by Rick Hautala
“Settle down...go back to sleep,” he mumbled, his voice muffled by the cushions, and then almost instantly he lost consciousness.
CHAPTER TEN
“Attack Plans”
1
“So...?”
“So what?”
“So what ‘d’yah think we outta do about it?” Watson’s teeth looked yellow in the morning light as he bit into a blackened piece of toast smeared with grape jelly. The crunching sound he made as he worked his jaw reminded Kip of a dog chewing Gravy Train.
Kip was resting his head in his hand, his elbows on the table, trying to make his own breakfast—a bowl of corn flakes—look interesting, but it seemed as though nothing was going to help. This cereal was going to taste like cardboard no matter how much milk and sugar he put on it. At least the orange juice was good. It went a long way toward clearing out the remaining shreds of dreams that lingered from the night before.
“I dunno,” Kip finally said.
He started massaging his forehead, wishing he could block out the vague, frightening memories that still swam in the darker reaches of his mind. The blackness—the arms—the claws—the eyes!The images were all still there, but now—thankfully—they were... How could he describe it Certainly they were as vivid and strong as always, but after what had happened yesterday in the cellar hole, they somehow seemed to have lost a bit of their power and the grip they had on him.
Watson finally swallowed the mouthful of toast and took a gulp of black coffee. His first and practically only thought was that, normally by this time, he would have already had a shot of whiskey to get his motor running. He felt...different, as though his head was packed with Styrofoam. Everything in the kitchen, all the old, familiar things now seemed strangely different, as though he was looking at where he lived through a different kind of filter or lens.
“I think we outta do something,” Watson said.
“Like what?” Kip was surprised by the anger that suddenly blew out of him. When he shifted in his chair, his elbow knocked the bowl of cereal and spilled a slop of milk onto the table. “What the hell can a drunk, old Indian and a dumb twelve-year-old who’s so freaked out he’s seeing a shrink do against them?”
Watson ran his fingers through his oily, black hair. The expression of confusion on his face was unsettling, and Kip immediately regretted his outburst. After all, Watson had no doubt saved his life by not letting him stay out in the woods overnight. If this was the time for the untcigahunk to be abroad—and after what he had seen in the cellar hole doorway yesterday, he had no doubt of it—he would have been easy prey. He wouldn’t have been missed for a few days, but his body might never have been found.
Watson shrugged before taking another bite of toast and chewing thoughtfully.
“I ‘spoze you could call your dad,” he said between chews. “He must be some worried, wonderin’ where you were last night.”
The mention of his father instantly made Kip think about why he had run away in the first place, but after yesterday, he saw it differently now. He understood a little better that it wasn’t just that his father seemed to ignore him and his brother was picking on him all the time. Since his mother had been killed, of course his father had been...different, but it was only now that Kip realized his father—like him—had been grieving. He got at least a glimpse of his father’s sadness and maybe his father’s feelings of guilt that he hadn’t been able to help his wife.
His running away, Kip saw, had more to do with losing his mother than with his father’s failings. Since her death, he had been feeling as though she had deserted him.
“No,” Kip finally said, grimacing as he shook his head. “I don’t want to call him. Not yet, anyway. I want to know what you think we can do about the little brothers.”
Watson jammed the last piece of toast into his mouth, then turned in his chair and put the crumb-covered dish on the counter. Turning back around, he took a swallow of coffee and wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeve.
“The untcigahunk were here long before my people were here,” Watson said, his voice assuming a deep, commanding tone. Kip knew this must have been how his father and grandfather had related tribal history to him, with a deep, solemn voice.
“They were created before the Human Beings. The land, particularly underground, has always been their domain since the Great Spirit created Men and banished them there. With the spread of the tribes, the untcigahunk couldn’t have gone very far underground. In order to survive, they needed to come above ground. They do this every five years.”
“Why do they come up to the surface every five years?” Kip asked.
Watson shrugged. “Legends say they have to remind themselves of what they’d lost because they displeased the Great Spirit, who we call ‘Old One.’ But the untcigahunk missed the freedom of moving about on the surface of the earth. In the darkness, their hatred of Human Beings who had taken their place in Old One’s favor had grown. My grandfather said it was like toad-stools that thrive in closed, dark places. Who can really say why? They come. That’s a fact. And when they do, they bring death and destruction.”
“Why don’t more people know about them? After all these years—”
“Before the whites came, we lived with the untcigahunk. Certainly not peacefully, but they—like all of the Old One’s creations—have a right to exist. As the whites took over the land, the untcigahunk lost great numbers. Those that live here on the edge of the White Mountains feel the pressure the most ‘cause this is the most settled part of the country.”
“There can’t be very many of them, though,” Kip said. “Wouldn’t there’d be more reports of people seeing them?”
“I told yah, though, that there’s reports of things they’ve done! I ain’t saying everybody who gets lost in the woods and every cow that gets mutilated is their fault, but if you know what signs to look for, you can always tell when the untcigahunk have been around.”
“And that’s how you knew they killed my mother?” Kip surprised himself by actually not choking on the word mother.
Watson nodded. “I figured it was them even before I went out there. But after the cops had left the cellar hole, I took a good look around. I saw things the cops didn’t see, mostly ‘cause they weren’t lookin’ for what I was lookin’ for.”
“And that’s when you discovered the doorway?” Kip asked.
Watson nodded. “If I’d known ‘fore then, I would’ve warned your folks when they started buildin’ out there.”
“But you didn’t.”
Watson shook his head sadly. “No...I didn’t. ‘N once I knew, I didn’t tell your father. I should’ve, but I figured he wouldn’t believe me, anyhow. You said it yourself a minute ago. I’m nothin’ but a drunk, old Indian.” He looked at Kip as he said this, and Kip caught the tears glistening in his eyes and the slight trembling of his lower lip.
“I...I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Honest. I was just pissed off, that’s all.” He reached across the table and gently placed his hand on Watson’s shoulder. Watson reached up and covered Kip’s hand with his huge paw of a hand.
“I know you were,” he said mildly, “‘n I know you got every right to be pissed off. You loved your mom, ‘n ‘cause you were there when she died, I know you saw things nobody should ever have to see. But you still ain’t answered my question.”
Kip raised his eyebrows in silent question. “What d’you think we outta do about it?”
Kip withdrew his hand from beneath the warm mass of Watson’s hand. Slowly, he curled his fingers into a fist and brought it down hard on the tabletop. The impact made everything on the table jump. The jelly-smeared knife fell with a clatter to the floor.
“I want to go where they are and kill ‘em,” Kip said heatedly.
The low, firm steadiness of his voice made it clear to Watson that he meant it, and when he heard his own thoughts spoken out loud, the old man felt a surge of satisfaction. He had been right about this boy. He did have a warrior’s s
pirit.
“And how do you propose we go ‘bout doin’ that?” Watson asked.
The tension building inside Kip suddenly unwound, and he stood up quickly, almost knocking his chair over behind him. A helpless fear filled him. His memory crawled with images of the untcigahunk, squirming like worms, chittering like trapped rats as they crowded the doorway, trying to get at him. Now he knew they were real. Convinced of that, he wanted to strike back. For five years he had suffered because of what they had done. Now he wanted to pay them back, to make them suffer.
“You said you know where their exit points are,” Kip said evenly as his excitement blossomed into an idea. “We can arm ourselves. I’ve got a knife. You’ve got a shotgun.” He snapped his fingers. “I know. We can get cans of gasoline and burn ‘em out. We can use one of those exit points you know about and follow the tunnels to where they live. Maybe there’s some kind of main chamber or something where we can trap them and burn them and kill them all!”
“You’ve been watching too many horror movies,” Watson said, sniffing with laughter as he shook his head. But even as he seemed to be denying it, Kip saw something in the old man’s eyes that let him know he was just testing him.
“You told me the only reason you never told anyone about the little brothers was because you thought no one would ever believe you, right?”
Watson scowled and nodded.
“You don’t like them, right? I mean, you don’t like what they do to people when they’re out, do you?”
“‘Course I don’t,” Watson said, almost angrily. “But the untcigahunk are like—well, they ain’t exactly animals. According to our legends, they’re almost human. ‘N what you’re talking about is mass extermination, like what Hitler did to the Jews or the White Man did to my people.”
“They killed my mother,” Kip said, his voice low and controlled, “and I want to pay them back.”
“We’d have to get a lot of supplies together—flash-lights and weapons. I ain’t gonna be caught underground without a good, strong flashlight, ‘n a backup, too. ‘S far as gasoline goes, I got two cans in the garage we can use—a one-gallon and a five-gallon can. And I’ve got my shotgun. I ain’t so sure I want you carrying a rifle unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
“I read that story about that Greek guy named Theseus. We can do what he did and unwind a long string as we go in so we can find our way back out in a hurry if we have to.”
“I wouldn’t be opposed to carryin’ a compass, either,” Watson said. “If these caves are as extensive as I think they are, I sure as hell don’t wanna rely on just a piece of string to lead me out.”
Slapping his hands together and rubbing them vigorously, Watson stood up and walked into the living room. He returned a minute later with a shotgun, a box of shells, and a compass in a worn leather carrying case with a strap to hook it onto a belt loop. He placed the shells on the table, snapped open the gun, and sighted down the barrel. Then he fished two shells from the box and slid them into the chambers. Snapping the gun shut, he put it down on the table beside the shells.
Kip found a pencil and a piece of paper on the counter and started making a checklist. Ever since last year, when he had first begun planning to run away from home, he realized the importance of planning. He could think of nothing worse than actually going down into the tunnels where the little brothers lived and then finding out they’d forgotten something crucial.
“D’you have some rope?” he called out. “You never know when we’ll need it.”
“I got some in the garage,” Watson replied. He went outside and returned a short while later with a coil of thin, cotton rope, not too far removed from twine.
“Used to be a clothesline, so I ain’t gonna trust it,” Watson said as he put it on the table with the rest of their equipment.
“We’ve got the gun and ammo,” Kip said, “my knife and a rope. How about a canteen for water?”
Watson nodded and, bending down, opened one of the bottom cupboards. After several minutes of clattering around, he eventually came up with a dented aluminum canteen that had a tattered olive-green strap. It looked like Army issue, and Kip wondered if Watson had ever been in the service.
At the sink, Watson ran the hot water until it steamed and then filled the canteen, and rinsing it out several times. After giving it a quick sniff, he nodded and ran the water until it was cold before he filled it. He didn’t express the thought that he would have much preferred bringing along something a bit stronger to drink.
“The most important thing is a couple of good flash- lights,” Kip said. “And we should probably have extra batteries in our pockets just in case. What have you got?”
“Not much.” Watson slid open one of the kitchen drawers, but the only batteries he found had leaked long ago and were now covered by bubbly, black gunk.
Kip covered his mouth with his hand as he considered. “Okay. We gotta have new batteries. Do you want to go downtown and pick some up at the hardware store?”
Watson frowned. “I would, but I—uh, I ain’t really got any money for somethin’ like that.”
Kip grimaced and shook his head as he fished in his jeans pocket. Finally, he produced a wrinkled twenty-dollar bill he’d gotten for Christmas last year. He’d been saving it as his emergency money when he ran away. If nothing else, he figured, it’d pay for a bus ride home if he got homesick.
“Take it,” he said, a trace of sadness in his voice. He’d had such plans, such dreams, but now they were a tangled mess of blue nylon fluttering in the breeze in the woods by the Indian Caves.
Watson reluctantly took the money. As he folded the bill into the crease of his limp wallet, a wicked thought came to mind. Kip had given him more than enough for flashlights, and if he got maybe not the best flashlights in the store, there might be enough left over for him to pick up a pint at the liquor store. When he considered how crazy it was to be doing what they were about to do, he thought a private reserve of whiskey might not be such a bad idea.
“Yeah, I’ll—uh, I shouldn’t be more’n half an hour,” Watson said as he started for the door. Privately, he was warring within himself over whether or not he really would or could do something like that.
He wanted the whiskey, no mistake, but there was something else involved here, a thing called trust. Kip trusted him not to screw this up. If he ended up buying booze, it would be as bad as lying or cheating. His grand-father had taught him, long ago, never to break trust with a man you’re about to go into battle with, even though the burning in the pit of his stomach was driving him crazy.
“While I’m gone,” he said, his voice shaking, “see what else you can think of we might need.” Watson walked out the door, jangling his truck keys in his hand. His mind felt like it was on fire as he teetered between what his body and brain cried out for and what his pride insisted he must do. The struggle expressed itself on his forehead in a tangle of wrinkles. As the door closed behind him, he wondered how much of the torment he was going through had been evident to Kip. As he started up the truck and backed out of the driveway, he felt more of a mind just to say, “Fuck it,” take Kip’s twenty bucks, and drink it away.
2
Once Watson was gone, a strange feeling settled over Kip as he stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. He looked around the house a little more carefully, now that its owner was gone, surprised to realize he was not only in Old Man Watson’s house, but had actually made friends with him, sort of. Everything looked much smaller and filthier now that Watson wasn’t here. The refrigerator was stained the sickly yellow of a dead tooth, and everywhere he looked, there were years, decades of accumulated grease and dirt and dust. The shattered remains of the whiskey bottle were still on the floor by the refrigerator. The shards glittered like broken amber.
How can anyone live like this?he wondered as he scanned the kitchen in the feeble glow of sunlight that made it through the filmed-over window by the table. It was a miracle he hadn’t gotten
sick just from staying here one night.
Left to his own devices, Kip began to think what they were planning was absolutely foolish. There was no doubt the little brothers existed. He’d seen them, and they had been no hallucination or trick of the eye. They had been right in front of him, wedged against the few remaining boards that covered the sunken doorway.
But what in the name of Christ are we doing. We can’t go underground, find where the little brothers live, and kill them all.
It’s crazy! Absolutely insane!
For one thing, they had no idea how many of those creatures were down there underground. There could be hundreds or thousands of them. He and Watson might not get more than twenty feet into the tunnels before the things swarmed all over them. They’d be nothing but bloody tangles of flesh on the earthen floor before they even knew they were in danger.
But it was the memory of those things swarming over his mother, cutting her to shreds that hardened Kip’s resolve like an iron bar. His eyes were stinging with the memory as he began pacing back and forth across the kitchen floor. He clenched his hands into tight, bloodless fists and smacked them together in front of his chest as he paced and thought.
So what if the little brothers killed him and Watson?
Big deal!
Who would miss either of them?
Marty would probably throw a party, and Kip thought his dad really wouldn’t shed many tears, either. His dad hadn’t shown him much of anything since his mother died, so what would it matter to him?
What would it matter to anyone?
And nobody in town would miss Watson, either.
That sad fact was almost too painful to bear. If anyone ever found Watson was dead, most people in town would consider it a blessing. Even in the Twentieth Century, lots of people still believed that the only good Indian was a dead Indian.
“So big, fat, hairy deal,” Kip said aloud, unable to keep from laughing when he used an expression he used to think, back in the wisdom of six years old, was the funniest saying he’d ever heard.
