Frisbee

by Eric Bergreen

SIXTEEN

  It wasn’t a monster from some nightmare place though and it didn’t have horns like I thought at first. But it was evil looking, with red bloodshot eyes and fangs and drool. The horns were actually ears perked up, taking in sound like miniature radar dishes.

  The second I started screaming, I was up and off like a gunshot.

  From over my shoulder I heard Steve yell, “Ben’s loose!” accompanied by the sound of furious clack, clack, clacks, as he loaded and pumped up his BB gun.

  Mr. Gagner’s St. Bernard, Ben, had gotten out of the front gates of his property and had found his way into the dead orange grove next door. The dog had probably come over to hunt rodents and lizards and then picked up our sent. A wail closely resembling an air horn erupted from his hairy throat.

  Jason and Cory had also vacated the Fort and were following me at a fast pace some thirty feet behind. The sound of Steve’s rifle firing accompanied by a howl of pain rose all around us, and then he too was running as fast as he could down the narrow trail.

  I was fast for an eight-year-old. It took me about five seconds to reach the dirt path that would lead back to the alley. When I got there, I slowed and turned back to see where the others were.

  Jason was halfway down with Cory on his heals. Steve was a few yards behind, loading another BB and pumping as fast as he could while we ran. Ben was just pushing his way through the broken branches and tumbleweeds and bramble that surrounded our fort.

  The chase was on.

  “Go, go, go,” Steve yelled, seeing that I had stopped on the path.

  Breaking through the bushes and dead foliage, the beast that was Ben let out an ear splitting howl that sent shivers down my spine. His massive paws made wumphing sounds on the dirt as he began his gallop toward us.

  On Steve’s command, I turned and headed for the alley. Jason and Cory passed me as we came to the low brick wall that bordered Dead Grove. I had to slow down, hop on top of the wall and jump down as they easily leapt it like two gazelles.

  Whap!

  Another shot was fired from the rifle at the crazed hound and a high-pitched shriek followed soon after. The BB had found its target once again.

  Just before leaving the dirt lot that housed the water unit and coming to the paved section that led to the gate, I checked back over my shoulder again to see if Steve had been mauled. He hadn’t, but Ben had stopped at the end of the trail where it met the path and was rubbing one if it’s paws over its nose. Maybe the last shot had taken him in the muzzle, put out an eye or something. It would serve that damn dog right.

  Steve, running toward me, his hair flapping like a tattered flag in the wind, jumped the low wall, as Jason and Cory hit the gate at the other end. Within a split second they were up and over.

  Ben started his chase again, barking rapidly from somewhere low in his throat. Saliva dripped from his droopy jowls as he too, easily cleared the small brick wall and continued on his course of child hunting.

  I was almost to the gate myself, about ready to leap up and grab onto the cross boards and use them like a ladder, when Steve said, “Watch your feet!”

  I jumped hard, and slammed into the wooden barricade and Steve, still running fast behind me, bent down, brought the gun level with the ground and pushed it under. It scooted and bounced and slid out the other side. Without stopping, he leapt and slammed all of his hundred and ten pound frame into the gate, found his footing on the top board and leapt down the other side like a trained acrobat. His impact shook the gate while I was still trying to get my foothold and the reverberation launched me back into the alley, and toward the murderous dog. I landed hard on my side, skinning my elbow and twisting my foot.

  As I looked back at the furry train barreling down on me, I thought to myself, He remembers me. I climbed his fence yesterday to get an orange and he didn’t like that. It’s payback time.

  “Help me,” I screamed as I scooted back on my butt toward the gate. “He’s going to eat me.”

  Ben was now forty feet back and charging hard.

  My shoulder blades came into contact where the two gates came together and I could feel the six-inch gap that separated them.

  Thirty feet.

  Barking and slobbering. Knowing that he had me.

  “Please, you guys. Steve, shoot him again,” I begged.

  Twenty feet.

  I could feel the ground vibrate with every paw slap. I swear I could smell him.

  Fifteen feet.

  Suddenly arms shot through the gap from underneath, grabbing my hair and shirt and belt loops. They pulled.

  I didn’t budge at first, but after a few more yanks and tugs my head was squeezed through the tight wooden opening. It felt like a vise surrounding my skull at first and I was sure my eyeballs would pop from their sockets.

  More pulling, and then my head was all the way through. But my chest was stuck. Jason yelled, “Let out your breathe!”

  I did as I was told and they pulled harder one last time with all they were worth and the alley gave birth to me back onto Cottonwood as the angry dog snapped and caught the tip of my slip-on and took a small piece of rubber back with him.

  Not quit crying but damn near tears, I got to my feet and brushed myself off. I took a step and almost fell. My ankle hurt something terrible. It wasn’t sprained, but it did feel like it might swell.

  Ben was trying to push his massive head through the narrow opening of the gate, snapping and barking and making a fuss. He had come close to taking me down, but I had escaped his clutches. I didn’t know it at the time, but we would meet him face to face again in the days to come. And the next time we wouldn’t have a fence-wood or wrought iron-to protect us.

  As I limped around, trying to work the pain out of my ankle, Steve walked up to the furry beast and brought the butt of the small rifle down on the his muzzle. Ben let out an injured yelp, and kept up his tirade of barks. A paw shot threw the bottom a few times, as if he might be able to grab one of us and pull us back through.

  After the hurt in my lower leg subsided some, I decided to get my two cents in. I wasn’t going to let this filthy mutt torment me any longer. Most children have a stubborn side to them and I had reached my boiling point. This dog was about to get it.

  I set my self up in a place kicker’s position; back three steps and over three steps. That crazy son of a bitch’s head was going to be my football and I intended to punt fifty yards.

  My left foot came forward. Then my right. Then the left, one more time, and as I raised my right leg to kick him in the chops, I heard an authoritative, “Leave ‘im alone.”

  It stopped me dead in my tracks. But as I halted I actually saw Ben squint his eyes together, bracing for the blow that never came, and the dog was spared a sore jaw.

  We looked to our right, to the Maherrin’s house, and saw the man that was renting their guesthouse standing on the front lawn, a can of Coors in his hand.

  Mark Payne.

  “What the hell’s going on,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders and a sip of his beer. He didn’t sound pissed, just curious.

  The four of us were silent for a moment, and then Steve spoke up on our part. “That damn dog just tried to kill us. We were minding our own business and he just started chasing us through Dead Grove.”

  “Dead Grove?” Mark questioned.

  “Yeah,” Steve replied, with a wave of his hand, “It’s what we call the orange groves behind the houses here. We sort of have a fort in there.”

  We immediately looked at Steve, brows furrowed. He had told of the location of the Fort. That was a no-no in our book. No one was supposed to speak of the whereabouts of any of our secret places and he had just broken a sacred rule.

  “So you guys were at your fort and that dog came out of nowhere and started chasing you. Is that right?” Mark asked.

  Ben had stopped his yapping, but he remained behind the gate, looking out at the four of us, panting. Maybe he thought that Mark was someone sent to help him.
Like he’d grab the four of us and throw us back over into the alley so he could devour us.

  Steve nodded.

  “Well, seems to me, he’s just doing what dogs were meant to do. Chase things. Although I don’t think a dog like that should be let out of its yard, it appears that you boys were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Who owns the dog?”

  “Mr. Gagner, up the street,” Cory told him. “He’s kind of an assho- I mean he’s kind of mean.”

  Mark tilted his head and looked at Cory, took another sip of his beer.

  “Hey, Cory, how’s that leg of yours doing?”

  “It’s okay. Thanks.”

  “That’s good. You guys want me to go up and have a talk with Mr. Gagner about his dog?” Mark asked us.

  We thought about it for a minute and finally Steve said, “Naw. Ben usually stays in his own yard. And anyway, like Cory said, Mr. Gagner’s kind of grumpy. It would probably just start a fight between you two.”

  “Okay,” Mark said, “it’s your world.” He downed the last of what was in the beer can, crushed its middle with his fist and burped. He threw the can on the front lawn and hopped over the three-foot wall that separated the Maherrin’s yard from the alley’s entrance and stood between us. Then he did something that was cool as all hell. At least we all thought it was.

  Looking at us, he smiled, cracked his knuckles, and like a flash, turned to the gate and kicked it. “Baawwaawwaawwa,” he yelled/barked at Ben through the gap.

  The Saint Bernard gave a scared yap and bolted back for Dead Grove, tail between his legs. And looking through the gap, we could see a puddle at about the same spot his back legs had been seconds before.

  Mark had seemed really cool to us at that moment. A man that looked to be in his late twenties and had nothing better to do than come out of his rented room to stop a group of kids from beating the crap out of a dog. Then in turn scaring the piss out of it and sending it on its way.

  “Well there you go boys. No more dog to bother you. By the way, my names Mark. I know Cory already, but who are your guys?” he asked pointing to Steve, Jason and me.

  “Steve.”

  “I’m Jason.”

  “I’m Ricky.”

  “Alright. It’s a pleasure. That’s a cool gun, Steve. I used to have a Red Rider when I was a kid.”

  “Mine’s a Daisy eight-eighty,” Steve told him.

  “Bitchin’. Can I check it out?” Mark asked.

  Bitchin’. It wasn’t the first cuss word he had used in our presence in the few minutes we had all met, but the casual way he talked to us made us like him immediately.

  “It’s nice. You mind?” he said, asking for permission to shoot it.

  Steve shook his head. “Go for it.”

  Mark loaded a BB into the chamber and pumped it five times. And then he did something else that was cool as hell. He held the gun in his right hand, barrel pointed at the sky, finger on the trigger. And then with one quick burst, he had the barrel pointed straight out to his side.

  Whap!

  The beer can on the grass jumped just an inch. He had shot it holding the gun as though it were a pistol. Like some outlaw biker with a sawed off shotgun.

  Needless to say, we were speechless. The four of us stood there, wide-eyed and slack jawed in amazement.

  “Cool.” I heard someone say, and then realized it was me.

  “Bitchin’,” Jason said a little loud and covered his mouth with a hand, knowing he shouldn’t have cussed in front of an adult.

  Cory stepped to the wall and hopped over it. When he was on the other side he trotted over to the grass, grabbed the can, looked at it and said, “No way!”

  When he brought it back to us for inspection, we all saw right away that the BB had hit dead center of the second O in Coors.

  Steve grabbed the can from Cory and turned it over in his hands. Sure enough on one side there was a neat, little hole were the ball had entered and on the other, the exit hole. It looked like some strange, tiny, metal flower had bloomed there.

  “Can you teach me to do that,” Steve asked.

  “Hey now. That was just a lucky shot. I was aiming for the can, but not for the O.” Mark looked like he was deep in thought, then said, “You know, I’ve got a lot of empty cans out in the back yard. You guys want to come back and do some target practice? The Maherrin’s won’t be back for a couple more hours.”

  “Hell yeah,” Cory responded.

  “Sure. If it’s alright,” Steve said.

  Mark looked at us, waiting for an answer.

  Jason finally said, “We can’t. It’s getting late. Mom’s going to have dinner ready soon. Maybe next time.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Mark said to us, “Whenever you guys want to come over, just go through the side yard and knock on the door to the guest house. Okay?”

  “Okay. Maybe we’ll see if we can come back over after dinner.”

  We said our good-byes and Jason and I headed back across the street to the comfort of our own house. There were no crazy dogs or serial killers there, only good food, warm beds and plenty of love.