The Scavengers

by Michael Perry

  They are sickly and undernourished, and their sore-infested skin looks like a cranberry biscuit rolled in coal dust. You can’t tell if they are male or female. You can smell the stench of them and their crusty, weepy wounds.

  And now they’re moaning. A sad, long, mournful sound like someone trying to howl with a hand clapped over their mouth. Once the moaning starts, you know trouble is not far to come. Now all the GreyDevils within earshot know there is treasure on the road.

  Toad takes his helmet from its hook and puts it on his head.

  “Snooky holer-tables!” he says.

  And then he flips his visor down.

  20

  ONE OF THE GREYDEVILS STUMBLES IN AND REACHES OVER THE side of the buckboard. With all my strength, I bring my ToothClub down and the GreyDevil stumbles backward into the weeds, clutching one arm to its chest. Then a hand grabs me by the ankle, tugging at my boot. I whirl and face another GreyDevil, so close I can see its runny eyes and feel its humid breath, sour as pickled earthworms. I swing my ToothClub again. It connects with a solid thunk, and the fingers gripping my ankle release. I know what would have happened to me if the Devil had dragged me down, and I don’t feel bad for a second. Don’t have time to feel bad.

  And then, in a single eerie moment, all the howling and moaning blends into a single sound, and the mob stops swirling and comes at us in a single dirty wave. If we were in one of Toad’s cowboy books, this would be the part where Toad snaps the reins and hollers “Heeyah!” and the horses bolt, sending our stagecoach careening wildly out of danger. Unfortunately, Frank and Spank have only one gear, and it is low. You can “Heeyah!” all you want, but two miles an hour is still two miles an hour. Instead, Toad puts his helmet on, drops the visor, and hollers, “Scale the raven cradle!” Even in this dangerous moment, I grin behind my mask as I climb into the crow’s nest. The idea that Toad can still play word games even while crunching GreyDevils makes me think he’s nuts and the coolest guy ever.

  With all the GreyDevils closing in, it seems like a good time to try out the flingshot. It’s already loaded, so I spin the bike pedals as fast as I can. After about ten spins the trapdoor flies open and a shower of rocks flies out in all directions. Several GreyDevils fall back, holding their heads and moaning. But I also hear a loud “SQUAAAACKK!” and look over my shoulder to see Hatchet flapping angrily at the end of his dog leash, a stray rock having knocked him off his perch.

  Oopsie, I think, smiling to myself.

  I attempt to reload the flingshot and immediately run into trouble. First of all, I have to lift the bucket of rocks over my head. That’s tough enough to do, let alone while standing in a crow’s nest that’s rocking side to side with every bump in the road. Then as I’m pouring them into the drum, we hit an extra-big bump and one of the rocks falls out of the bucket and bounces off my helmet.

  I spin the pedals and send another load of rocks flying through the air. When I bend down to lift the third bucket, I get hit in the back with a rock, and then another. And then I realize: the GreyDevils are picking up the rocks and throwing them right back at us.

  “Might notta thought the flingshot thing all the way through!” I holler to Toad, as another rock bounces off my stovepipe armor. Now in addition to rocks, they’re throwing branches and heavy chunks of wood, and whatever other flingable things they can lay their clammy hands on.

  The GreyDevils are really closing in now, but Toad hasn’t called for the Whomper-Zooka yet, so I wait until several GreyDevils are trying to reach over the sides, then pull a handle attached to a cable. The side-whackers fly outward, and a group of four GreyDevils flops over backward. I crank the reset winch as fast as I can and trigger them again, and another cluster of GreyDevils goes down.

  All around below me, I see chaos and swirling dust. Hatchet is cackle-clucking and flapping his barbed wings. Monocle is yipping and nipping, his tail spinning in a waggy blur. I can hear the thwack! and smack! of Toad snapping his whip and Toby cracking craniums with his fight-stick. But it’s funny, even with all this happening, it seems quiet here on the wagon. It’s like the eye of a hurricane. Frank and Spank with their ears flattened back but still plodding along. We’re just working. Doing what we do. It’s like we have a list of chores, and one of the things on that list is “whack GreyDevils.” And nobody is whacking more GreyDevils than Toby: on his feet now, standing wide-legged, his fight-stick whirling so fast it is invisible, but all around him GreyDevils falling away or grabbing their bloody, crushed noses, or tipping over backward knocked out cold, and all the while Toby’s expression as still and solemn as if he is studying his reflection in a fish pool.

  We’re not keeping up though. The commotion has attracted even more Devils. When I look out around me from the crow’s nest it seems we are at the center of a writhing pile of two-legged maggots.

  And then I hear the command I’ve been waiting for.

  “Ford Falcon!” hollers Toad. “Whomp at will!”

  21

  HEARING TOAD CALL ME FORD FALCON MAKES ME FEEL TEN FEET tall, that’s for sure. But if I stand around with a swollen head, I’ll end up with a swollen head.

  I pull the Whomper-Zooka from its hook, drop a saltpowder packet down the barrel, and tamp in a wad of paper. Then I click it into the swivel straps, grab the two wooden handles, swing it around to point at the thickest clot of GreyDevils, and yank the striker string.

  For a split second, nothing happens. Then I hear a faint sizzle, and . . . WHOMP!

  The stovepipe belches rock salt and a wad of flame the size of a pig, followed by a gigantic burp of black smoke. The smoke rolls out over the GreyDevils, and from within the cloud I hear ragged moans as the stinging salt goes to work. The smoke drifts clear and I can see GreyDevils all over the ground, flipping and flopping like their skin is on fire.

  There is no time to enjoy the view. I drop in another bag of saltpowder, rewrap the striker string, swivel the Whomper-Zooka to the other side of the wagon, and touch it off again.

  WHOMP!

  More yowling and howling, and more fish-flopping GreyDevils.

  At the rear of the wagon Toby’s fight-stick is a blur. A GreyDevil heaves a stone his way and while it is still in midair, Toby shifts both hands to the far end of the stick and bats the rock right back into the chest of the GreyDevil, knocking it flat. Keeping his hands in the same position, he bats another GreyDevil smack on the butt, knocking it face-first into the dirt. Toby is amazing to watch, and I pay the price for goggling at him when a big chunk of tree root comes end over end through the air and slams into my helmet, ringing it like a bell. I go cross-eyed and wind up knocked half over the railing. I am angry with myself for getting distracted. Maggie! I think. Pay attention! You need Ford Falcon focus!

  Toby’s rapidly becoming outnumbered back there. He needs some Whomper-Zooka assistance. “Clearing the rear!” I holler. “In three . . . two . . .”

  We’ve practiced this move over and over. When I holler “One!” Toby flops flat and I let fly with another blast right through where he was standing a second ago. Another ragged moan goes up, and for a moment a gap opens in the slobbery ranks, but then the GreyDevils close in again.

  It takes four more Whomper-Zooka blasts before we get the mob thinned out and we can go back to picking them off one by one. When things calm down even more, Toby puts aside his fight-stick and practices with his whip-bow. Instead of sharp arrows he’s shooting dumdum pepperheads, which are basically pepper-peas on sticks. He’s amazingly accurate. Fifty yards away a GreyDevil takes a step toward us. Toby flicks his wrist, the dumdum shaft flashes through the air, and a red pepper puff blooms at the end of the GreyDevil’s nose. As it claps its hands over its eyes and stumbles backward, Toad and I both turn toward Toby and applaud.

  Our applause is interrupted by an explosion of scratchy screeching. We swivel our heads back around. A GreyDevil is approaching Frank and Spank, head-on. Toad raises his whip, but before he can crack it, Hatchet flaps into the GreyDevil
’s face, flailing his spurs and epaulet blades like a frazzle-feathered fighter jet. The GreyDevil falls to the ground, and Hatchet dives after it, his beak spear flashing back and forth like a sewing machine needle. He’s cackle-screeching like someone took a buzz saw to the chicken coop. The GreyDevil struggles to its feet and stumbles into the ditch. It turns to look back and its face looks like someone dragged it headfirst through the briar patch.

  Hatchet tries to get back up to his perch, but he’s tuckered and his weapons are heavy. After a few fruitless flaps and cackles, Toad punches the “retrieve” button and the dog leash zips Hatchet back to roost. He clucks grumpily and sticks his chest out.

  There are no more GreyDevils in sight. As the dust and feathers settle, we take inventory. Toby has a cut to his forearm. I have a bump over my right eye. “A-OK, not DOA!” hollers Toad, hanging his helmet back on its hook and grinning like he just got off a neat ride at the Bubble City amusement park. Frank and Spank are plodding along at the same pace they’ve maintained all day. Monocle is flopped on the buckboard floor, panting happily. Hatchet is tut-tutting, fluffing and resettling his feathers just the way he does on any given day in the barnyard. Most important, all of our supplies are intact. I bandage Toby’s arm with gauze and dressings from the first aid pack. Toby doesn’t look at me. Instead, he keeps his eyes moving, scanning the road and ditches for troublesome stragglers.

  And up on his perch between Frank and Spank, Hatchet fluffs his feathers and tips his needle beak to the sky.

  “Cock-a-doodle . . . aaack-kack-kack-kack!”

  Yeah. We’re fine.

  22

  TILAPIA TOM IS WAITING FOR US AT THE CURVE ALONG BEAVERSLAP Creek. Toad and I help him and Toby unload their supplies, then we say good night and head down the road. At the gate, Monocle barks until Arlinda lets us in, and Toad drives the Scary Pruner into the barn. While I still have all my armor on, I wrestle Hatchet off his perch and out of his gear, then carry him to the coop in a headlock. I throw him inside and slam the door before he can get at me. As I walk away I can hear him clucking importantly. He’ll probably keep the hens up half the night with his bragging.

  Arlinda has put a bowl of water out on the porch, and Monocle is lapping it up. Tripod is purring and rubbing up against Monocle’s legs, letting him rest so they can get back to chasing each other.

  I help Toad unhitch Frank and Spank. We give them water and feed and brush them while they eat. Then I help Toad unload the Scary Pruner. Finally, I go over each piece of my armor, checking for broken straps or missing pieces—anything that could leave me in danger. You repair your armor before you need it, because you never know when you’ll need it. When I’ve made sure everything is in good shape, I give it a polish and oil the leather, then hang it up in my locker so it’s all ready to go.

  Arlinda invites me in for supper, and it smells wonderful, but the sun is already dropping, and I want to get back to my family and my Ford Falcon bed. “I figured,” says Arlinda, handing me a package of food wrapped in cloth. It’s heavy and warm. I tuck it in my backpack next to Ma’s tea and the other supplies and begin my climb out of Hoot Holler and up to Skullduggery Ridge.

  By the time I get home, dusk is gathering. I can see a glow through the plastic shack window, so I stick my head inside. Dookie is asleep, and Ma is at the table, reading by candlelight.

  “How did it go, dear?” asks Ma.

  “Oh, fine, nothing too much,” I say. I figure it’s not a lie if you don’t get too specific. Plus, Ma has enough to worry about.

  “I got you something to go with your poems.” I place the brown paper package beside her book.

  “Oh, Maggie,” says Ma as she picks it up and begins unwrapping it. “You shouldn’t . . .”

  “Turns out that pig was worth quite a bit,” I say.

  “Oh, Maggie!” she says. “Earl Grey!” She cracks the lid, closes her eyes, and takes a long sniff. When she opens her eyes they glisten in the candlelight.

  “Go ahead and make some, Ma.”

  She’s hugging me now. “No, just that one sniff took me to another world, dear Maggie. It’s enough. Oh, thank you.”

  I look around the shack. “Where’s Dad?”

  She lets me out of the hug and turns away.

  “I . . . I don’t know, Maggie. He went out a little while ago. For a walk, he said.”

  “At sundown?”

  “Maggie, you know he needs his time alone. It isn’t easy for him. There are things . . . he . . .”

  She pauses, and I feel awful that I’ve taken her from being happy about the tea to feeling bad about Dad.

  “It’s all right, Ma. I know. I’m used to it. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  She looks at me, trying to smile.

  “G’night, Ma.”

  “Good night, Maggie.”

  “Ma?”

  “Yes, Maggie?”

  “Tomorrow it’s Emily and a visit with the Earl.”

  Before heading down to the Falcon, I check the root cellar door. It’s locked. No light leaking out. I stand there for a moment, remembering my vow to dig up those carrots, and wondering where Dad might be. Where he goes on these walks of his. Up atop Skullduggery Ridge I can see the empty flagpole silhouetted against the last of the fading light.

  And next to it, another silhouette: Dad.

  I walk up the trail. This time I don’t try to be quiet, but Dad doesn’t seem to hear me coming anyway. He’s standing still as a statue, staring at the countryside below. I walk to within a few feet of him and look in the same direction. I can see the faint yellow square of Toad and Arlinda’s kitchen window, and dotted all round them the orange pinpoints of GreyDevil bonfires winking to life. I step up beside Dad. He has his arms wrapped tightly around himself, as if he is cold. He is so still I can’t even see him breathing, but even in the last of the fading daylight his eyes are bright. Not weird glow-in-the-dark bright, but feverishly bright. Like he’s trying to see so hard his eyes are watering.

  “Dad.”

  His head snaps around immediately, but it seems like he stares at me for a second or two before he actually sees me. Then he blinks and his arms drop, and he says, “Oh—ah—hi, Mag—Ford.”

  “You all right, Dad?”

  “Oh. Sure.” He doesn’t sound sure. “Sunset,” he says. “I like to watch the sunset. Reminds me of back when things were . . .” He trails off.

  We stand there for a moment. Then he squares up his shoulders, all businesslike. “Well! Better hit the hay!”

  We walk quietly back down the trail.

  At the door of the shack, he hugs me. “G’night, Maggie.”

  “G’night, Dad.”

  I watch him enter the hut and close the door. I listen until the bar drops, and wait until the candlelight goes out. Quietly unlocking the root cellar door, I enter, and close it behind me. After feeling my way down the stairs in the dark, I kneel down and fish the jacklight from my pack. I scratch a match and touch it to the wick, shielding the glow by leaning over it as I dig through the sand pile. The carrots look weird and wiggly in the shaky yellow pool of light. I dig and dig, sweeping the sand to the side and stacking the vegetables, being careful not to scrape or bruise them. All the while I am wondering what I will find.

  Finally all the sand and carrots are swept and stacked to the side, and there in the jacklight glow I see . . . nothing. Just that bare slate floor. I sift the whole pile of sand through my fingers to be sure I haven’t missed something.

  Still nothing.

  I even hold a handful of sand up close to the jacklight and pour it from one palm to another, just to see if I can spot anything. It’s just sand.

  Whatever Dad had hidden with the carrots, it’s not here now. I cover them back up, then snuff the jacklight and quietly sneak out of the cellar. I stare at the shack, a darker square in the dark. Maybe, I think, he just wanted a carrot.

  But that wasn’t what his eyes told me.

  Down at the Ford Falcon, I sta
nd on the hood and look at the stars. I do this nearly every clear-sky evening. Just take a moment to stand there wide-footed with my head tipped back and my hands on my hips, and gaze at the whole twinkling-sky universe.

  The stargazing helps me somehow. Makes me feel lonely sometimes, sure, but mostly it just makes me realize that no matter how big the troubles here seem, even the type of troubles that can drive the people of a great nation under bubbles, well, these troubles don’t amount to a fly speck on the moon compared to all of space and time. Somehow knowing that just takes the pressure off.

  “The stars about my head I felt,” I whisper. Emily Dickinson wrote that. Alone in her room. I wonder if she ever waited until dark and snuck out to look at the stars.

  I crawl back inside the Falcon and roll into my bedding. It feels good to stretch out beneath my own blankets. The trip to town, trading Porky Pig, the GreyDevil battle, it all seems like another day, another world. But over and over, as I try to drift off, I keep thinking about Dad. About his mysterious walks. About the root cellar. About how strange it is to know someone so well they hug you good night, but to be in the middle of that hug and suddenly realize he too is part of some other world.