boy with a hole in his head would provide little or no entertainment value to a paying audience.

  So he did not shoot Nathan in the head.

  He’d been aiming for Nathan’s leg. After all, when you were shot in the leg it was much more difficult to run away from kidnappers. But Kleft was running himself, and Nathan was bouncing around, and Kleft had never been a superior marksman, so the bullet did not hit Nathan in the leg as desired.

  Nathan screamed as the bullet struck him in the left arm, two inches from his shoulder.

  He’d been shot! By a bullet! On purpose!

  Was there blood? Of course there was. There had to be. He didn’t want to look. He didn’t need to look. The blood was a given.

  Besides, he could see it on the reins.

  Could you die from getting shot in the arm?

  He looked at his arm.

  Oh, yes, that was indeed bad. Even if he’d been shot a few times in the past, which he hadn’t, he suspected that this would rank as the worst he’d ever been shot.

  He hadn’t fallen out of the coach, though.

  If he survived this mess, he’d have a wonderful story to tell Penny, Mary, and Jamison. He could enhance the quality of the future story by digging his fingers into the wound, pulling out the bullet, and flinging it back at the evil Professor Kleft. He touched the wound, let out a cry of pain, and decided that the story was fine as-is.

  The coach went down the slope with the horses running at top speed. Nathan bounced in his seat so violently that he thought he might fly right out, and behind him the coach rocked and squeaked and seemed ready to topple onto its side.

  Kleft cursed as he fell behind. He no longer cared if he wasted his journey and made certain individuals unhappy. He screamed with rage and fired his remaining bullets at the coach.

  His driver, who was named Abner Yauncey III, had been married to his childhood sweetheart for thirty years. They had six beautiful children, and a seventh who was not particularly attractive but who they loved every bit as much as the beautiful ones. Abner’s grandmother lived with them, though she required constant care, because Abner couldn’t bear the thought of sending her off to live with nurses. His dog, Runner, did not fetch sticks quite as well in his golden years but remained a loyal companion. With all of his responsibilities, Abner couldn’t donate as much of his time or money to charitable causes as he would’ve liked, but he did what he could.

  Abner did not benefit from Kleft’s shooting spree.

  He’d been just about to leap into the driver’s seat, where he would have easily stopped the horses and subdued Nathan with little fuss. Unfortunately, the three bullets that punched into his back put a stop to that. With one final thought about how much he loved his family, Abner Yauncey III left our world and moved on to the next.

  And then the coach flipped over onto its side.

  Since the fate of the horses is of great interest to those who hear the tale of Fangboy, let it be said that the horses were unharmed by their fall. Nathan was thrown from his seat onto the dirt and was also unharmed, if one discounted his previous injury (i.e., the bullet wound). Abner was already deceased, but few would argue that were he not already in that condition, he would have been dead three times over.

  Though one might have expected Kleft to be pleased by the fact that Nathan was no longer riding away in the couch, he was in fact extremely upset, for the coach had been no small financial investment and certain individuals would not react well to the news of its damage. He said terrible, wicked things as he ran toward the wreckage.

  When he got there, Nathan was gone.

  He checked the horse’s hooves, to see if Nathan had been trampled beneath them, but such was not the case. Abner’s body was in poor shape, but not such poor shape that the parts of a seven-year-old boy could be mixed in there.

  “Damn!” he shouted. “Hellish damnation!”

  The boy could not have gone far.

  Kleft would find him.

  * * *

  Nathan ran and ran and ran, until he decided that he didn’t have enough blood left to keep running, and passed out instead.

  * * *

  He awoke on a cot in a small hut that smelled like leaves. His arm still hurt. A piece of gauze was taped to the bullet wound.

  A man sat across from him in a rocking chair, smoking a pipe. His skin—Nathan didn’t know they made skin that dark. What sort of man was this?

  “Where am I?” Nathan asked.

  The man smiled and took a long puff from his pipe. “You are in my home. You have been shot.”

  “I remember that happening.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Nathan.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Nathan. My name is James. I am your magical negro.�
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  “You’re my what?”

  “Your magical negro. I am here to solve the problems of white folks. And you, white boy, have problems.”

  “I’ve never heard of a magical negro before.”

  “Oh, we are very common. Why do you think white folks have so few problems?”

  “How can you help me?”

  “The first thing I have to do is take that bullet out of your arm.”

  “Is it going to hurt?”

  “Do you know the happy, warm feeling you get when you have just had a fine meal, surrounded by those you love?”

  “Yes.”

  “It is going to be the opposite of that.”

  Nathan frowned. “Can we just leave it in there?”

  James shook his head. “If we do that, white boy, you would get stuck to magnets wherever you went. That is no way to live.” He got up from his rocking chair and then crouched down next to Nathan’s cot. He gently removed the gauze and rubbed a large leaf on Nathan’s arm. The pain faded within seconds. “I am going to give your arm a good squeeze. If we are lucky, the bullet will pop right out. If we are not, I will have to scoop.”

  He placed both of his large hands on Nathan’s arm, then squeezed.

  The bullet popped out.

  “I am not going to lie to you,” said James. “Scooping would have driven you to the brink of madness. I am glad we did not have to do that.”

  “I wish I were bleeding less,” said Nathan.

  “Do not worry. I can make it all better.” James pressed another large leaf against Nathan’s arm. “Hold this here and the bleeding will stop.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Not a problem in the least. That is why I exist.”

  The leaf quickly turned red, but blood didn’t leak from under it. “Did you see Professor Kleft?”

  “I saw nobody else. Just you, lying on the ground.”

  “Oh. I was hoping that you’d defeated him.”

  James gazed into Nathan’s eyes. “There is a lot of anger inside of you. Do you know that?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Yes, much anger. What makes you so angry, Nathan?”

  “Nothing.”

  “In this hut, we speak the truth. The truth is what sets us free. Lies only tie anchors to our feet and throw us into lakes. Tell me, Nathan, from where does your anger stem?”

  “I…I don’t like my teeth very much.”

  James gave him a serious nod. “Yes, they do seem like the teeth of a beast from hell. I was thankful that you were unconscious when I saw them for the first time. What caused your teeth to grow in such a manner?”

  “It’s how I was born.”

  “God was angry that day, I think. Or careless. Have you committed acts of evil with these?”

  Nathan’s mouth went dry. “Not on purpose.”

  “Evil is not always in the intent. What have you done?”

  “I bit somebody.”

  “I see. I would hate to be the owner of flesh that was sandwiched between those fangs. How did you feel after it happened?”

  “Awful.”

  “Did you want to die?”

  “Well, no, I didn’t want to die, I just felt bad.”

  “Did this unleash feelings of self-loathing?”

  “I’m not sure. I wished I hadn’t done it.”

  “Do you plan to bite others?”

  “No. Never.”

  “Do you feel that perhaps your teeth are a blessing? That they make you greater than other human beings? That they are in fact a gift from the creator?”

  “No.”

  “Nor would I. You may remove the leaf.”

  Nathan peeled the leaf off his arm. The wound had healed. “How did you do that?”

  “Strong leaf. Walk the path of the righteous and all will be well. When you leave my hut, follow the sun until it drops below the horizon, and then walk north until you reach a path. It is a well-traveled path, and soon somebody will find you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “No, thank you, for allowing me to fulfill my purpose. God be with you.”

  Nathan left the hut. He had no food or water, but he knew that he would make it. He need only—

  “I’ve got you!” snarled Professor Kleft, grabbing Nathan by the back of the neck. “Dark times are ahead, I promise you that!”

  SIXTEEN

  Coach repair was not a skill that Kleft possessed in abundance, though to be fair, he never would have tried to claim otherwise. The coach wobbled and creaked and the horses had a terrible time trying to drag it on only two wheels. He was also not a skilled driver, though the horses were more or less traveling in a direction similar to the one he wanted.

  Nathan sat next to him. His wrists were bound together with thick rope, as were his feet. He wore a tight gag. Kleft had not been gentle with the tying and gagging process.

  “You’re lucky I didn’t kill you,” said Kleft. He’d said this at least a dozen times. “You’ve ruined the coach and made me shoot my driver. I rescued you. Don’t you see that? I showed up to give you a better life, and this is how you repay me, by creating a situation in which I was forced to accidentally kill a man who was only trying to do his job? Do you feel that was a grand gesture on your part?”

  Nathan said nothing, since he was gagged and not in a position to hold up his end of the conversation.

  “His death is on your conscience,” said Kleft. “When you close your eyes and see his screaming face, you will know that it’s your fault he lies buried in a shallow grave.”

  Kleft had made this point, including the part about the screaming face, at least fourteen times. Nathan didn’t expect him to tire of making it any time soon.

  “Uncomfortable things await you in the afterlife. Uncomfortable things indeed.” Then he shrugged. “But, best not to dwell on them, I suppose. Are you hungry? Would you like some beef jerky?”

  Nathan nodded, because he knew that Kleft would have to remove the gag in order to feed him, which might allow Nathan the opportunity to work out some sort of brilliant escape.

  “To hell with you!” said Kleft. “All of the beef jerky is going into my own stomach!”

  But as the journey progressed, Kleft’s mood seemed to brighten. Then a third wheel popped free of the coach, and his mood soured again. When the fourth wheel came off, he let the horses drag the coach along the ground for a few miles (the horses, it must be repeated, were unharmed and found themselves enjoying the exercise) until he finally gave up and they rode the rest of the way directly on the horses’ backs. Nathan had long-fantasized about riding a horse, though in his fantasies he was not tied up and gagged and bouncing around so hard that his legs had become one giant bruise.

  “At last we have arrived,” said Kleft, as they rode through a large town called Apple Falls. They passed inns, restaurants, churches, cemeteries, and a sinister playground before turning onto a long, winding road. At the end, there was a small building, constructed with odd angles and six different types of wood, upon which hung a blood-red sign: Professor Mongrel’s Theatre of the Macabre.

  Nathan frowned and said something inquisitive.

  “What’s that?” asked Kleft, tugging down the gag.

  “I thought it was Professor Kleft’s Parade of the Macabre.”

  “It will be,” he said. His face darkened. “Someday.”

  The front door opened, and a short, plump man in a black suit and top hat waddled out.

  “Kleft! Where in the blazes have you been?” he shouted.

  “I apologize, sir,” said Kleft. “There were complications.”

  “What in the blazes have you done to my coach?”

  “That was among the complications.”

  “That enrages me.” He looked at Nathan. “Is that the fang-toothed boy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Clearly he also possesses superhuman strength. I’m thankful those ropes kept him from overpowering you. Untie him, you fool.”

  K
left muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath, then knelt down and began to untie the rope around Nathan’s feet.

  The man waddled over to them. “Your name had better be Nathan Pepper,” he said.

  Nathan nodded.

  “And when you open your mouth immediately after I complete this sentence, your teeth had better be frightening.”

  Nathan opened his mouth. The man’s eyes widened and he took a step back. “By the serpents of Medusa, I expected them to be only half as scary!” Then he smiled. “Fine work, Assistant Kleft, fine work. I’ll deduct fewer coins from your pay this week.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Kleft, tossing aside the first rope and going to work on the one that bound Nathan’s wrists.

  “What happened to the driver?”

  “He was slain.”

  “Slain?”

  “Slain by this beast of a boy. Do you remember that our driver had a throat when we left?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, that all changed.”

  “Goodness.”

  “The boy went at him in a frenzy of fangs and fingernails. So much blood. Apparently all it takes is the utterance of certain common English words—I dare not say which ones—to ignite his kill-lust. Our driver was brave, but bravery doesn’t do much for a man when his windpipe is exposed for the world to see. So very much blood. It took five men to stop him, not including myself, and if you were to see what those five men look like now, your stomach would churn and you would let out a cry of revulsion. ‘Disgusting!’ you would shout. ‘Better that these poor souls should be put out of their misery than to live such a disfigured existence.’ So very, very much blood. It took nearly eight buckets of water to clean the boy up after that rampage. Look at the way he stares at you, like a tiger or a shark sizing up its prey. It chills me.”

  “None of that is true,” said Nathan.

  “And he speaks lies!” said Kleft. “You sent me on an errand to retrieve an untruthful killing machine. That I am not dead myself is a miracle for which I will be thanking the supreme being for decades to come.”

  “Enough,” said the man. “When I asked about the driver, I was seeking an answer lasting three to five seconds, nothing more.” He extended his hand to Nathan. “My name is Professor Mongrel.”