by G. W. Thomas
I had every intention of finding food and coming right back to Cynthia. Only it didn't work out that way.
I went down the street looking for some place where I might find a stash of food. The Westies had picked the area clean. Maybe it was because it's close to the bridge? They must have brought prisoners there before us. It had all felt too familiar, too calculated to be the first time. If they had to spend a lot of time in the area, the food stores would all be gone.
So I moved father along. The Westie threat was first on my mind. The number of devil dogs and bats would be high too because of the spawning ground that was the bridge. I had only a knife so I was on the look out for everything.
Tracking in the constantly moving snow is virtually impossible. Only on that rare day when the wind stops for an hour or so. This wasn't one of those days. It was just a matter of time before I stumbled onto a hound or a Westie packing a shotgun. For a while I even felt like something was following me. Nerves probably but I stole into a building and exited on the far side just to be sure. Inside the old apartment I found evidence of the Westies. They had been everywhere. Dusty footprints, scattered tins, old clothes. How was I going to find Jack in this maze? For now it was just food and that was hard enough.
Leaving the building I went up the street but the feeling of being watched returned. I hurried but it didn't lessen. Something had my scent and was closing in! I ran blindly, searching for somewhere to hide. At last I found a doorway that looked dark and unfrequented and made a last push for it. Only after I had closed the door, holding it shut with my back, did I hear the evidence of my escape. Snuffling and licking on the outside door. A hound. A minute longer and I would have been dead.
Since I couldn't go back that way, I headed into the darkness. I wanted to light a candle but without knowing who was inside the building, if anyone, I couldn't risk it. I banged my shins a hundred times as I made my way up a short set of stairs and down a hall. The cramped corridor was filled with junk, which I navigated slowly. I stopped dead when I heard a voice. And another. I wasn't alone. I thought for a second of turning back but with the hound outside I thought my chances better here. Maybe I could get a weapon and escape?
My great plans of surprising someone while he took a dump or fell asleep quickly disappeared when I fell over a low box of beer cans. I tumbled onto the old carpet surrounded by empties. Someone had planted the box in a clever way as an alarm. Someone who stood over me with a shotgun. I didn't move.
"Get up, asshole."
I got up, hands raised.
"He's got no gun. Just a knife."
"Bring him over here," said a different baritone voice. "Then set a watch. There could be more of them." The quality of command marked it as a leader's voice.
"Move, Westie!"
I moved, stumbling over more junk. I finally came to a room with a small fire. Six men sat around the small, smokeless blaze, each aiming a gun in my direction. I sat when pushed to the dirty floor. Only the leader spoke.
"Who are you, motherfucker?"
I turned and looked at him directly for the time. I knew this man. Tall, black-skinned. It was Bengal!
"Bengal? It's me, Teacher."
"He knows you. Kill him. He'll tell the Westies we were here," said one of the six.
Bengal laughed. "Teacher. You've come up in the world."
"I'm trying to rescue Jack. The Westies have her."
The black shook his head. "That's too bad."
"Help me rescue her."
"No can-do. We're here for something else."
One of the six protested. "Don't tell this fucker nothing. Kill him."
"You can't kill him. He saved my life." Bengal laughed again, then told the group how we had met at Gino's that night.
"If you can't help me save her, at least give a gun. Give me a chance."
"I can do better than that, my friend," replied the leader handing me a twelve gage. "I think you can help us as you help yourself. Mustapha, hand me those grenades."
A big man wearing bandoleers reached behind him and pulled up a box of grenades. He took out three and handed them over to Bengal who passed them to me.
"When you get inside, you set these off somewhere interesting, cause a distraction. We'll call it even."
"You're sure this is where Jack will be?"
"Denhem will want to keep her close. She's a good doctor."
I laughed, showed him the cast under my sleeve. "Yes, she is." I then described the negotiator/leader who had captured us. I didn't tell him about the bridge or the snow-cat or Psycho or Cynthia. Not out of suspicion. I just didn't have time.
"Yes, that's Denham. Tricky, hard to handle. But with each of us helping the other, we can both get what we want." The six judges all nodded in agreement with their leader. Who was I to disagree?
We ate and slept.
I was back in my hometown. A beautiful sunny day. I walked along, smiling and waving to all the people I knew. "Hi, Mrs. Pedigrew. Nice car, Jamie." Men were out mowing their lawns. Kids rode bikes, played in sprinklers. There was Ms. Jones, sun-bathing in her little yellow bikini. I looked eagerly without embarrassment. It was just such a nice day…
But something was watching me. I turned and looked but nothing was out of the ordinary. I walked on but the feeling persisted.
A scream. I turned again. Something was coming down the street. Snow! An avalanche of snow, sweeping over the street. The white wave covered Mrs. Johnson and her walker. Gone, Billy Niedermeyer and his dog, Wiffy. And there, little Cynthia crying, "Mommy! Mommy!"
And coming out of that cold, white cloud... a face...
I was dreaming.
It was Bengal's hand shaking me. "Time to go."
We ate a quick meal then loaded up our stuff. I had my knife back plus the shotgun Bengal had given me, a box of shells and the three grenades. The other eight men were armed with even heavier weapons. Machine guns, crates of grenades. I couldn't help but realize that this was an army. And I was going to be their bird dog.
We left out the same door I had come in. I took a second to look at the back of it. Something had eaten most of the paint from the wood. I had no time to examine it, just moved on.
Bengal led the way. I felt much better now. Anything that came on us now was in for a nasty surprise. Despite that, I still had the nagging feeling we were observed. I thought to ask Bengal if he felt it too but one look at this band of ready warriors told me the answer. I was spooked. Forget it and think of the Westies.
We walked several blocks. One of the men behind me shot a bat. It careened off into a building and disappeared in the snow. We took shelter in an old bus and waited to see if we were discovered. I thought I could hear something eating the dead bat off in the snowy distance. Nobody commented. Five minutes later we were on our way again.
Another block and Bengal called us together. "Teacher, here's where you get off. Just up ahead is the front door. You're on your own from here. Give us fifteen minutes then do whatever you're planning to do." With that, Bengal and his army disappeared.
Now if Bengal thought I was going to go running into Westie Central guns blazing he had another thing coming. I had no intentions of dying in some pointless Romantic gesture. I figured the soft-soap was called for here. One man walking in like every other Westie wasn't going to be suspicious. Once inside then I'd pick my time for the grenades and the escape. We were even, right?
I moved in quickly. Somehow I just hadn't ditched that feeling that there was something out there waiting to pounce. Firelight crept through the ill-patched curtains and the sound of about two hundred people cheering found me approaching a guarded doorway. It had a big barricade across it like Gino's. A shotgun barrel greeted me.
I held up a shotgun shell. Fingers took the payment.
"Who you with?" The tone was belligerent.
"Denham," I lied. It was the only name I knew.
"Oh yah, lots of your guys here tonight." The voice had lost its arrogance and the door opened quickly. Obviously Denham's rep wasn't one the doorman wanted to fuck with.
I didn't say anything more, just walked in. Afterwards I thought about it. Why hadn't he suspected anything? How many former prisoners ever walked away from the bats under the bridge? None. It just didn't happened. What did he have to be suspicious about?
The smell of chlorine and the hot wetness of a swimming pool struck me as I moved farther in. I pretended I was looking for someone, careful to keep my face largely covered by my hood. Since it was cold enough to see your breath this wasn't out of place. I walked around the outside of the ring of people surrounding what once had been a swimming pool. Once far enough from the door, I stopped and looked into the hole. Blood and dirt obscured the water. The old electric lights didn't work but torches lit the area above the pool. A load of hot coals was wheeled up and dumped into the water. The steaming load kept the water from freezing I figured. Was someone going swimming?
The watchers didn't seem too interested in a quick dip. Some of the men took bets while a frightened teenager was shoved forward.
"Ha ha," I heard someone bark. "That's my boy. Go Chopper!" Chopper didn't seem too excited about entering the pool. A rope was tied to his waist as he tried pathetically to talk his way out.
"Don't be a pussy, son," yelled the father near me. "You'll be fine. Just remember to kick!"
I should have been looking for some clue of Jack. Were there other rooms where she might be held prisoner? Despite this, I had to watch Chopper, a lad of fourteen, be hoisted up over the pool. Was this an endurance test? Were they going to drown a stupid kid? The blood in the water didn't suggest so. And it wasn't an execution. I had seen that first-hand. Father's don't usually cheer at such gatherings either.
Up went Chopper. He did his daddy proud and wet himself. He hung there a moment longer while the last of the bets were placed. I thought I heard the father say, "Nah, I already got three shells on the boy."
Down went Chopper. He thrashed about for a second. His father yelled, "Kick, boy!" I saw several people looking at their watches. Obviously time was a factor.
The water, which was only slightly above freezing for it had lumps of ice in it, started to swirl. There was something in the water. Something big. I thought all the obvious things: shark, alligator, snake. But how could any of these live in a frozen world? I watched fascinated.
Chopper did what any red-blooded kid would do. He panicked. His father yelled, "Keep your head, boy. It's only two minutes." Chopper heard none of it. He was squealing too loudly.
"He's lost it, damn. How much longer?"
"Minute and a half. He won't make it."
The water was moving faster now. Something was coming out of the water slowly. It was round, about the size of a rugby ball. White, featureless, so at first I took it for a float. Only it wasn't. The side opened up and showed its teeth. The ball was connected to a long, whipcord of a neck to an even larger ball below. This thing eyed Chopper briefly despite the fact that I couldn't see any eyes. The blood in the water was explained.
"One minute!" yelled some official timekeeper.
"Damn that Sorgat's ugly," sighed Chopper's dad, no longer critical. "Kick!"
The head came down. Chopper squealed and sank. The head and neck followed as the thing dove. We got a brief glimpse of six flippers and tail. Then it was back up and so was Chopper. The thing had his arm in its mouth. The fourteen year old was no longer screaming. Fortunately for him, he had passed out.
"That's enough! That's enough!" the father bellowed.
"Thirty seconds."
"Enough!"
"If you call the contest, he loses."
"I don't care. Save him."
A whistle was blown and two men armed with torches on long poles came out and harassed the beast. Seeing the fire it immediately dropped Chopper. The Sorgat snarled and fled, as the boy was pulled free with the rope around his waist. The father was gone to comfort him. "Chopper! Chopper!"
Everyone else exploded in a frenzy of bet collecting. The bookies handed out shells to the winners. The losers just spit on the frozen floor or cursed. One fellow said, "It wasn't fair. They called it. He could easily have finished the contest," but nobody paid him any mind.
I started to move on but something caught my attention. Jack! The person who came to the boy to tend his torn arm was none other than Jacaranda herself. Denhem was close by like a nervous keeper. Chopper's dad bowed several times in thanks to the leader. Jack couldn't see me so far away and I meant to keep it that way for now. No point in having her give me away in a moment of surprise.
I worked my way slowly around the outside of the pool, to get closer but not in an obvious way. I studied the set-up behind the winch that hoisted Chopper into the pool. There was one door there. I had seen Denham come out of there, and I assumed Jack had too. There was no reason to assume that after her work was done they wouldn't go back in there. How many room were there in that part of the building? How many armed guards? How many people who knew my face? Still, I had three grenades and time.
Twenty minutes Jack worked on the boy. It probably would have been less if the father and others hadn't helped. Once bandaged, wrapped in blankets the boy and father left through the door. Denham and Jack followed shortly after.
With Chopper gone, the games continued. This time it was a young woman brought to the winch and tied. Unlike her predecessor, she did not fight or cower. She allowed the rope to be tied tight, even tested it. Here was a determined girl who would face the Sorgat fearlessly. Would she fare better than Chopper? The betters didn't think so. I decided to disappoint them.
Before the girl could be dropped I moved the rest of the way towards the door. I pulled the pin and threw the bomb and ran. When everybody ran too, for grenades are not unfamiliar these days, I leap for the door. When I threw open the door, I had my shotgun ready, firing at the man who pointed a revolver at my head. When he hit the floor, I was over him and racing down the hallway beyond. When the three doors in the hall opened I knew I was in trouble.
Only the grenades in my hands saved me. The pins were out. I made sure all the gun-pointing people saw this. Shoot me and we all go boom.
"I just want Jack. Send her out."
I saw Jack pop her head out from the first door.
"Teacher!"
"Damn," I heard Denhem swear.
"I thought we killed that motherfucker," some other wit said.
"Quickly, Jack. We got to go." An explosion rocked a distant wall. "You've got company, Denhem."
I heard another explosion far away. Bengal and his men had made their move. Denhem swore. "Come on. Leave the girl." The Westie leader and his flunkies fled out the back. Jack and I were nothing compared to whatever Bengal was after.
Back through the door we went. I could see the young woman on the rope swinging there quietly. Below her the Sorgat lay like a giant beach ball. Large chunks of its blubber littered the floor.
"Get me down," she yelled.
"Sorry."
I started to lead Jack out the front but she said, "No, this way." Who was I to argue, though I had one brief second of doubt when I remembered how she had betrayed me to Psycho. But here we were in the same boat. I followed.
And I was glad I did. She took me through a door, another hallway and at last a back door. Sitting there was the Snow-cat.
"You got the keys?"
"Don't need them. Get in."
Whatever the lady says. We climbed in, taking the two front seats. A second search under the dash and Jack had a pistol and second set of keys.
"How?"
"This Cat has a few secrets left in her."
The engine fired up and we were going. The vehicle flew down the street, narrowly missing a band of men. It was Bengal and his crew, minus three of them. Instead they had someone who was struggling to get away.
"Stop! We've got to help-"
"No way. We're out of here."
"But Bengal-"
"Bengal? What's he got to do with this?"
"He helped me rescue you."
"Fuck! Don't say that. And don't tell anybody that."
"Why?"
"Just shut up and let me drive."
A thought just came to me then. "Where are we going? Back to Gino's?"
"No. I have somebody you've got to meet."
"Mr. Hart? You work for him don't you?"
"Yes."
"On one condition. One stop first. A little girl named Cynthia is freezing and hungry in a hideout just up here near the bridge."
"Bullshit."
"Seriously. I think she may be one of Hart's people."
"Forget it. You'll say anything. You'll just escape."
"Here is my gun. And I promise to accompany you to this Mr. Hart. Deal?"
Jack thought about it for a second. Before she could answer something hit the Snow-Cat, sending it spinning. Jack stomped on the brakes just in time to stop us from colliding into an abandoned bus. She threw the stick into reverse but we didn't go anywhere.
Again something large and alive struck us, this time on the roof. Heavy footsteps slammed the Snow-cat's top as it made its way down to the engine. Turning its ugly face to us, we saw the largest and meanest devil dog ever. And our breath froze in our lungs when we recognized that face. Psycho!
Next Issue: Devil Dog...
| G. W. Thomas lives in central British Columbia. His work has appeared in over 150 different books and magazines including STRANGEWOOD TALES, GOTHIC.NET and WRITER'S DIGEST. His non-fiction series "The Ghost-breakers" will be running serially in BLACK OCTOBER MAGAZINE. His first collection of horror tales THE BOOK OF THE BLACK SUN will be out in July from Double Dragon Publishing. His first poetry collection PRAIRIE CEMETERY will soon be available from Kingfisher Ebooks. Read samples of his work at: http://gwauthor21.tripod.com/index.html |
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