SLEEPY HOLLOW: General of the Dead (Jason Crane Book 3)

by Gleaves, Richard

He did miss it. The cheers of the crowd, the galumph of the animal. Why not ride one last time? Give his career as mascot a proper sendoff?

  He approached the group. “Good game, guys. You seen Puleo?”

  “Holy shit,” muttered number ten. “It’s the dickless Horseman.”

  “Shut up, Santelli,” said number thirty-two. “That’s no way to talk to a lady.”

  The group chuckled.

  “Fine,” said Zef. “Screw you too. Puleo asked for help.” He turned to leave.

  “He’s up top,” said number five, cocking a thumb at the woods. “With the horse.”

  Zef picked his way through the group, through Gatorades and bloody shins and helmets without heads. The players looked up at him with distaste and hostility. Fortunately, Coach Konat showed up and drew their attention.

  “We need more hustle, guys!” Konat shouted. “This is your homecoming game! You’ll remember tonight forever. So next half we’ll need to bring something extra, you got that?”

  Zef left the pep talk behind and climbed the dark slope. A squirrel darted past, fleeing in the opposite direction as if chased by something. The sound of the crowd fell behind and dwindled. Crickets sang from the shadows, heckled by hissing cicadas. Trees closed in overhead. A few fireflies circled and winked. The air chilled and clouded, as if he’d gained altitude and climbed a mountain, not just a little hill. The obscuring fog hung on the aqueduct trail, limiting visibility, dimming the moonlight. Zef’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, and the shape of a parked horse trailer swam into focus ahead. The back doors hung open, but nothing lurked inside but a scattering of hay and horse-stink. He circled the trailer and stumbled over an equipment bag that lay in the dirt between two bicycle ruts.

  “Hello?” Zef called, his breath adding to the fog.

  Something gave a mothy snort, a sound like frightened birds fleeing the underbrush. Zef turned in that direction, pressing his eyes shut for several steps, forcing them to adjust to the darkness. A figure swam through the fog. A headless rider atop his mount—a midnight specter, made iridescent by the dim moonlight.

  “Okay, Puleo,” said Zef. “Stop with the silent treatment. I’ll ride. This once. So you don’t break your stupid neck.”

  The Horseman remained motionless. His horse shook its head and clopped backward, stirring the fog with its tail.

  “Well?” said Zef. “I’m doing you a favor here.”

  “Drop it,” the rider whispered.

  Zef reached for the reins. “What’s wrong?”

  “I said drop it.” The rider brought a gloved hand to his hip and, with a slow scrape of metal, pulled a silver sword. Zef recognized it. Dylan’s sword. From Zef’s own bedroom. And—this wasn’t Puleo’s makeshift getup. Zef recognized the cape, the collar. This was Zef’s own costume. From home.

  “Where did you get my gear, dude?”

  The rider brought the sword down until it glittered just next to Zef’s throat. “Get out of here.”

  Zef batted the sword away. “Cut it out.”

  “I’d like to cut it out. Cut out your throat. Cut out your eyes. For getting me expelled.”

  “What?”

  “Just be glad you’re off-limits, Van Brunt.” He gave a peculiar emphasis to the name.

  Zef recognized the voice now. “Eddie?” But Eddie was supposed to be dead. What was he doing here, in Zef’s costume, on Puleo’s horse? “Is that you in there, Eddie?”

  The Horseman didn’t answer.

  “What’s going on?” said Zef. “Where’s Puleo?”

  The Horseman raised a finger to his chest, as if to say, “Quiet.” Music had begun to play. The skittering Halloween theme again.

  “That’s my entrance,” said the rider.

  “Hold up. What is this?” Zef grabbed the reins and held tight, refusing to let Eddie ride off. But the sword swept the air and sliced Zef’s leg with a razor sharp edge. He cried out, let go, and fell, hands on the wound. His leg ran with hot blood.

  “Help!” Zef cried, holding the wound and backing away. He jostled the fallen equipment bag and…

  … Jimmy Puleo’s head rolled out, still in its knit cap.

  Zef let out a scream, though he knew no one would hear him, not over that driving, insane music. Figures drifted out of the fog. Fireflies plucked substance from the shadows and took grotesque forms—like the half-glimpsed things in nightmares that hide their faces from dawn. Zef shrank back from the sight of them, cringing against the muddy wheel of the horse trailer, crumpling under a blight of inexplicable sadness, trying not to look at the head the head the head the head.

  The Horseman wiped his bloody sword on his cape. “Wait’ll you see the halftime show. It’s gonna be a killer.” He kicked the horse—“Yah!”—and took off. The ghosts fluttered behind him like a cape of shredded shrouds as he thundered down the slope toward the clearing below.

  Zef pressed his hand to his leg, trying to hold his courage in.

  Joey, he thought. I’ve got to get to Joey.

  He rose, backed away from the severed head in the dirt, and half limped, half fell down the slope.

  Ahead of him, the Horseman galloped down to Coach Konat, bringing the horse to a trot just behind the man. The ghosts circled the little clearing, like sheepdogs gathering the lamb chops. The coach and the boys stood dumbfounded, with looks of “holy shit” all over their faces. They backed away from the ghosts, knocking into each other, dropping their Gatorades and their poses of toughness. They looked like helpless kids. Which they were.

  “Look out!” Zef shouted, but it was too late. The Horseman swung his sword…

  … and Coach Konat’s head fell into the grass.

  The boys screamed. The rest of the coach followed the head to the ground and lay unnaturally bent, his neck shooting spurts of blood pumped by a still-optimistic heart.

  The Horseman rounded on the terrified boys. “I’m going to give you pussies one more win,” he hissed, as the frightened horse pounded the bloody grass. “Come on. Come on. Come on. Let’s murder Ossining. Once and for all!”

  The ghost army fell on the boys. Into the boys. The players screamed and howled and writhed on the grass. Were they dying? What was—

  The screaming fell silent.

  One by one the Horsemen rose, their gloved hands limp at their sides. They collected their helmets and fell into formation, faces blank, as if…

  … possessed.

  “Bring it, Horsemen!” the rider whooped. The head of the coach leapt from the ground and into his hand. He hid it under his cloak, raised the sword, and galloped onto the field. The Halloween theme swelled. One blank-eyed player stayed behind, blocking Zef’s way so he couldn’t follow. The rest of the team fell into formation, leaping the fallen body of their coach. Twenty-plus red jerseys in a line. Number twelve and number fourteen and number twenty-eight and number seven. A trickle of bloody numbers, like… a butcher’s bill.

  Joey finished his Hershey bar, stood, and clapped along with the crowd. The mascot galloped across the field, confident and swift, and the speakers played the jittery, deliciously spooky Halloween theme. It was definitely Zef under there now. You could tell the difference—more confident, with more attitude and better… horsemanship. Joey cheered and hollered and clapped his hands over his head. The last ride of Mascot Zef, the crowd’s favorite and Joey’s fella. What had he been so worried about? Tonight was perfect. A whiff of fragrant briquette smoke rode the breeze from the concession tents.

  This is the best first date ever.

  He glanced over at Nate and Sally Blatt. They were making out, Sally’s fingers drumming Nate’s back as if she were playing “Pinball Wizard” on him. Nate held a hot dog in his hand, trying not to drop it. Relish and mustard dripped down his arm. Joey grinned, wondering if he too might get to second base at this football game.

  Behind Zef, a line of Horsemen players jogged out single-file, headed over to the Ossining team. The Zeroes were hanging out on the running track waiting
for the game to start back up. Joey was confused. Why were the Sleepy Hollow players on the field already? Wasn’t this still halftime? Was this part of the show? Joey decided they were jogging over for some good-sportsmanship moment with the visiting bohunks.

  The cheerleaders looked annoyed, since the team was upstaging them. They’d just started their big routine, on the running track in front of the stands. They soldiered on, shouting over the music, clapping and waving their silver and red pom-poms, all sharp elbows and Rockette kicks:

  “A-T-T-A-C-K! Attack! Attack!

  A-T-T-A-C-K! The Horsemen are back!

  A-T-T-A-C-K! Attack! Attack!

  A-T-T-A-C-K! The Horsemen are back!”

  They applauded themselves, dropped to the ground, and started building a three-tiered pyramid, like slaves of Pharaoh in miniskirts. Jenny Bale wasn’t part of it, probably because she was too heavy. She had her earbuds in and was doing her own thing, dancing with eyes closed, her rhinestone tiara twinkling under the lights.

  Zef lapped the field, sword raised, accepting the audience’s applause. God, he was such a ham. A real theater queen in his own way. He was drinking it up, riding tall and proud. He must have borrowed some shoulder pads, too, ’cause he looked broader and bulkier than usual. A real badass Horseman. The crowd loved him.

  Zef finished his circle and brought the handsome brown horse to a trot, stopping at the fifty-yard line. He gave a little bow and raised his sword high. The crowd cheered. He brought it down, as if cutting a ribbon, and—

  —a fight broke out?

  The Horsemen players had reached the other end of the field, where the Ossining guys were vegging, and had started—beating them. Actually beating them, with fists and feet.

  Someone to Joey’s left gasped and dropped his soda, splashing the air. The crowd stood, jeering. “BOO! BOO!” Nate and Sally broke apart and Nate bit his hot dog. Joey didn’t hear any shouts or screams from the fight, not over the crowd and the driving Halloween theme. But, yeah, an altercation had broken out between the players. Somebody had dropped a match and set all the testosterone on fire.

  “Seems we’ve got some hot blood tonight,” said the announcer.

  A dozen men sprinted onto the field, rolling up their sleeves. The rush of adults threw the cheerleaders off, and they lost control of their pyramid, squealing and falling hard. A few limped away, with scabbed knees and palms. Jenny Bale kept dancing, oblivious, her tiara still on and her earbuds in. The crowd grew more agitated. One of the Horsemen players had grabbed a helmet from the grass and was beating the face of an Ossining kid with it, brutally, as if trying to kill him.

  “OOOH!” cried the crowd—horrified, but entertained too.

  “What the hell’s going on out there?” asked Nate, standing, shielding his eyes from the glare and licking mustard off his wrist.

  “Those idiots,” said Sally, emptying her spit valve. “They’re going to get the whole team expelled.”

  The adults reached the fight and tried to break it up—grabbing jerseys, pulling the boys apart, making “what the hell?” gestures—but the Horsemen team attacked the newcomers with just as much ferocity. A couple of men fell to the ground, getting kicked.

  “This is really bad,” said Joey. Why wasn’t Zef helping? Why was he just sitting on the horse and… watching over it all?

  Page Barrett, the dark-haired cheerleader who dated Santelli, number twenty-five, saw her boyfriend get punched by an Ossining player. She threw her pom-poms down, snatched up a green ice cooler, and rushed onto the field to defend him.

  “Everybody stay in your seats,” said the announcer. “Stay. In. Your. Seats.”

  The fight was really bubbling over. Page reached the group and raised the cooler to defend Santelli, but ended up dumping ice water on her own head, and that got a laugh. The band, much amused, started blowing sour notes, loud over the Halloween music. The ref in his white and black ran around the melee, blowing his whistle and throwing a yellow penalty flag, but the fight just intensified, men and boys swarming over each other, a bustle of red and silver, like ants eating tinfoil.

  The mood changed subtly, as if it had dawned on everyone at once that this was no ordinary fight. The crowd started shouting. “Can we get some help out there?” “Stop them, somebody!” “Jesus! Jesus!”

  An Ossining player lay hurt on the grass. One of the Horsemen—number sixteen—raised a leg and brought his cleats down hard on the kid’s face.

  Nate covered his eyes. “Holy shit!”

  The crowd erupted. Mothers collected their children. A forest of cell phones popped up as the teens in the crowd hit record. The viper-faced man who’d been yelling “Murder them!” climbed over the woman in front of him and ran out onto the field. A heavyset dad in a yellow beer shirt followed.

  The fight had doubled in size now, involving at least forty men and boys. The kid who’d gotten stomped on was crawling away, his nose bloody, trying to escape one of the Horsemen who kept kicking him in the ribs. Ossining parents were fighting Sleepy Hollow parents. Someone’s mother was bitch-slapping a blond girl. An ‘O’ tried to escape, but a Horseman tackled him and sat on his back, grabbed the kid’s foot and twisted it backward, all the way around. The crowd screamed. Knots of women began climbing down the rows, clutching purses and fishing for keys. Instruments clattered and band geeks cursed each other. Martin Ng lost his footing and fell over the side rail, throwing a blizzard of sheet music into the night air. Sally’s white trombone took a tumble and fell under the risers. She dropped to her knees and started fishing for it, muttering something about her mom and money and murder.

  Out on the field, Viper-Face lay on the ground, getting the venom kicked out of him. Santelli had grabbed his own girlfriend by her hair. Page screamed hysterically and beat the horseshoe on his helmet with a hard little fist.

  Joey couldn’t watch anymore. “Let’s help!” he said, grabbing Nate’s arm.

  Nate didn’t want to leave Sally, who was bent over and showing underwear, but he and Joey bounded down the stands and ran onto the field.

  As they neared the fight, Joey got a sense of how big the battle really was. From the stands you were watching bacteria swarm in a petri dish; down here you could really see the infection. It was all red blood cells and white blood cells, duking it out. Joey realized too late that he probably had no business being in the middle of it.

  Nate grabbed Santelli’s arm, trying to pry the screaming cheerleader’s wet hair out of the player’s grip. Joey ducked under Page’s swinging fist and tried to get in between them. He got one glimpse of Santelli’s eyes inside the helmet; they were empty and dead as inkblots. Page kept swinging and boxed Joey’s ear by mistake. Joey crouched, wincing. Santelli let Page go, knocked Joey onto the grass, and lunged for Nate. Nate and Page backed away into the crowd, fending off Santelli with the empty plastic cooler. Joey rose to all fours. What had he seen in Santelli’s eyes? Was that the same thing Jason had described? Was Santelli… possessed? Like Valerie’s mother and Fireman Mike?

  Joey crawled through the fight, just trying to escape now. The cursing and shouting was loud overhead, but none of the Sleepy Hollow players were making a sound. Just punching and kicking and grinning like serial killers at a knife show. What was going on here?

  Someone crashed into Joey and fell over him. A skinny Ossining kid. Possibly a freshman playing his first season. Two red-suited players grabbed the boy’s arms and twisted, ripping muscle and tendon. “Get off him!” yelled Joey, grabbing a handful of red jersey. One of the Horseman drew a fist back and popped Joey in the jaw. Joey’s ears rang. The ground trembled a little and he warned himself to calm down or risk cursing somebody. The Horsemen spirited the freshman away, and Joey couldn’t follow. He grabbed some fallen ice from the grass and took off running, holding it to his cheek. He skirted bloody skirmishes and made a beeline for Zef, who still sat placidly atop his horse at the very center of the field.

  He tugged Zef’s cape. “Get the h
ell down from there!”

  A couple of fighting players fell on the grass, separating them. Joey winced and stumbled backward, dropping his ice. His heart rate had sped up and it was as loud in his ears as the Halloween theme now. He had to shout to hear himself over it. “Zef? What’s wrong? Talk to me!”

  Zef raised the sword and screamed.

  Joey froze. What was happening? Was Zef hurt? The voice didn’t sound like him—it was more—

  “All right!” squawked the announcer. “Everybody make an orderly exit. The police have been called. Go slow and help your neighbors!”

  Zef went on screaming, black-gloved hands balling, cape catching a cold wind and whipping crazily. Joey skirted the two fighting players, trying not to get his teeth kicked in. He got around and shook Zef’s leg. “What’s wrong?” He reached up and grabbed a tangle of the cape.

  The Horseman went still. The sword lowered and the screaming stopped.

  Then so did the Halloween music. Cut dead, as if the monster movie had been put on pause because the next part was too scary. Joey could hear the screams of the crowd now, the punches and grunts of the fighters, the moans of the wounded—islands of sound exposed by the outgoing tide of music.

  Someone else was screaming too. Screaming, “Joey! Joey!”

  Joey turned, searching for the source. The fight raged all around him. The stands were in chaos. Kids were crying. Jenny Bale’s rhinestone tiara lay in the dirt. A woman had tried to climb the low chain link fence between the stands and the field. She’d snagged her mom jeans and hung upside down, grabbing at passing legs. The referee blew his whistle, over and over and—

  “Joey! Run!”

  Zef was limping down the field, pursued by a Horseman player, holding his leg with his right hand and waving frantically with his left. But… if that was Zef…

  “Run! Run! Run!”

  Joey still held the hem of the cape bunched up in his left hand. As the horse backed away, the fabric went taut and trickled down the rider’s body, as if Joey were unveiling a statue. The severed head of Coach Konat appeared first, wide-eyed in the rider’s lap, then the rider’s torso, muscular and bare and streaked with war paint. Then the costume fell away completely, revealing a powerful neck that ended… in a stump.