by Dan Dillard
“Yessir, one helluva show we got here,” Tom said.
Anthony groaned as he reached the trunk of a small oak tree. He leaned his back up against it and looked back at his opponents. They stared at him with interest, both appearing to smirk. The coyote glanced up at his master, eager to please.
“Not yet, boy,” Tom said. “What you gonna do now, son? Get up and run?” The question was followed by a belly laugh.
Anthony looked around, seeking anything that might help his situation. He propped his back against the tree and pushed up with his good leg. It surprised him when he achieved the standing position.
Tom clapped his hands together and stood up. “Good, now you’re gettin’ it,” he said. “Here.” He tossed a stick. It was about five feet long and two inches in diameter. It landed at Anthony’s feet.
“Use that, it’ll help.”
Anthony looked down at it, seeing both a crutch and a weapon. He slid back down the tree trunk to grab it. His left leg pulsed with white hot pain. Once he had a grip on the stick, he propped it up and pulled on it with one hand, the tree with the other until he was standing.
“Now, what you gonna do, son? I think I’d make me a splint for that leg, maybe find me another stick to hike out of here.”
“I’m considering putting it upside your diseased head, old man.”
“Hee hee! Fun fun, Tony. Bring it on!”
Anthony shook his head, seeing the man and coyote, but not quite believing the situation. He steadied himself on his good leg, and attempted a hop using the stick to keep the weight off of his left. It worked well enough, but the hill he had to climb was daunting, and he had no idea what to expect from the freak show that watched him, both salivating. He took another step.
Tom took a swig from his flask and frowned. “Bah, you borin’ me. Get ‘em boy!” he said.
The animal looked at his master and then sprinted. Anthony pulled the stick up in an attempt to shield himself from the blow, but Cherokee was on him too fast and it toppled him over. He held the branch up just in time to keep the gnashing teeth from grabbing his face or his throat and shoved with adrenaline-pumped strength, sending the animal backpedaling. Then he swung his weapon like a bat, luckily connecting with the creature’s head. The sound was a disturbing thump. It whimpered and lay over, not moving. Blood poured from a gash near its ear. Anthony dropped his head back for a deep breath, thankful for the small victory.
Tom approached the coyote with concern on his face. “Good shot,” he said. “Lucky.”
“Come over here and see if you’re so lucky,” Anthony struggled to say.
Tom smiled and pulled a small handgun from his pocket. He fired it once into the coyote’s head, ending its suffering. Anthony swallowed hard at the sharp noise, the lack of hesitation.
“I’m coming over there, Tony, don’t you worry.”
He walked two steps toward the man on the ground, the gun cupped in the hand that hung by his side. Anthony propped himself to a seated position and gripped the stick. He swung when Tom was in reach and hit the old man in the thigh. Tom grabbed the weapon with his free hand and jerked it free from his captive.
“You’ll have to do better than that,” Tom said. He put the gun back in his pocket and stomped his booted foot down on Anthony’s leg, driving the protruding bone back into the meat of his thigh. The light went out of the world again.
***
When Anthony woke, it was dark. The flicker of a single torch lit the area. It stuck up out of the ground and he recognized it as the walking stick he had won, then lost in that absurd battle. Tom stood a few feet away, he’d obviously been gone and come back as the flask had been replaced by a fifth of liquor, and there were some camping items lying about. He hummed a song that Anthony didn’t recognize.
Tom turned slowly to look at him. He picked up the torch and carried it with him when he approached. “Up again, I see. Sorry about the leg, but you killed my dog. I was just havin’ a little fun with you up until then.”
“Fun?” Anthony asked.
“Yep. Til you killed my dog. See now, that pissed me off.”
Anthony shifted again, a test he failed as the pain was too much for him. He had lost blood and was exhausted. “What now? You just gonna kill me?”
Tom took one more drink from his whiskey bottle and laughed. Then he poured some on Anthony’s mangled leg. Anthony screamed. He hated and he screamed. Foam flew from his mouth as she shouted.
“Just…kill me…go ahead, you sick asshole!”
Tom scratched up under his Atlanta Braves ball cap. “No, Tony. I ain’t gonna kill you. I won’t have to. Like I said, there’s things out here that is worse than me. Them things‘ll find you eventually. I just wanna be there for the show.”
Anthony howled a low, guttural noise, expressing his displeasure. He shrieked and hollered at the old man who drank booze and laughed at him as he lay there in pain. “You can just sit there and watch me die?” he asked in his shuddering voice.
“I will. Done it before, plenty of times.”
“Why?”
“Why not? Like I said. Worse things out here than me.”
“Like what?” Anthony asked.
“Well…like you for instance.”
Anthony had no answer for that. He couldn’t rationalize it.
“Help!” he screamed. “Somebody help me!”
His shouts turned to sobs, continuing into fading unintelligible grunts.
***
In the morning, the sunlight glistened off of the autumn dew. Anthony was awakened by the orange glow inside his eyelids and opened them, blinking at the daylight until his eyes adjusted. Kara wasn’t there this time.
“Mornin’ sunshine,” Tom said, and then cackled like an old woman. “Survived the night I see. Think you can make it another day? I believe I saw a black bear over the hill this morning. Smell of that blood brings ‘em.”
Anthony said nothing, but glared at the old man.
“Silent treatment?” Tom asked. “That’s fine with me.”
Anthony heard the bear before he saw it. Then, as he watched the old mad man chuckling, Tom vanished into thin air. The laugh lingered, and the woods were still there, as were Anthony’s injuries, but Tom was just gone.
END
FROM THE AUTHOR
First, let me say “Thanks for reading!” It means a lot. Really it does. My writing for novels has slowed down because I’m working on a film degree. Hopefully one day you’ll be watching my stories unfold on the screen of your choosing instead of on paper. I have nothing but love for the written word--but I also love film and music and art and special effects and, and, and, and--and why not put all of those things together?
So for many years I have dabbled in filmmaking. For many years I have talked about it. I have studied the work of others. I have viewed thousands of movies. I have sat on the sidelines. Well, as with writing a short story or a novel, the only way to do it is to quit spectating (if that’s a word) and start pointing your damn camera at stuff. Point I shall.
About me? Midwest, former US Navy, wife, two kids, pets, boring day job, disturbing love of macabre, occult, horror related things. The usual.
More of my books can be found anywhere e-books are sold. Look for:
DIG
THE JOURNEYMAN
THE WICKED
LIGHT AS A FEATHER
THE TOOTHLESS DEAD
GIVING UP THE GHOST
HOW TO EAT A HUMAN BEING
LUNACY
THE UNAUTHORIZED AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ETHAN JACOBS
WHAT TANGLED WEBS
DEMONS AND OTHER INCONVENIENCES
For more info, find Dan at the following cyberhaunts:
www.facebook.com/demonauthor
twitter.com/demonauthor
www.demonauthor.com
[email protected]
