by Brian Hodge
"Jesus! Cut it out,” he shouted, thinking Jenny was going to make another grab for his crotch. But then, as if the darkness had suddenly become solid, needle-sharp points clamped down on his legs, his arms, his shoulders and stomach, grabbing him everywhere. Pain exploded into a flash of light in his mind as razored claws sliced his skin and sank into his muscles and cut through to his vital organs. A rush of warmth filled his crotch when his bladder let go, but that was soon overwhelmed by the wash of blood that poured from the open wounds on his stomach and chest.
Al's mind was screaming and he tried to force his mouth to make a sound—any sound—but the claws reaching out of the darkness gripped his throat and, before he could scream for help, his windpipe was severed. His last sound was a bubbling whistle as his lungs collapsed.
"What the hell are you doing?" Jenny snapped when she heard the soft scrambling sounds. Her first thought was that Al was trying to be funny, but then the sounds got louder.
"Al?" she called out, a note of fear creeping into her voice. "Al?"
The soft, scuffling noises continued in the total darkness. It sounded like Al was making funny wheezing sounds as he dug in the ground with his bare hands. Feeling around blindly, Jenny finally found the missing pair of pants and realized she had been mistaken before. These were Al's. She reached into the side pocket and found the book of matches. Her fingers were shaking as she opened the book, tore off a match, and then struck it. After four attempts, the match blossomed into orange flame.
What she saw in that momentary burst of light turned her blood to ice water. Something—a whole pile of small, brown things—was piled on top of Al. His pale legs, streaked with ribbons of blood, thrust out from underneath the seething pile. Hooked claws flashed overhead and then swung viciously down. Chunks of pink flesh and splatters of blood flew into the air and slapped like wet cloth against the stone wall.
One of the things paused and, turning, glared at her, but the light apparently hurt its eyes. It turned away quickly with an angry squeal. Jenny barely noticed the sting as the match burned down to her fingers. But when the cave suddenly plunged into darkness again made all the deeper from the sudden loss of light, her frozen muscles responded to her frantic thoughts. Get the fuck out of here!
She turned, her eyes barely registering the star-studded night sky beyond the cave opening. Her muscles suddenly exploded as she propelled herself at the opening. Time turned into a sludgy blur as she moved forward, her hands outstretched reaching for freedom beyond the cave door.
From behind, there came another, louder squeal. She thought of the time her father had trapped a rat in their barn. The poor creature had been caught in a vise-like leg hold and hadn't had time to gnaw off its leg so it could drag itself away and die alone. Without flinching, her father had brought his boot down, slowly and firmly on the trapped creature. As it died, it had made a similar sound like the one she heard now coming from behind her in the darkness—
Only this time, the sound was much louder, and it came from more than one throat.
She hit the ground less than three feet from the cave entrance. The impact knocked the wind out of her, but she barely noticed any pain as she scrambled to escape. She caught the side of the entrance and started to pull herself out, but when she was halfway through and was just starting to think she might actually make it, a fiery pain suddenly ripped into the backs of her legs. With a single wailing scream, she twisted around and looked up at the stars, glimmering above her so far away.
And as the pain spread upward, as her stomach was ripped open and as her intestines uncoiled onto the ground, the stars overhead began to grow dim until they blurred and finally faded.
CHAPTER SIX
"Out of Jail"
1
Bill had taken the day off from work and was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a post-lunch cup of coffee and scanning the Portland Press Herald when Kip burst through the back door and handed him a small manila envelope. The seal had been broken, and the metal clasp was twisted off from over-use throughout the school year.
"All right. You're out of jail for another summer. How'd you do?" Bill asked, glancing at Kip before slipping the rank card out of the envelope.
Kip nodded, smiling tightly. "Up in every subject... or at least stayed the same. Shit-heels gave me a C-, though."
He didn't even notice that he had let slip with his teacher's nickname, and Bill decided to let it pass as he scanned the card. Slumping back in the chair, he took a sip of coffee and nodded his approval. "They're still not up to what you and I both know you can do," he said solemnly. "Are you sure you're giving it your best?"
Kip nodded, but his face flushed.
"You're going to have a tough time getting into a good college with grades like these, you know?" Bill handed the card back to Kip. "But, hey—you were up in history. I thought you said you weren't doing very well in that."
Kip shrugged. "I did all right on the final, I guess."
"I told you, hard work will always pay off, and it looks like you're getting there," Bill said. "The only real problem I can see is in conduct. You've had a D in that all year." His frown deepened as he stared at Kip over the rims of his glasses.
Shifting nervously from foot to foot, Kip wrinkled up one side of his mouth into a smile. He held the report card limply at his side. His loss for words was mercifully interrupted when the phone rang, and his father got up from the table to answer it. "You've done a good job. Let's just hope next year you can pull up a few more grades—especially conduct," he said before lifting the receiver.
Kip stood there for a moment longer, but then wandered off into the living room and snapped on the T.V.
"Hello, Mr. Howard," the voice on the telephone said. "This is Stan Jennings, at the high school."
Bill let out a slow sigh as he settled back into his chair. He had more than half-expected such a call all day long, so it was no surprise; he already knew what was coming.
"What can I do for you?" Bill asked, grateful at least that this call had nothing to do with Sidney Wood.
"Well, Mr. Howard, it's about your son Martin," Jennings said. His voice was flat and emotionless. "I've spoken to you several times throughout the school year about Martin's—uh, lack of progress. Now that school's over for the year, we have to have a final decision on our course of action."
Bill nodded as he picked up a pen and started to doodle on the front page of the newspaper. "What do you recommend?"
"As I mentioned when we met a week or so ago, we really don't have much of a choice. Martin's grades—and attitude—have not improved in spite of all of our efforts. He has finished the year with no grade higher than a C-. Would you like me to read his final grades to you?"
"That won't be necessary," Bill said. "I'll see them when he gets home."
"Well, as we agreed the last time we spoke, either Martin must repeat his junior year, or else he will have to take summer classes to make up the work. As I told you, I think the social stigma of staying back a grade at this point might be too much, so if Martin wishes to graduate with his class next year, he will have to engage in summer study."
"Absolutely. I agree," Bill said, "I've already spoken to him about this." He glanced over his shoulder at the living room door when, from the corner of his eye, he detected movement. When he looked, though, no one was there. From the living room, he could hear the meaningless squawk of the T.V.
"I would suggest," Jennings said, "that you confer with Martin again tonight. Registration for the summer session ends Monday. If he elects not to enroll... well, I'm sure you can make him see the seriousness of the alternative."
"I'm sure I can," Bill said grimly. He couldn't shake the sensation that someone was standing behind him, watching him and listening. He turned in his chair to glance out the kitchen window but saw nothing outside, either. "Thank you for calling, Mr. Jennings. I can guarantee that Marty will be there for summer sessions."
"Thank you," Jennings said, and
then the line went dead, leaving Bill with a droning buzz in his receiver. Bill got up and replaced the phone, all the while darting his eyes from window to door, unable to shake the feeling of being watched. He grabbed the newspaper from the table and, folding it under his arm, went into the living room to finish reading it.
Kip was sitting on the floor, his eyes glued to the T.V. On the screen was scene after scene of poorly drawn animated characters, fighting each other with swords and pikes. Bill almost said something about Kip being a little too old for cartoons but then thought better of it.
"Who was that?" Kip asked, not taking his eyes away from the T.V.
"The high school," Bill replied, as if that was answer enough. He dropped into his recliner and opened the paper to the sports page. The Red Sox were doing pretty well, but this early in the season, Bill didn't want to get his hopes up. Hell, sometimes September was too early to get your hopes up.
"I got some stuff to do upstairs," Kip said.
Bill glanced at the T.V. and saw the credits flashing by. He shook his head, confused. It had looked as though the action had just been starting.
Kip got up, snapped off the T.V., and started for the stairs. He watched his father for some slight acknowledgement, but when nothing came, he bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time. In the back of his mind, he wondered if it would be safe to snatch Marty's knife now, but still, he thought it best not to chance getting caught. As soon as the knife was gone, Marty would blame him, rightly or wrongly. No, he'd wait until just before he left to take it.
2
"Hey, Tonto."
The voice was low and gruff, slicing into John Watson's sleep like a dull razor. After—how long? It could have been hours, days, maybe weeks, he'd been lying here in the jail cell, alternately sweating and shivering as his body burned up the last traces of alcohol remaining in his system and began making demands for more.
"Yo. Rise and shine, Chief." This was followed by a heavy clanking sound as something—a nightstick or broom handle—was dragged back and forth across the bars of the cell. Watson was reminded of a little boy, clacking a stick on a picket fence as he ran by.
When he opened his eyes, an institutional green wall shimmered into view. It took him some time to realize it was no more than six inches from his face. His heavy breathing rebounded off the wall and washed over him, reeking of the sourness that boiled in his stomach. He smacked his lips a few times, trying to get rid of the thick mucus and rotten taste.
"Uhh," he managed to say, but when he tried to turn his head, burning pain lanced from his shoulder to the core of his skull.
"What's that you say, Chief? Did you say 'ugh'?' the voice said, taunting.
Gritting his teeth, Watson rolled from his side onto his back. When he tried to take a deep breath, his chest felt as though it was strapped with iron bands. A watery rattle sounded deep in his throat. The fluorescent light overhead turned into a glowing, swimming mist. When he blinked, his eyes felt as though the insides of his eyelids were lined with sandpaper. The well in the pillow where he rested his head was saturated with sweat, and thin trickles ran down the sides of his face like tears.
"Uhh…wha—"
"You're in jail, Cochise. The pokey. The county's been giving you free room and board. Didn't see any need to feed a half-dead Indian."
"Wha'm I—? What am I doin' here?" Watson asked even though the words seemed to rip a few layers of skin from his throat. When he rolled halfway onto his other side, feebly propping himself up on his elbows, he finally made out that it was Roy Holden standing outside the cell.
"What are you doing here?" Holden mimicked. An expression of equally mixed disgust and amusement came over his face. "I'll tell you what you're doing here. You've been arrested for, among other things, public drunkenness, disturbing the peace, and hunting out of season." He counted off each charge on a finger as he enumerated them.
"Uhh...," Watson said with a groan. His arms gave way, and he collapsed onto the mattress. He remembered long ago that Chief Parkman had told him something about that, but the memory had the hazy overcast of a dream.
His pillowcase was stained with several large yellow splotches, and every time he moved his head, the smell of stale urine stung in his nostrils.
"Now if I had my way, Tonto?" Holden said. "I'd keep this damned door locked, and throw away the key. You're about as useless a sack of shit as I ever laid eyes on." The disgust wiped away most of the amusement on his face as he said this.
"Ho'long... how long've I... been here?" Watson said thickly. He wanted to try sitting up again but knew what would happen. Just now, he didn't care to feel as though a jackhammer was pounding the back of his skull.
Holden glanced over his shoulder at the calendar by the desk. A woman wearing a skimpy, tight-fitting red dress was straddling an oversized spark plug. The words "Never misfires" were coming from her mouth in a cartoon balloon.
"You've been here almost two days, now," Holden said. "Sleeping pretty much all of the time if you can call the tossin' and turnin' and mumblin' you've been doing 'sleeping.'"
Watson brought both hands up over his eyes, but even the darkness inside his head hurt, and he was—finally—beginning to realize just how serious his situation was.
"Am I... under arrest?" he asked.
Holden snorted and almost spat. "The only reason we haven't nailed your ass but good is 'cause you're pretty much dangerous only to yourself. But two nights ago you were found wandering down by the old tanning mill. You were carrying a rifle, only partially loaded... which is more than we can say for you." He laughed at his own joke and then a little more when he realized Watson didn't get it.
"Did I... I didn't hurt anyone... did I?" Watson asked as he vigorously rubbed his face, muffling his voice behind his hands.
"You took out a couple of windows in someone's house," Holden said. "Luckily, no one was hurt."
"Then, if I... I'm not arrested," Watson said, "am I gonna be able to go home?"
"Well, now, that all depends," Holden said. "We'll have to wait 'n see what Chief Parkman says now that you're conscious. 'Course, I suspect there's gonna be at least a fine, but it all depends if the person whose house you shot up presses charges."
Watson was silent for several seconds as he considered the situation. If he was right—and he had no reason to think otherwise—it was time for the untcigahunk to return. He might not be so bad off being in jail after all. He could never tell anyone about what he knew was going to happen soon. No one would believe him. Then again, it might be best to be home. At least there he felt he'd be safer; he'd at least have his rifle... and his bottle.
Lord, he could use a drink. He was well past the wanting and now clearly in the needing a drink stage. He'd been there many times before, so he knew how it felt. The deep bone aches, the coiled-spring tension in his groin, the burning need clawing through his brain like a panther. His lips were dry and cracked as he darted his tongue around in a vain attempt to moisten them. Every cell of his body felt wrung out. His muscles had almost no tone to them. They were like limp elastic beneath his flaccid skin. Soon, he was afraid the trembling would start again.
"Could I... have a glass of... water?" he asked at last. His throat felt like it was packed with sand, and he imagined the water turning to mud as he swallowed it.
"Sure thing," Holden replied, pushing himself away from the cell and sauntering over to the water cooler in the outer office. He snapped a conical paper cup from the dispenser, held it under the nozzle, and pressed the release button. A large bubble gurgled up to the surface of the water tank, making a deep well sound as the cup filled.
"Here yah go," Holden said. He reached into the cell as far as he could, confident that Watson barely had the strength to sit up, much less cause any trouble.
Watson groaned deeply as he forced himself up on the bed. He was dripping with sweat, and any motion made the pain multiply tenfold. Suddenly, it felt as though a heavy forge hammer came slamming
down on the back of his neck as bright, spinning tracers shot across his vision, making the whole jail cell look like it was alive with fireflies.
"Can you... can you hand it to me?" he asked. His hand was shaking as though his body was wracked by epilepsy, and he thought that, even if he did manage to get the cup, his hand was shaking so badly all the water would spill out before he could have a swallow.
Holden, though, saved him the trouble of spilling it. Just as Watson's palsied fingers were about to close over the paper cup, Holden let go of it. Water fantailed out as the cup fell and hit the floor with a dull squish.
"Awww..." Watson groaned as he collapsed back onto the mattress. He was sure his neck had snapped in half because fiery pain was running up and down his spine like an electric current.
"Ain't that too bad?" Holden said. His face was split by a wide grin. "Maybe you're still too drunk to handle something as complicated as a paper cup. Maybe you should just lie there and rest."
But in his pain and anxiety, Watson's desire to get out of here and get home grew stronger, bordering on panic. He knew he wasn't safe here; he was never safe when he was with the White Men. He would just as soon deal face to face with the untcigahunk than be a captive of these white "sow bellies," as his grandfather used to call them. Especially this man Holden. Sooner or later, everything whites touched was corrupted. Wasn't it the White Man's firewater that had turned him into what he was now?
"I want to leave," Watson said, mustering as much force into his voice as he could. He hoped his rising panic didn't show as he looked intently at Holden, hoping to pierce through the cop's smugness. "I have to leave."
"Well, now, Geronimo, I don't think you'll be riding off into the sunset just yet. Parkman will be by in an hour or so, and I'm sure he wants to have a word or two with you first."
