(1995) The Oath

by Frank Peretti

  Thirty miles per hour, slowing, slowing; twenty miles per hour . . . The beast was dragging the truck to a stop.

  The tunnel was coming up. Come on. Come on!

  The truck reached the tunnel and squeezed in. The dragon held on, its arm going into the tunnel, until its body struck against the company building with a heavy thud.

  The truck lurched to a stop, then went crooked in the tunnel, the tires spinning, shrieking, smoking.

  The claws began to uncurl.

  Steve let off the accelerator, then hit it again. The truck lurched forward, the claws slipped out, and the truck surged ahead down the dark tunnel, the roar of the engine resounding off the water-streaked walls.

  Steve looked in the rearview mirror. A ball of fire filled the tunnel and then a horned, golden-eyed face came through it, closing the distance.

  The truck shot out of the tunnel like a torpedo and into a wide expanse where Steve saw loading chutes, piles of ore, an old railroad bed. Now he remembered: This was the old railroad loading yard. There was a huge articulated loader parked at one end, a pile of rubble, and a slightly bent sheriff’s patrol car lying in a heap before the big bucket—Yes! Steve remembered Levi driving that thing through the pile of debris, clearing away the barricade that blocked the tunnel!

  Yes, there was the old railroad tunnel. He circled the loading area in a wide left turn, looking for it.

  Over his left shoulder Steve saw the dragon burst from the passage he’d just come through. The glowing retinas locked on him.

  There was Levi’s tunnel! Steve drove just past it. He slammed on the brakes and ground to a halt in the gravel.

  The dragon was coming at him, flames already huffing in small billows before its jaws, the orange light reflecting from the scales on its face.

  He slammed the truck into reverse, stuck his head out the window to look behind, and backed into the tunnel. Faster, faster. He was barely able to see in the dark with only a half-melted taillight. He flipped on the left turn signal, and it flashed against the tunnel walls, giving him intermittent glimpses of where he was going.

  He looked ahead, through the shattered windshield. No dragon. He looked behind and saw only the endless black tube of that tunnel.

  Try and trap me again, come on. Let’s see you sneak up from behind!

  How long was this tunnel? He didn’t want to go too far, but he had to go far enough—

  There! Far down the tunnel he caught the weakest glint of silver scales blinking back the light from his turn signal.

  He hit the brakes. The golden eyes reflected back the glare of his one remaining brake light.

  First gear. The truck eased forward. Steady, steady. Steve kept his eyes on the rearview mirror. You coming, big guy?

  In the weird stroboscopic effect of the turn signal, the golden eyes and glimmering scales seemed to gallop forward in violent lurches, closer and closer with each flash of light.

  Steve hit the gas and shot forward, keeping an eye ahead and an eye on the mirror. Now he was just about matching the dragon’s speed. Good. He needed the time.

  He hit the brakes and brought the truck to a stop just ten feet inside the tunnel entrance. He cranked the wheel, backed up, shifted into first, cranked the other way, lurched forward.

  Now the truck sat crooked, totally blocking the tunnel.

  The only way out was over the top.

  He leapt from the cab.

  Now the dragon was huffing fire with every breath as it ran up the tunnel, step-thump, step-thump, step-thump!

  Steve ran back to the ladder control and could see the con- trol lever in the pulsing light of the dragon’s flames. With the slithering, stomping sound of the beast echoing all around him, he grabbed the lever and threw it forward. The hydraulic pump came to life with a whirrrr, and the ladder started to raise toward the ceiling. He eased the lever sideways and swung the ladder around, aiming it straight out the tunnel, then raised it some more, just high enough and no higher. Now the lance angled upward, the edge of the blade reflecting the flashes of flame from behind.

  STEP-THUMP, STEP-THUMP, STEP-THUMP!

  All set. Steve ran forward, squeezed around the truck’s fender, and ran into the loading yard just as flashlights, shouts, and guns came pouring out of the opposite tunnel. The light beams caught him.

  “There he is!” somebody yelled.

  “Benson!” came the voice of Harold Bly.

  Andy Schuller, Kyle Figgin, Carl Ingfeldt, Elmer and Joe, Bernie, and Harold Bly fanned out to block all paths of escape, their guns and rifles clacking as they each chambered a round. Steve came to a halt. There was nowhere to go.

  Then came a crashing and creaking of metal behind him. Bly and his mob were now looking past Steve, their eyes wide and white in the dim light.

  Steve shot a glance backward and saw the dragon’s head lunge over the top of the ladder truck as the truck creaked and rocked under its weight. The front leg groped for a foothold; the stump banged and scraped on the cab. The scaled neck slid over that lance like a creeping python, the lance tip clicking over each scale like a stick on a picket fence.

  Steve’s eyes went from the dragon back to Bly and his mob. They were frozen in a bizarre, silent tableau, their flashlight beams all focused on the huge beast trapped between that truck and the tunnel ceiling.

  And here I am in the middle, Steve thought.

  The dragon was incensed. It struggled and pushed to get over the truck. Clack, clack, clack-clack-clack, the scales passed over the tip of the lance as the dragon slid by, inch by inch.

  Okay, Lord. What now? Steve asked.

  The dragon got its shoulders through, past the truck, past the lance. In only a moment it would be free of the truck altogether. It would be out of the tunnel, into the open, ready to take its pick of the souls at its mercy. The lance was clicking over the scales just below the rib cage. A rear foot was on the truck cab.

  Harold Bly found his voice, and it was shaking. “Don’t be afraid, boys. He’s ours . . . he’s nothing to be afraid of . . .”

  By the way they were backing away and trying to remember what their guns were for, Steve sensed Bly’s words weren’t helping much.

  Then Steve recalled Levi’s words: “When the dragon sees Jesus in you, he’ll back up. You’ll scare him . . .”

  But is Jesus in me?

  Clack-clack-clack, the scales moved over the lance. There was no time to wonder.

  “Jesus . . .” Steve prayed as he turned and faced the dragon head-on. “Please be in me.”

  Against all common sense, against an all-consuming terror, needing all the strength he could muster, Steve took a small, trial step of faith—toward the dragon. He planted his foot down—and waited. He remained alive, and strangely, he now found he had just enough faith to take the next step, so he did. Then he took another step toward the dragon. Then another.

  There wasn’t time to analyze or understand it, but his fear was gone now. He was looking that beast right in the eyes, and for the first time, he was not afraid.

  The dragon was pushing, clawing, trying to get around and over that ladder truck, spitting and huffing fire in its intense anger.

  With reckless abandon and a cry of war, Steve broke into a run, charging right under the open jaws of the dragon.

  The dragon inhaled deeply, and then a blinding wall of flame blasted Steve off his feet, tossing him with the force of an ocean wave, carrying him along as he tumbled over and over and over. He could feel his arms, legs, every square inch of his body contacting the sharp edges of the mine waste and spilled ore as he landed and bounced and rolled in the fire.

  Even Harold Bly ran for cover, joining his mob behind the big loader, cowering behind the huge tires and the monstrous front bucket.

  The dragon clapped its jaws shut, cutting off the flame, and then it raised its head to survey its work. Small fires flickered and licked in a long, blackened streak on the ground. The air was murky with smoke.

  Bly gathere
d the fortitude to snicker. “Heh, man, what a show! That Benson’s done for. He’s gone.”

  Not quite. As they watched in amazement, a shadow emerged through the red glowing smoke in the middle of the yard. Steve Benson, dizzy and battered, struggled to his feet and looked around to get his bearings.

  Before he knew where he was or how he was, flames hit him again, knocking him down. Head over heels, he tumbled then slammed flat into a wall as fingers of fire washed over him, scorching the wall black.

  The dragon rested, the fire receded.

  Steve flopped from the wall to the ground, flat on his back, feeling pulverized. All he could see was smoke.

  Man, what a slow way to die! he thought. But I have to get up.

  Slowly, deliberately, he got to his feet. Then he wandered, lost and blinded through the smoke.

  Where’s the dragon? Gotta make that lizard back up . . . Jesus’ll take care of the rest . . .

  Before he even knew where he was, flames hit him again, and again he went flying into the wall.

  Just how long was this going to go on? he wondered.

  He thought about Harold Bly, Andy Schuller, and all the others who had followed him. Weird. They tried to throw me to the dragon, and now what am I doing?

  Slowly, painfully, like a boxer at the count of nine, he got his legs under him, straightened his knees, and stood up. Some of Bly’s men, wherever they were, shouted to one another in amazement. He hurt all over. He rubbed his eyes, his face.

  He thought he heard sirens in the distance. Cops? Fire trucks? That would help.

  The dragon’s eyes were watching him through the smoke. He stumbled forward, toward those eyes. Forward. Just forward.

  The eyes were widening. The nostrils were flaring. That thing was sucking in air, building up for another blast.

  Flames hit him again, and he lost sight of the world, lost feeling, lost awareness.

  He woke up on his back in the hard, sharp-edged mine waste, the ground like a reeling turntable beneath him. One more time he found the strength to get to his feet, then turned right and left, looking for those eyes, those smoking, flaming nostrils.

  There they were, clear across the loading yard.

  He took a step forward, then he took another.

  The eyes were locked on him. They seemed surprised.

  Steve was surprised. He was still alive, on his feet, and—he looked at his arms, his body—he wasn’t burned! Not even singed! He looked up at the dragon looking back. He thought the dragon looked as stunned as he was.

  Andy Schuller couldn’t believe his eyes. Nor could Kyle Figgin. Carl Ingfeldt squeaked, “How’d he do that?” but Joe and Elmer only looked at each other dumbly; they hadn’t a clue.

  Bly was cursing under his breath, fingering his shotgun.

  For a man who’d been dashed across a bed of rough gravel time after time and should have been a black cinder by now, Steve was feeling remarkably calm and resolute as he kept walking right toward that hideous beast. More of Levi’s words came to mind. Well, they had worked for Levi . . .

  “GO ON! GET! GET OUT OF HERE!!”

  That big head jerked backward, and the evil eyes widened with—

  No. Come on. Really? Did he actually see fear in those eyes? Steve wondered. That huge, slithering, devouring monster was afraid?

  So try it again, Steve! “GO ON! GET BACK!”

  Steve didn’t realize how weak he was. Without warning his legs buckled, and he went down on his knees. Nope. No way. He’d been on his knees in front of this beast before, and he wasn’t going to do that again. He mustered his strength and got back on his feet, staggering, his legs like rubber.

  The moment he rose to full height, the dragon shied back. It was a small, almost imperceptible move—but it was backward.

  Steve raised a hand and gestured a push-back as he said quietly but firmly, “I won’t bow to you. You don’t own me, not anymore.”

  He could see the front foot push into the dirt, the stump gouging in. The head shied back as the neck curled.

  That move was obvious enough for Harold Bly to see it. He came out from behind the loader, shotgun in hand, his indignity far outweighing his fear. “What’s going on there? Why doesn’t it take him?”

  “Harold!” Bernie cried from behind the wrecked patrol car. “Harold, don’t go out there!”

  “Shut up!” Harold snapped back. Then he turned to the dragon. “Take him! He’s the one you want, we brought him to you. Kill him. What’re you waiting for?”

  The dragon inched forward, the head lowering, the eyes glaring at Steve, staring him down. Clack. The belly moved over the lance just one more scale and stayed there.

  Steve stood his ground and glared right back. “You see Jesus in me, don’t you?”

  The dragon started backing up.

  All right! We need more of that. Steve started forward with bold, deliberate steps, staring the dragon down. “GO ON! I’M THROUGH WITH YOU! YOU’VE GOT NOTHING ON ME!”

  The rear foot stepped back off the truck cab. The dragon pushed with its front leg and stump. The head turned far away from the little man coming at him.

  Steve felt a thrill course through him. This was working! There was a God! He started taking big, determined steps to be sure the dragon could see each one.

  The dragon saw them, all right, and slid backward over the lance. The lance was slightly crooked; it jumped a scale, then another.

  Steve kept coming. “YOU’RE WASHED OUT OF MY LIFE, AND YOU KNOW IT. NOW BEAT IT!”

  The dragon lunged backward. The lance jumped a scale, jumped a scale, jumped a scale—

  Caught!

  Steve could see the broad tip slide up under a scale just below the rib cage.

  Okay. Now to settle accounts. “CLIFF BENSON!” Steve shouted into the lizard’s face. “TRACY ELLIS! LEVI COBB!” The dragon cringed at the sound. “MAGGIE BLY! CHARLIE MACK! VIC MOORE!” The dragon would not look at him.

  Okay, Cliff, this one’s for you. With a new rage giving him strength, he ran forward in a suicide charge, hollering like a madman, “YAAAAAAHHHH!”

  The dragon jerked its head in and wriggled backward over the truck.

  The lance went in.

  Fireworks! Lightning! The scales flashed and rippled like a neon display as the dragon’s neck shot skyward and its lungs emptied an agonized gush of air. It groped about its belly, the truck, the ladder, then curled its head down and back under, looking for the wound, trying to see what had happened.

  Harold Bly ran forward, horrified, incredulous. This couldn’t be happening!

  Andy Schuller stayed behind the loader, peering from around a big tire. Kyle Figgin ran back as far as the entry tunnel and peeked from inside. Carl, Bernie, Elmer, and Joe didn’t know what to do or where to go, so they just ran back and forth in little panicky circles until they finally returned to cower and cling to the loader. They were spellbound, their eyes blinking and squinting at the flash of the scales, and the dragon’s rumbling, crashing struggle with the ladder truck the only sound they heard.

  They didn’t hear the approaching sirens or see the flashing lights coming through town.

  The dragon heaved its body forward, pushing with its forelegs against the truck, trying to get loose.

  The lance wouldn’t budge.

  The dragon rocked to one side, then the other, pushed with its hind legs, slammed its head against the ground and pushed with its neck. The truck bounced on its springs, rocked, skidded sideways.

  He’s going to tear up his insides, Steve thought.

  “You dirty dog! You’ve killed my dragon!” Bly screamed, raising his shotgun with shaking, fumbling hands.

  The gun discharged, almost leaping from Bly’s hands, before he could aim. Some of the shot pelted the dragon’s neck and head, and it flinched in pain as sparks flew from its scales. Hopelessly impaled, the dragon shifted its gaze toward the screaming, fumbling Harold Bly. The eyes of the creature narrowed, the breath hissed through
clenched teeth.

  Bly was still holding the gun when he caught sight of the dragon’s hateful glare. He took a step backward. He started to tremble.

  “H-Hey now,” he stammered. “It wasn’t me. I’m on your side!” Bly pointed toward Steve. “He’s over there! Over there!”

  The dragon seemed to gain strength from its boiling rage. Its eyes locked on the bold, loudmouthed ruler of Hyde River as it pulled at the lance.

  The truck rolled, bounced, and screeched forward out of the tunnel. The dragon’s body cascaded over the top of it and to the ground, twisting and finally snapping the ladder off.

  As the dragon lay on its side, it craned its neck to and fro in search of Harold Bly. When it spotted him, the neck reached like a serpent, the head moved low to the ground, the breath sucked in, the left front leg reached out, claws extended.

  Bly started backing away, his face contorted with horror and disbelief, his hands chambering another round in the shotgun. “No! Now come on, you don’t want me . . .”

  The dragon’s burning eyes said otherwise as it slowly inched and slithered toward him.

  Andy and his buddies fled in terror back through the first tunnel, followed by Kyle, Carl, Bernie, Elmer, and Joe.

  The dragon pulled itself closer to Bly, its chin only inches from the ground.

  Bly aimed the shotgun directly at the dragon’s face and fired. A myriad of sparks and flashes exploded from the dragon’s face, but it didn’t flinch this time, and it didn’t turn away.

  The head rose from the ground; the dragon gasped a short breath.

  Bly’s hands were shaking as he chambered another round. “Get back . . . get BACK!” He aimed the gun and fired.

  The dragon’s face lit up like a fireworks display, but it kept crawling, clawing, slithering toward him. It opened its mouth and exhaled a blast of air, but there was no flame.

  Bly prepared to fire again, chambering a round, aiming the shotgun. He waited this time, feeling some confidence. He could see the dragon was fading.