Untcigahunk: The Complete Little Brothers

by Rick Hautala

  Still, all Kip could think about was that he had lost Marty’s knife. If he did survive this, his brother would kill him for taking it in the first place.

  7

  Bill’s nervousness only increased as he raced down the corridor after hearing the gunshots. He hadn’t known what to think when he found the dozens of dead creatures, but now he knew someone a human—was in trouble.

  The more he thought about it, the more unlikely it seemed that Kip was involved. Where would he have gotten a gun? Then again, Bill hadn’t checked at home to see if his gun was still in the closet where he kept it. Maybe Kip had taken it. But Bill’s gun was a .22. He could tell by the way the creatures’ faces and chests were blown away that someone had used a shotgun on them.

  He followed the unspoiled string to a point, but he found to his disappointment that whoever had been unwinding it had dropped it. There was large amounts of blood on the cave floor and wall, but it looked too dark to be human blood. At least he hoped so. There was hope because he hadn’t found a human body—Kip’s or anyone else’s.

  Not yet, anyway.

  Bill ran down the corridor, following his bobbing circle of light, but not very far along, the tunnel branched off in two direction. Without the string to guide him, he had to guess which way to go. He certainly couldn’t tell from the gunshots he’d heard. He finally chose and went down the corridor to the right. He followed the tunnel for a distance, but at last, convinced he was heading the wrong way, he turned around and started back.

  He was about a hundred feet from where the tunnels branched when he heard the heavy tread of feet and the labored sound of breathing. The cave echoed with the sounds of hurried flight, and it was getting closer. Deciding that whomever it was needed help, Bill was rushing to get back to the intersection when, up ahead, he saw a flickering orange glow.

  He pulled to a halt at the cave mouth, surprised to see Kip and—it took him a second to recognize him—that crazy Indian, John Watson running toward him.

  What the hell is Kip doing with him?he wondered, but before he could call out a greeting, he saw Kip look up, raise the shotgun he was carrying, and in a blinding instant, fire.

  The thump of the shotgun blast filled the cave and punched his ears as the edge of rock beside his head exploded with dust and shotgun pellets. The roar of the shotgun reverberated in the cavern, but the last thing Bill was aware of as he fell backward was how wicked the glow of the flare made the cave walls look...as if they were splattered...with blood.

  8

  Kip was filled with fear and pumped with the adrenaline. Convinced the little brothers were closing the distance between them, he also was afraid they would suddenly appear in front of them. It would have taken ten times the amount of gasoline they had used to kill all of the creatures down there. His only hope was that, in the confusion of pain and fear, only a few—if any—would follow them back to the surface. In their retreat, he lit several flares and dropped them behind them, hoping the light would delay pursuit.

  As they ran, their only thought was to avoid any more of these creatures. If they did meet any more, they would have to rush them so fast they would overwhelm them and get by without stopping to fight. Kip had no idea how Watson kept up with him. His own lungs were aching for fresh air, and a curious numbness was spreading through his arms and legs. His face was dripping with sweat, and the cool cave air sent chills racing through him. All he wanted to do was follow his line of string back to the entrance of the Indian Caves. From there, they would be safe...once they rolled the rock back into place...if they had time.

  Up ahead, Kip’s flashlight beam caught a sudden motion. He jerked to a stop, took quick aim, and fired before realizing it was a human face—not an untcigahunk—he had seen. The shotgun slammed back against his shoulder as Watson, who was looking behind them, ran smack into him. As he fell, Kip saw the rock wall explode from the buckshot.

  “You see ‘em? How many?” Watson asked, surprised by the sudden blast of the gun that had thrown him off balance.

  Kip got up, shook his head, and ran to the entrance where a human hand protruded from the edge, lying on the ground. The fingertips were mere inches from the burning flare he had left to mark their way.

  “There was a person there!” he shouted, and when he rounded the corner and trained his flashlight beam down at the floor, an icy fist slammed into his body. Lying on the floor with blood splattered across his forehead was his father.

  “Oh, Jesus! Oh, Jesus!” he cried out as he knelt down beside his father and slid one hand under his father’s head. Gently, he rocked his father’s limp body from side to side.

  “I killed him!” he shouted, looking frantically at Watson, who stood solemnly beside him. “I killed my father!”

  Grimacing with pain, Watson braced his wounded arm and knelt beside Kip. He stuck the torch under his useless arm and leaned close to Bill. Then he reached out and placed his fingers on the side of the fallen man’s throat

  Tears carved tracks through the grime on Kip’s face, and his shoulders shuddered with deep sobs.

  After a moment, Watson let out a low chuckle and looked at Kip. At first, Kip thought the old man had finally snapped, that the terror of what they had been through finally had broken the old man’s last grasp on sanity.

  “Open that canteen and hand it to me, boy,” Watson said. Kip slung the canteen from his shoulder, spun off the cover, and handed it to him. There wasn’t much water left.

  “The next time we do something like this,” Watson said, wincing with pain as he moved his arm, “remind me not to let you carry a gun, all right?”

  Anger and fear of what he had done filled Kip. As he stared at his father, his eyes felt like they were going to pop out of his head. He wanted to slap Watson for treating what he had done so casually.

  Watson sprinkled some water onto Bill’s face. The thin traces of blood washed away easily, but it took Kip a long time to realize that his father’s face was intact. No gaping hole! No exposed bone! No splattered brains!

  “The buckshot hit the side of the cave wall. Lucky for you I knocked your aim off when I bumped into you.” Watson lightly dabbed the superficial wounds. “If he had been an untcigahunk, we’d probably both be dead now.”

  Kip cast a nervous glance back down the tunnel. His flashlight beam split the darkness, but it showed nothing but empty stone corridor. The blazing fire and enraged squeals of the untcigahunk were far behind them, lost in the twists and turns of the Indian Caves.

  “We’re safe...for now,” Watson said, turning his attention back to Bill. After another sprinkling of water, Bill rolled his head from side to side. Low, pained moans escaped his throat.

  Kip’s tears of grief and terror now turned to tears of relief when his father’s eyelids fluttered open. For a second or two, his gaze was unfocused, but then he recognized the two faces leaning over him and smiled weakly.

  “What the hell—?” he muttered as he shifted around and tried to stand up. The effort proved too much, and he sank back down to the floor. “What the hell happened? I— Where are we?”

  Watson cast a glance at Kip, who instantly read the message in his eyes.

  “You followed us into the caves. You’ve only been out for a second or two. I—uh, I shot at you.” Kip’s voice was low and sullen. “When I came around the corner, I thought you were another untcigahunk.”

  “Untciga—what?” Bill mustered enough energy to prop himself up on his elbows. Shifting to one side, he used his shirtsleeve to wipe the blood and water from his face.

  “Untcigahunk,” Watson echoed. “The ‘little brothers.’”

  “You mean those things I saw dead back there in the corridor?”

  Both Watson and Kip nodded.

  “And you killed them? The two of you?”

  Again, both Kip and Watson nodded.

  “Well,” he said, groaning as he shifted into a sitting position, “if there are any more of them, maybe we ought to get the hell out o
f here.”

  “That’s just what we were doing,” Watson said. He grunted as he stood up. The sudden shift made him wince as pain danced like fire along his nerves. For the first time, Bill noticed the old man’s mutilated arm. That made him forget all about the stinging nicks on his own face. He wiped his face again and, refusing help, got to his feet on his own.

  “What are you doing down here, anyway?” Kip asked as they hurried toward the cave opening.

  Bill focused his flashlight on his son’s face, surprised by what he saw. Even in this poor light, he looked somehow different...older.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” Bill said as he clapped his son on the back. He was so relieved to see him alive he knew it’d take weeks, maybe years for him to fully register it.

  “The most important right thing now,” Bill said, “is we have to get John to the hospital.”

  Both Kip and Watson caught the familiar use of his first name, and they exchanged smiles as they made for the opening of the Indian Caves and the sweet, pure light of day.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Exit Point”

  1

  Marty’s orange-flavored Slushie was about half gone when he stepped out of the Big Apple into the warm afternoon sun. He had left the house early that morning, figuring he’d let Kip sleep after getting back from the hospital so late last night. He was relieved to know the little twerp was okay. Soon enough he’d pay for stealing his knife, but the longer Marty thought about it, the madder he got.

  That only left one problem in his life—Where the hell were Al and Jenny?

  Still, after a couple of days, no one had seen or heard from them.

  He figured they had run off to Boston or someplace to sell the stolen marijuana, but after hearing his father and brother tell what had happened down in the Indian Caves, he wasn’t so sure. His father was down at the police station with Parkman now, so maybe later today he’d get some answers.

  A chill deeper than any Slushie could have given him raced up his back when a hand clamped down on his shoulder from behind. Turning, he saw Woody grinning a shark’s grin at him.

  “How’s it goin’, dickweed?” Woody said.

  Marty caught a whiff of stale beer on Woody’s breath and tried not to let what he felt show on his face.

  “Hey, Wood-man,” he said. He cast a longing glance up and down Main Street, but there wasn’t anyone in sight. A lone car whisked past and turned onto Miller Street. Behind him, Marty could feel Mr. Ingalls, the manager of Big Apple, watching. The store was open twenty-four hours a day, and especially on late shifts, Mr. Ingalls had, as they say, “seen it all.” Marty knew he wouldn’t intervene unless things got very serious.

  “You must’ve heard that Al’s sister was in an accident last night,” Woody said. “Too bad. I hope she’s all right.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” Marty said. Woody’s mock concern angered him, but he knew it didn’t pay to let Woody see your real feelings.

  “Too bad,” Woody said. His hand still rested on Marty’s shoulder. The fingers tightened ever so slightly when he tried to twist away.

  Marty shrugged and sucked on his Slushie straw. The orange liquid rattled, sounding like an asthmatic trying to catch his breath.

  “That was one bitchin’ car she had, too,” Woody said, still smiling and showing the yellowed planes of his teeth. Marty had to stifle a laugh when he thought how much Woody looked like a degenerate beaver.

  Side by side, the turned and started walking down Main Street, Woody directing Marty. It didn’t surprise him that Woody thought more of the car than he did Suzie. He also couldn’t avoid a twinge of guilt he felt for having started this whole mess with Al in the first place, but it had gone too far now for him to own up to it. Whatever Woody threatened to do or did do to Suzie was beyond his control now.

  Woody abruptly let go of his shoulder and tagged right along beside Marty, walking on the outside of the sidewalk, keeping Marty between him and the buildings.

  “You know,” Woody said after they had walked a block in silence, “there was something of mine Suzie had that I kinda wanted back.”

  The Slushie felt like hot bile in Marty’s stomach compared to the chill tingling his spine. He knew what was coming, and no amount of wishing he was some place else right now, say Australia or China, was going to get him out of this.

  “You know?” Marty said, aware that his voice was trembling. “That’s between you and Suzie. I got nothing to do with it.”

  Again, Woody’s hand clamped down on his shoulder, stopping Marty in his tracks and spinning him around.

  “Listen up, asshole.” Woody’s lips were compressed tightly, nearly bloodless. “Your pal’s sister burned me of a very large stash. You know what that means?”

  Marty nodded quickly, grateful that he hadn’t tried to speak because he was positive his throat would have made nothing more than a strangled, gagging whimper.

  “I mean,” Woody continued, leaning close, his eyes narrowed, “we’re talking a major stash. A couple ‘a pounds of Colombian and well, frankly, some people I know are pretty upset about it bein’ missin’. Maybe your pecker-wood friend Al knows somethin’ about it.”

  “I—uh, I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen Al in a couple of days.” Marty couldn’t resist smiling inwardly when he considered that probably Woody’s “friends” thought he had stolen the pot from them. In the best of all possible worlds, Woody might end up taking the burn. Marty almost wished he could be around to see that, but he wouldn’t because he’d be...maybe in China or Australia.

  “I don’t know—” He stopped and cleared his throat, covering it by taking a long pull on the Slushie. “I don’t know a thing about it.”

  Woody’s grip tightened painfully as he stepped even closer to Marty, forcing him back against the shade-drawn window of Cooney’s Barber Shop.

  “I figured you didn’t know a thing about it ‘cause you don’t know shit about shit.” Woody’s face loomed close, and now Marty had no doubt his breath was stale with beer. His knees almost buckled from fear.

  “What do you want from me then?” Marty asked. The only thing keeping him from fainting was realizing Woody didn’t suspect—not yet, anyway that he had anything to do with the stolen pot.

  “You got any idea where they took the car?” Woody asked, bringing his face still closer to Marty’s.

  Marty blinked, darting his eyes back and forth, trying to see the reassuring sunlit street beyond Woody’s shadowed features.

  “What d’yah mean?”

  “I mean, I heard the car was totaled.” Woody almost hissed the words. “I mean I wanna know where they took it.”

  Marty shrugged. His hands clenched, denting the Slushie cup. “I don’t know for sure,” he said weakly. The burning pressure in his bladder was suddenly intense. “If it was—you know, totaled, they would’ve taken it to the dump, don’t’cha think?”

  “I heard it might be at Stony’s Texaco, out on Route 25.”

  Marty shrugged, forcing back the stinging in his eyes. “I dunno. If I see Al, I’ll ask him ‘n let you know, ‘kay?”

  Without a word, Woody took hold of the front of Marty’s T-shirt and scrunched it into a tight ball. “You make goddamned sure you find out where it is. Understand?”

  Marty nodded, unable to breathe.

  “You find out, ‘n you tell me by five o’clock today. Otherwise, you’re gonna end up more totaled than her fuckin’ car.”

  Woody pulled Marty’s shirt, forcing him forward until their noses just about touched. After a few seconds while he let his point sink in, he let go, giving Marty a hard shove back against the barbershop window. The plate glass window vibrated with the impact.

  “I need somethin’ cool,” he said as he snatched the limp Slushie from Marty and stuck the straw into his mouth. “You ain’t got AIDS or nothin’, do you?”

  Marty shook his head vigorously and watched as Woody turned around and strode down the Main Street. His laughter
trailed behind him.

  2

  Kip was asleep in his bedroom with the shades drawn to keep out the hammering heat of the sun. When they had reached the chamber of the Indian Caves, it had taken quite a bit of effort to roll the stone back into place to cover the exit point. Their luck held, though, and no more untcigahunk attacked them. Watson was looking pale from blood loss as they walked—as fast as they could—back to Kip’s house. Then Bill and Kip had driven him to the hospital and admitted him through the emergency room.

  The doctors had insisted that, although the wound on Watson’s arm was serious, the chances that infection would spread and possibly turn fatal were minimal. Still, Kip had insisted on waiting at the hospital through the night. In the morning, after a disturbed sleep in one of the waiting room chairs, he had been allowed to see Watson in his hospital room.

  The cuts on Bill’s face from the flying bits of stone had, as Watson had said, been superficial. Stitches weren’t necessary, and only a few of the deeper slices needed small butterfly bandages. Bill figured the best way for Kip to get over everything that had happened was to joke about it with him, but whenever he considered how close he had come to getting his face blown away, any feelings of humor evaporated.

  Watson was angry that he had to spend any time in bed in the hospital. He wondered what his grandfather would have said about his “softness.” He might even have accused him of becoming too much of a “sowbelly,” as he called whites he didn’t like.

  The other thing that concerned Watson was that he didn’t have any hospital insurance, but Bill promised he would pay all of his expenses. That hurt his pride all the more. He should be home, tending his wounds himself by applying herbal poultices he had been taught long ago.

  He started to get upset when Kip said that would be acting like a wounded animal, going back to his lair to live or die according to Nature’s way, but he let it pass was because Kip had said it. Even through his medication haze, Watson realized that he and the boy had forged a deep and lasting bond.