A couple weeks later, we set out for our bridge fort, each of us armed with a grocery bag full of rocks. This time, we crossed the tracks from the ground and climbed the hill from the bottom. Half way up the steep incline, we heard the growling. My feet froze and the bag of rocks slipped from my hand. An hour’s worth of work wasted as the rocks fell out of the bag and rolled down the hill. I looked to Brandon and wasn’t surprised that the look on his face wasn’t fear, but confusion and curiosity. “What the hell?” he said, and before I could stop him, he continued racing up the hill.
I tried to follow but my feet seemed grafted to the ground. Eventually, I was able to put one foot in front of the other, and when I finally reached Brandon, he stood at the top of the hill, the bridge’s steel trestle just inches from his head. I approached him slowly, and as I got close, I saw what had startled us. Something was sleeping in our fort. It had thinning, greasy hair and a matted grey beard. The unruly facial hair sprouted from just under his sunken eyes and grew down his neck until it disappeared under his dirty flannel shirt. This man wore shoes that looked to be fifty percent duct tape and tattered slacks the color of burnt charcoal. He paired that with a ruined dinner jacket with patches on the elbow and a button pinned that read: Remember, Some Monsters are Real, on the left breast. He slept like the dead and snored like a … well, like a grizzly bear.
Mr. Bleaker, I thought and shuddered.
We grabbed our things, minus Brandon’s spare comic books, which the man had tucked under his head for a makeshift pillow, and headed down the hill.
“Damnit,” Brandon whispered, clearly unhappy about abandoning our hideout. “Now what are we gonna do?”
“I don’t care, Brand, let’s just go.” I glanced nervously over my shoulder, relieved to see the man wasn’t following.
“I mean, where are we gonna hangout, that was our place.” As we reached the train tracks, Brandon turned and looked up to the hobo and frowned. “Shit, Pete, we’re gonna need a new hideout.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I said. All I really cared about was getting as far away from the stinky man that looked like a werewolf as I could.
“You know what we need, Pete?”
I shook my head. I had no idea.
“A tree house,” he said, “I always wanted one.” He looked into the sky wistfully. “Hell yes! What do ya think, Petey? I know just the place.”
He grabbed my arm, and we said goodbye to the fort under the bridge.
10
The creek, like usual, was low and stagnant. The water sat ankle deep and we could jump across it, which we did. Brandon picked up a frog and tossed it to me. “Heads up!” he said.
I caught it without realizing what I was doing. “Geez, Brandon. You coulda killed the thing,” I said, holding up the frog so I could get a good look at him. “He’s cute. Maybe I’ll take him home with—ah shit!” I dropped the frog into the river and it jumped away. “The little shit pissed on me!” I said, holding out my hand, as if I needed to prove it.
Brandon doubled over laughing. “It’s a frog. That’s what they do. I can’t believe you cussed. I hope that was your first time. I’d love to be able to say I was there for your first time.”
I could feel myself blushing, and I tried to hide it. I reached into the water to wash the piss off my hand. “You’re a dick,” I said.
“That’s true,” he agreed, still chuckling.
We continued down the bank of the north side of the creek swatting the mosquitos as we went. Brandon stood on the tip of his toes and pointed to his right. “There’s your house, bud.”
I looked through the brush and saw it. Cliff’s old Dodge truck sat in the driveway. I frowned. “Yup,” I said and kept walking.
The creek began to veer north and the trees along the bank began to thicken. My feet stopped moving, and I looked back over my shoulder. I could see the outline of my house through the brush.
“There is a kick ass tree in these woods that would make a great place for a tree house,” Brandon said. “Let’s go, I’ll show ya.” He waved me on and began walking.
“Wait,” I said. “I don’t want to.”
“We’re like five minutes away. Let’s go.”
“Goddamnit, Brandon, I’m not going in there. Do you understand that?” Brandon turned to me, his mouth open to say something smart, and then he stopped. Probably a first for him. “I can’t, I’m sorry.”
“What’s wrong, Pete?”
“I just can’t.” I turned my back to him and began clawing my way up the bank and through a cluster of bushes. On the other side, I saw my house and for a change, that made me happy. Mom was in the backyard hanging clothes on the line. Cliff was nowhere in sight. He was probably lying on the couch watching TV.
“Hi, boys,” she said and her use of boy’s plural, assured me that Brandon was indeed following me. I waved back and Brandon hollered his own hello a few paces behind me. I sat down on the curb, my feet on the dirt road and my eyes on the woods at the other side. Brandon sat down next to me but said nothing. I imagined that was difficult.
We sat quietly for longer than young boys should and finally, I opened my mouth. “Sorry I swore at you.”
“Yeah, I’m very sensitive. Naughty words hurt my feelings.”
I looked to him and smiled despite myself. He offered a half smile in return, and then, without warning, he asked, “What happened to your dad?”
I was shocked for a moment, and even a bit upset at the question, but before I knew I was going to do it, I began talking. I told him the story of how my dad went missing. I told him what the cops thought happened and what mom thought. I told him about the hikes dad and I would take, and I told him about the bear. I told him we had escaped the monsters on that hiking trail, but my dad hadn’t escaped the mountains of Colorado and that they were looking for me too.
“Jesus Christ,” Brandon said, staring at the forest. “I’m real sorry about your dad.”
“Thanks,” I said, and I meant it.
“You know,” he said, “there ain’t any bears in Nebraska.” He looked at me without a trace of humor on his face. He wasn’t joking for a change. My friend just wanted me to know.
I smiled and nodded, but I thought of the homeless man’s button. Remember, some monsters are real.
11
That night, I slept poorly, tormented by the nightmares of my childhood. A stiff breeze chilled my body and I realized at once, that I was no longer in my bedroom. My eyes opened but I couldn’t comprehend what I saw. The night sky spread out around me and by the light of the moon, I could see nothing but treetops. To my left, I spotted the roof of our house and it was then I realized what was happening. I wasn’t flying, I was hanging and suddenly the noose around my neck tightened. Fighting against the vice-like grip, I noticed the rope wasn’t a rope at all. It was a heavy vine and the lamppost it grew from sprouted thick, leafy branches along its shaft.
There was no pain in my dream, but I clawed at my neck all the same, desperate to remove the noose and breathe. Below me, I saw Brandon walk by, kicking up dust as he went. He tossed a baseball from palm to palm without so much as a glance in my direction. He turned the corner and continued walking, eventually fading away like a puff of smoke in the wind. As I watched his image waver, and begin to fade, my panic boiled over. I tried to call out his name, but managed only a whisper. Then my friend was gone. Unable to breathe, and without the strength to continue my struggle, my arms went limp, and I dropped my head. With my eyes closed and my chin resting on my chest, I simply waited to wake up, or die, whichever came first.
I sensed something moving below me, and before I could stop myself, I opened my eyes. It was the hobo from the bridge. His thin, greasy hair sprouted up at random angles like an aging 80’s rock star, and his sunken black eyes looked up at me with rage. He raised his arm and pointed a long, dirty finger at me. It opened its mouth but no words came out. I renewed my struggle against the vine around my neck, but it seemed to have only g
otten tighter. Sobs tried and failed to bubble out of my ever-tightening throat, and in a complete panic, I began to pray, begging God to wake me from this nightmare.
I stole a glance to the ground just as the hobo darted for the lamppost that was also part tree. It leaped onto the pole and began climbing at an impossible pace, glaring at me as it advanced. I tried again to scream, and when that failed, I kicked my legs and swung my body frantically, preferring a quick and merciful fall to the earth below, over the eventual mauling from the hobo/demon. However, the vine was stubborn, and it only dug deeper into my neck the more I moved. The hobo/demon, reached the top of the pole, now only feet away. It twisted its body towards me. Inching closer. I could see the button on its jacket as it reached out one arm towards me; it’s long, bony fingers looking more like talons with each passing second. Unable to reach, it leaped for me with its arms clawing and its mouth snapping. I closed my eyes and screamed. The impact of the leaping hobo knocked the air from my lungs and its rotten egg stench engulfed me. We swung wildly for an instant and then we were falling. I closed my eyes and waited for the end.
I awoke on the floor of my room, dawn creeping into the window above my bed. Did I fall? I wasn’t sure. A tear crept down my cheek and I prayed for my daddy to come through the door to make it better.
Underneath my bed, I spotted a box with the words “Dad’s Stuff”, written in my sloppy handwriting. It was full of things dad had given me when he was alive and the things I had dug out of the garage after he died. I reached into the shadows and hauled it out, wanting to be close to something of his. Without sitting up, I reached into the box and grabbed the first thing I found. I remembered them at once, dad’s binoculars. We had often used them on our hikes (although they were missing on that last trip) and I slipped the strap around my neck and closed my eyes. They felt nice. Familiar. I remembered once, when I was very young, dad pointing out a small herd of goats that lived on a mountain. We were far below, camping alongside the river, and with the binoculars, I watched the goats walk along the side of the cliff, seeming to float in midair.
It’s a small trail cut into the rock, Dad said. Too small to see from here, kiddo. I watched in horror, certain they would fall off the side at any second. He could see my concern. They’re gonna be fine, bud. I promise … they do this every day. That’s where they live. The goats never fell, of course, and it was a great weekend. I smiled at the memory.
At some point, I fell back asleep on the floor. I awoke from a knock at my bedroom door.
“Honey, Brandon’s here to see you. You want me to send him in or do you wanna go outside to meet him?”
I tried to sit up and failed. “Send him in, please.”
An almost imperceptible sigh escaped mom’s throat. “Okay,” she said, overtly cheery, trying to mask the disappointment in her voice.
I crawled up off the floor and reached for the pair of Levi’s that hung over the side of my bed. I held them up and looked them over. Clean enough, I thought and shrugged. As I pulled them on and buttoned them up, Brandon knocked on my door. He stepped in a half second later.
“Hey, bud,” he said. I nodded. “Cool binoculars!”
I had forgotten they were still hanging from my neck. “Oh yeah, thanks.” I lifted them up over my head and laid them carefully on the bed.
Brandon scooped them up and proceeded to scan my room. “Shit, man, these are bad ass!”
“God, watch your mouth! You’re gonna get me in trouble,” I said in a hushed voice, glancing nervously towards my bedroom door.
“Shit, sorry.”
I shook my head, “Forget it.”
He stuck his head out my window and stared at the creepy neighbor’s house through the binocular’s lens. “I have an idea,” he said.
I sighed. “I’m not messing with Mr. Stounager. He’s crazy.”
“Yeah, no kidding, but it has nothing to do with him,” Brandon said, turning towards me. He dropped the binoculars and let them hang from his neck. “We’re gonna take back what’s ours and these little beauties are gonna help.” He shook the binoculars. “Do you have any walkie talkies in there?” he asked, pointing towards the box of my father’s old belongings.
“Nope.”
“Damn, that’s too bad. We’ll have to use hand signals then.”
“What the heck is this plan of yours?” I asked.
Brandon smiled. “Get your shoes on, bud and follow me ‘cause you’re about to find out.”
I told my mom we were going to the park and we slipped out the back door. “Wait,” Brandon said. I looked over my shoulder and saw him reach under the row of bushes that grew around our house. He pulled out a large paper bag with the top folded down tight.
“What’s that?”
“Let’s get to the park and I’ll show ya.”
I rolled my eyes, but we hoofed it to the park double time. When we arrived, Brandon led me to a huge oak tree in the center of the park. We used it to shield us from the young couple who were pushing their little girl on the swing.
“Come on man, what’s in the bag?”
Brandon glanced suspiciously over both shoulders before reaching into the bag. With his hand buried into the bottom, he hesitated. “This is gonna be awesome, okay, so just hear me out.”
“I’m listening,” I said.
He pulled out his hand and showed me a fistful of the largest firecrackers I had ever seen. “Holy crap, where did you get these!”
“Hey man, I can get things. That’s all you need to know,” he smirked.
I was too excited to roll my eyes. “Look at these things,” I said, grabbing one of the firecrackers and holding it up. They were red cardboard tubes, almost two inches long and more than half an inch around. They looked dangerous and awesome.
“Easy,” Brandon said, pulling my hand down. He shot a nervous glance back towards the couple and their kid. They had moved on from the swings and graduated to the curly slide.
“Are these legal?” I asked.
“Hell no, they ain’t legal. It’s an M-80. That’s damn near half a stick of dynamite!”
Brandon’s obvious embellishments aside, I was impressed. “What are we gonna do with ‘em? We could stick one in Chucky’s mailbox! His dad would shit a brick.”
Brandon shook his head and stuffed the m-80’s back in the bag. He handed me the binoculars and I placed them over my neck. “Naw man, I got it all planned out.”
“Well, spit it out then,” I said. “What’s your big idea?”
“Listen, man. I want my fort back and we’re gonna go get it.”
“What?”
“Just follow me and you’ll see.”
He led me past the Sweet Retreat and we darted across Main Street. I thought I heard Cliff’s truck coming and we hid behind the gas station as he drove by. I watched him turn north on fourth street and I knew he was going to my house. Brandon grabbed my shoulder. “Forget him, man.”
Easier said than done. “Let’s go,” I said.
Brandon nodded. “Sure. Follow me.”
We walked two more blocks through the sleepy town until we arrived at the abandoned transmission shop on First Street. It had a broken pane of glass over the door, and I could see a black bird sitting on an old cash register staring back at me. I turned to Brandon, eager to point out the bird, but he had already disappeared around the back of the shop. When I turned back to the bird, it was gone. I frowned and raced after my friend.
First Street was the last official road in town and from the back of the shop, Brandon and I stared at the only things left of Chaplin Hills: a single-lane dirt service road, the railroad tracks and the overpass. We climbed a dirt pile on the other side of the service road and Brandon grabbed the binoculars. He looked up to our old hideout. I watched him scan back and forth and then finally he stopped. He exhaled loudly, and I knew the target was there.
“All right, man, I can see that son of a bitch.”
“So we’re gonna throw firecrackers
at him?” I asked. “That’s stupid, man. These things could really mess him up.”
“We’re not gonna throw shit at him, Pete. Give me some credit.”
“Well, what the hell are we gonna do then?”
“Here, take these,” he handed me the binoculars, “you’re going to stay right here and you’re gonna keep your eyes on him for me. While you do that, I’m gonna go back and sneak up the overpass. When I’m right on top of him, I’m gonna drop a few of these babies over the side … not on top of him, just near him. Just close enough to scare the shit out of him, ya know?”
I didn’t like it. That morning’s nightmare remained a blur, but at that point, some of it was coming back to me. I didn’t want anything to do with whatever was living in our hideout. As far as I was concerned, that damn bum could keep it. But I couldn’t tell Brandon that, could I? “I don’t know, man. That sounds kinda boring.”
“But blowing up Chuck’s mailbox sounds like a goddamn laugh riot, huh?”
“We don’t have to do that, we could—” I fumbled for something to say, “go out to the lake and build some tiny rafts and blow ‘em to hell.”
Brandon looked into my eyes and grabbed my shoulder. “I’m gonna scare the sonofabitch out of my fort. I built it and it’s mine. You don’t want to help build my tree house, so this is what I’m gonna do … with or without you.”
I shrugged out of his grip. “Fine, get going then. Watch for me, and I’ll motion if he moves.”
“Bad ass, Pete,” Brandon said. “Let’s do this.” He ran off smiling, and I watched him go until he disappeared around the corner.
God, he could be a pain in the ass sometimes.
While I waited for Brandon to emerge on the overpass, I used the binoculars to look for the hobo. My eyes scanned the rocks and weeds of the hill once, and then a second time. The hobo was gone. Confused, I looked along the concrete overpass for my friend and I found him about halfway across. He spotted me and held the paper bag of fireworks over his head. He waved them about and jumped in excitement. He was clearly pumped and ready to go. I waved back half-heartedly and quickly turned my attention back towards our old fort. I crawled higher onto the dirt pile ignoring the gravel that tumbled down the front of my shirt. Shit! Where in the hell is he? He should be right there, I thought, focusing my gaze where the concrete overpass connected with the top of the hill.
The Complete Bleaker Trilogy Box-set Page 4
