by Caleb Casey
wings – departs.
Gordon: “Obnoxious sons of bitches, pardon my French.”
We continue our search for weapons. Gordon finds a pitch fork – the points look rusty and the handle seems suspect, like it might give the user a mean splinter – and holds it with his free hand. I find two axes in the corner – the double-bladed kind – but neither looks especially sharp. They’re dirty and rusty. One of the handles has grey duct tape wrapped around it just below the blade.
Boesch has a wooden baseball bat and an old set of golf clubs; he places them next to the door. He goes to a shelf near an old piano toward the back of the garage and returns with something in a canvas sheath. He smiles, pulling the blade free. It’s shiny, like it’s never been used. A machete.
“This, I like,” he says.
We gather at the door.
“Listen. You two stay near me when we get outside. Some of these screwheads are going to panic and make this look like the dumbest plan ever hatched. These things are actually pretty clumsy in a fight, from what I’ve seen, and with such easy targets running around screaming I think we’ll be fine if we stick together.”
I nod in agreement.
Gordon: “One thing. Prendergast has the keys. If she gets…”
Boesch nods, leaning on his spear. “We’ll have to watch her and not let her get carried off. I could tell her to give them to me, but I’m guessing she’d sooner let me send her to heaven than give up those keys.”
Inside, Boesch rations out the weapons (if you can call them that, a bunch of obsolete sporting goods and worn-out yard tools). He gives Prendergast the pitch fork. She thanks him; he winks at me. I try not to laugh. He’s purposely given her the devil’s weapon of choice, but the joke seems to pass her by. Boesch keeps the machete for himself and gives his pipe-lance to me. It’s not as heavy as I would have expected; it feels reassuring to have it in my hands. The metal is cold. The others are admiring their “weapons” also, sizing them up, getting used to the feel of them in their hands.
I swipe the back of my hand across my forehead; it’s hotter than ever.
I feel a hand touch my back just above the waist. Boesch. He leans close: “Remember: some of these people aren’t going to make it. Stay close, okay?”
I nod. “Right behind you.”
“And don’t drop those can openers,” he says.
I smile a little.
“Everyone ready for this?” Boesch asks the group. A few nods, a few murmurs.
He asks Mrs. Prendergast to show everyone the keys. She does, pulling them out of her pocket.
“Okay.”
She puts them back.
The man in white, the chiropractor, asks, “Which way are we going? Which church?”
“Once outside we head to our right. We cross the street at Sycamore Avenue and take the side entrance into the bell tower. Can’t miss it,” Prendergast says. “About one block total.”
“Who’s leading this mess?” Desmond asks.
Some look at Boesch, others at each other.
“Feel free to go first and get their attention,” Boesch says. “This was your plan, not mine. Be sure to remember that when things go wrong about five seconds into this.”
Prendergast holds her crucifix and utters a short prayer.
Desmond, unfortunately for him, accepts Boesch’s half-joke invitation. He peeps through the window, sees nothing, and turns the knob. He swings the door inward and starts to step out. He stops. Crouched on the welcome mat is one of the winged things. It looks up at Desmond, startled at seeing the other’s sudden appearance. I can’t see Desmond’s face; I can only assume the feeling is mutual. The thing springs up and reaches for him with clawed hands, wings flapping, a brief screech escaping its mouth. The chiropractor flails at it with his five-iron. Desmond has the baseball bat; he tries to swing it, clunking someone else in the face with it in the process. Idiot. Desmond screams in pain, clutching at his leg where the winged thing has slashed him. The bearded guy from the grocery store is holding his nose with his free hand; blood is dripping between his fingers.
The winged thing scuttles away on all fours.
“GO!” I’m not sure who shouts it – it wasn’t Boesch or me – but everyone heeds the order and charges into the night.
A lot of things happened next. Most of them bad. Boesch, Gordon, and I stayed close, right behind Prendergast. Desmond was near us, limping, leaking blood into his jeans from where the winged thing slashed his shin. I could see part of the wound through the sliced fabric. The light outside wasn’t too bad; the strange red-tinged clouds provided enough illumination for us to see. Gordon’s lamp helped.
One of the first guys through had run, going left instead of right, and he was immediately grasped and pulled behind a parked car. I could see other winged things joining the fray and his screams were quickly cut short. Some of the others had also sprinted ahead and we heard at least one of them disappear with an abbreviated cry for help. The grocery store guy, who was trying to hold his broken nose and a three-wood at the same time, somehow tripped himself with the golf club and fell on the cement sidewalk. Boesch turned to help him, machete brandished, but one of the winged things got there first.
We were past the mailbox and in front of the neighbor’s house but Prendergast wasn’t moving very fast and a block might as well have been fifty miles. I wasn’t the only one who thought so, evidently, but the chiropractor did something none of us were ready for.
“You’re too slow! Give me the keys!” He took her pitchfork and tossed it aside. He clutched Prendergast around the waist and forced his free hand into her pocket, fingers fishing for the keys. Prendergast screamed. The keys jangled. He held them up in his fist. I guess his brilliant plan was to sprint to the door, realize he didn’t know which key of the twenty possible choices was the correct one, and play a game called “Process of Elimination” for some pretty high stakes.
“Damn it!” Boesch took a step forward and, judging solely by the angry look on his face, was ready to cleave the chiropractor’s hand from his arm to get the keys back. He never got that far, though. One of the winged things, maybe seeing or sensing the commotion, attacked, swooping down from the huge elm tree in the neighbor’s yard. I pointed Boesch’s spear at it, jabbing outward with the sharp end in the thing’s general direction, and it flapped its wings, halting itself out of range. The small wind gust brought with it an unpleasant odor; the thing smelled swampy, like a wet dog. Boesch swung his machete, cleaving part of the thing’s wing, and it crumpled to the ground. It flailed a clawed hand at him, but he parried it, cutting the thing between two of its fingers. It shrieked in pain. I could see several more of the creatures, peeking from behind parked cars and bushes, one behind a garbage can near the neighbor’s garage, but they seemed hesitant to attack.
“Come on!” The chiropractor yelled from somewhere in front of us.
“He stole my keys!” Prendergast yelled, as if expecting a police car, sirens blaring, to pull up and apprehend the criminal. She picked up the pitch fork.
“Keep moving,” Boesch said.
Boesch, Gordon, and I were still close together. We pressed on. Prendergast struggled to keep up, pitchfork held tightly in both hands, terrified eyes seeing all the things from “the bad place” and a scorched hellfire sky. Desmond was near her, using the bat as a cane to alleviate pressure on his wounded leg. One of the winged things screeched, an ear-piercing cry.
We reached Sycamore Avenue without further incident. We could see the bell tower door. Black. The tower itself and the rest of the church were made of red brick. The tower had a shingled, cone-shaped roof. The idiot chiropractor, in his white shirt and pants, predictably, was fumbling through the set of keys, trying each one, failing to find the correct one. Amazing that he made it, though. We crossed the street.
Boesch grabbed the key-thief, thrusting him against the door. He held him up with his left forearm and put the machete near his neck with his right.
&nbs
p; “Keys.” He made it sound like a question instead of an order. The chiropractor held out his palm, the keys in it jangling. His hand was shaking, and he had a wild, terrified look in his eyes, like a cornered animal.
Prendergast tossed the pitch fork aside and took the keys. Gordon held his lantern up. She flipped through the key ring until she found the correct one. I looked back. I could see the winged things, crawling quietly on all fours, eyes on us. They were following, keeping a reasonable distance.
Prendergast finally did something useful and unlocked the door. We made it in.
For some reason, even though I knew we were coming to a “bell tower,” I’m surprised to be looking at such a humongous piece of metal. Between Gordon’s lantern and the red-tinged light coming through the small openings in the walls, the visibility in here isn’t too bad.
“Did you guys steal the Liberty Bell?” I ask, mumbling it, running a hand along the cool surface of the enormous hanging instrument. I tap the tip of Boesch’s spear on the bottom edge, creating a light metallic tone. There’s a long, thick rope that attaches to a lever at the top of the bell and I’m tempted to give it a firm yank. Instead, I join Boesch at the edge of the spiral staircase. He’s looking down at the door from which we entered. Near it, the chiropractor is still cowering, having refused to climb the stairs with us. He’s a pitiful sight, sitting up with his knees to
