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

by Gleaves, Richard

  “I’ve got his arms,” said Tamper.

  Yes. Tamper wasn’t holding Jason’s right arm tight at all, leaving it free to swing. He’d spoken only to let Jason know which hands were his, so he’d know who to aim for. Thank God. The doctor hadn’t gone over to the Dark Side, at least not yet.

  “You grab his shoulders. Go on, hold him down so I can get the needle in. I want to go home.”

  The light flared painfully. Hadewych had laid his flashlight on Jason’s stomach, pointed directly into his eyes. An arm fell across Jason’s sternum, pressing him into the cot.

  Oh yeah. It was so Hadewych. Jason recognized his rank cologne, could smell the bourbon on his breath. He could see that face in his mind’s eye. The toothpaste-commercial smile, the sneer of condescension, the shifty cardsharp eyes. He braced himself to swing. This would be fun.

  “I think we’re ready,” Tamper said, counting as he tapped a vein on Jason’s arm. “One. Two. Three!” That was the signal.

  Jason brought the metal bar up fast, aiming for that smell, that cloying Van Brunt stench. He struck the black-knit head above him, the head in the ski mask—as hard as he could. The man cried out and raised a hand. Jason struck the raised arm, struck again. The flashlight rolled from Jason’s stomach and hit the floor. Shadows jerked and staggered all around them. Jason swung again and again, blindly. He fell on the man. Tamper joined him, bringing out his own weapon. Now Hadewych was the one thrashing and Jason was the one holding him down.

  Jason ripped the black ski mask off and hissed in Hadewych’s face. “Of course it was you! It’s always you!” Jason held Hadewych by the throat and squeezed. “Give him the shot! Quick!” Jason’s voice became inhuman and cold. “Shoot him full of bleach!”

  “Hold his arm,” growled Tamper. He ripped Hadewych’s sleeve up and raised the syringe, ready to plunge the needle into a vein.

  Jason squeezed harder, trying to choke Hadewych into unconsciousness. Quick! Before he sets us on fire! Do it quick!

  Hadewych struggled, trying to bring the gun around.

  “Hold him!” shouted Tamper. “Hold him hold him hold him!”

  But Jason froze.

  Hadewych’s heartbeat battered the skin of Jason’s bare palm, and he realized, too late, that he should have put on gloves. His Gift engaged with a flare of brilliant light, immobilizing him, fusing his hand to Hadewych’s pulse. He fell into a vision, unable to stop it. He read the man. He read the past of the monster who had tormented him for so long and could only watch, helplessly, as the life of Hadewych Van Brunt flashed before his eyes.

  And as Hadewych raised his pistol…

  … and shot Dr. Tamper in the chest.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Heroes and Horsemen”

  Down on Beekman Avenue, another alarm sprang to life. Lights strobed and whirled and the men of Pocantico Hook and Ladder Number One threw their poker hands on the table and raced for their trucks.

  “What is it?” said Valerie, following Mike down the hall.

  “I don’t know!”

  Dave Snellen appeared alongside them. “Something’s happened at the high school. It’s a mass shooting or something.”

  “Oh, shit,” said Mike.

  “There’s calls coming in all over. Police are on it. But there’s cars burning too. Let’s go.”

  They reached the bay, bustling with lights and firemen. Dave threw open a cab and climbed in. A moment later the engine was chugging and the doors were rolling up.

  On impulse, Valerie reached into her pocket, found her deck, and drew a tarot card at random.

  Oh my God.

  The card she’d turned was Death. A skeleton in armor, brandishing the black banner of the Mystic Rose, riding a red-eyed horse over the bodies of innocents.

  It’s the Horseman. Valerie’s blood ran cold. It has to be.

  “Wait!” she said, dropping the card to the floor. No one heard, not over the alarms and engine noise. She ran after the truck, covering her valve as she passed through the haze of blue exhaust. She caught up as the truck completed its wide turn onto Beekman Avenue. Grabbing a handgrip, she pulled herself aboard.

  “What are you doing?” Mike yelled.

  “Are you going to—push me off?”

  Mike shook his head, and they sped away, clinging to the side of the truck. The image of the Horseman hung above their heads, brandishing his sword and hurling his pumpkin at a terrified Ichabod.

  I could have played football, thought Joey, as he raced down the field dodging red-suited attackers. Santelli made a flying tackle and Joey backpedaled, jumping his body as it fell across the grass. Two more boys came running up behind but he outdistanced them. He hooked rightward as another boy tried to cut him off, turning a circle without losing speed. This isn’t so hard. He leapt gracefully over a headless corpse. Not when you’ve had a few ballet classes.

  He wished, for a second, that his dad were here to see him. Here he was, giving the whole varsity team a run for their money. In loafers, no less. He saw Zef flash the headlights of the homecoming float, but he wasn’t about to lead a bunch of Horsemen in Zef’s direction. He waved Zef off, straightened his helmet, and sprinted for the fallen fork-thingy down by the end line over at the touchdown place.

  Zef hung out the window of the flatbed screaming, “Not that way! Not that way!” Joey was running straight toward the kill zone where the Horseman was hacking at the crowd. Zef hit the gas and the flatbed lurched.

  “Z!” shouted Nate. “What are you doing?”

  “Hold on! We’ve got to draw them off!”

  The float thundered across the grass, flinging crepe paper behind it. He cut between Joey and his pursuers, hit the brakes, and shouted, “Look guys! It’s the dickless Horsemen! Ossining rules! Whoo!”

  The injured Zeroes on the flatbed joined in, fighting their own terror, summoning every ounce of bravado they still had, shouting vicious obscenities and taunting their murderous rivals as Zef drove in a circle around the Horsemen, digging up grass and throwing dirt. “Hey Santelli!” screamed Nate. “I coulda been your dad but the dog beat me up the stairs!” One of the Zeroes who could still stand mooned them and another threw his helmet.

  The taunts worked. Even possessed, these were Varsity Horsemen, and Varsity Horsemen are not mocked. Team pride isn’t an executive function. It’s down in the brain stem.

  Zef’s group chanted as they took off: “Oss-i-ning! Oss-i-ning! Oss-i-ning!”

  The Horsemen bared broken teeth and charged. Page swung the scepter of the Homecoming Queen and struck the first attacker in the head. Zef gassed the truck, headed for the second gap in the wall of vines, next to the sparking scoreboard. The brown horse ran alongside, making its own break for freedom. A few Horsemen now clung to the sides of the float, fighting with the Ossining boys. The rest of the team thundered behind, a swarm of murderous red, trampling the crepe paper flowers and ribbon that spattered and streaked the bloody grass.

  Joey stumbled into the end zone and fell to one knee, breathing hard, his heartbeat loud in his ears and neck and fingers. He pulled off his helmet and wiped sweat from his face, looking back to see if he was still being chased. The last of the Horsemen went running after the homecoming float, disappearing through a hole in the barricade.

  Cool wind kissed his flushed cheeks and he realized that… he was alone. The parking lot was full of screams and car alarms, and smoke rose from the car fires. But nothing moved on the football field of Sleepy Hollow High. He stood, a lump rising in his throat, and stared at the destruction: the risers crumpled beneath fallen trees, the gouged-up field, the shattered scoreboard, the forlorn pom-poms and fallen fork-thingy, Jenny Bale’s tiara all by itself in the dirt…

  … and the bodies.

  A dozen Ossining players were piled on the twenty-yard line. He couldn’t see any faces. The ones on top were headless, and the ones on the bottom were soaked with blood. He began to sob, the helmet dangling from his fingers. He wanted to go
home. Back to his mom and dad and Booger the turtle. That’s all he wanted. Zef, and home.

  He turned to go, but the Headless Horseman blocked his path.

  The Horseman stepped through the gap in the vines, his body bright red with blood, his hatchet in one hand and his sword in the other.

  Joey backed away, terrified beyond anything he’d ever felt before. He ran, stumbled, ran some more. He turned back to look, and the dead eyes of an Ossining player looked up at him from the side of the pile. The freshman kid. The one he’d tried to save.

  Joey pressed his lips together, anger replacing fear. He and the Horseman were alone. He wouldn’t curse anyone. He could let his Gift rip.

  As the Monster advanced, Joey turned and power-walked toward him.

  “You hurt my best friend!” he shouted defiantly, and sent a wave of dirt to blast against the Horseman’s chest.

  The hatchet flew at him, but Joey got the helmet up barely in time. The blade embedded itself, with enough force that the bones of Joey’s forearms sang with pain. He threw both helmet and hatchet aside and hit the Horseman with dirt, again and again. “That’s for Jason! That’s for Zef!” He managed to get around the Monster. “That’s for Halloween!”

  But he was getting tired. Tears were rising, and his Gift was growing weak. The Horseman summoned the hatchet and pulled it from the helmet. The helmet burst into flames and came flying at Joey’s face. A weak splash of dirt barely knocked it away. Joey managed to open quicksand beneath the Monster, sinking him to his knees, and took off running before the Horseman could throw anything else. He ran through the gap in the vines, hurtling blindly toward the school, crashing through the double doors of the band hall, crashing through darkness, knocking over kettledrums and vibraphones and a note-scribbled whiteboard. He fell into a forest of music stands and struggled to his feet.

  I’m safe. I’m safe. I’m safe.

  I’m faster than he is. And he’s on foot.

  The band hall doors flew wide and the Horseman rode in. He’d made himself a new steed—from the shattered bones and shoulder pads and blood-soaked silver jerseys of the Ossining dead.

  “Oh, shit!” Joey shouted, and ran.

  The homecoming float thundered off the field, down the steep pitch of the slope. Zef turned to avoid a burning car, almost jackknifing the flatbed, and a couple of Zeroes nearly fell off. One side rail of the float broke and tumbled away, sending up another plume of rippling crepe. They’d put distance between themselves and the pursuing Horsemen, but they had run out of grass real fast and the burning cars in the parking lot left them nowhere to go. Zef spun rightward and drove straight through the mesh batting cage next to the baseball field. The truck lurched and the wheels threw sand. They were stuck now, and weren’t going anywhere.

  Zef climbed out. “Nate! Help the boys!”

  He had to get to Joey, and maybe draw the enraged Horsemen away from the wounded Zeroes. He waved his arms and caught their attention, but immediately regretted it. Ignoring the pain in his leg, he sprinted past the parking lot, stupidly right past his cruiser, and jumped a fallen ice cooler. The dispersing crowd caught sight of the running players, screamed, and changed directions. Zef could feel his pursuers gaining. He wouldn’t make the school. Not with his limp.

  He heard the rip of a fire truck siren and caught a glimpse of red and blue police lights speeding up the hill. Thank God. He just needed a little time. He saw the open door of an Ossining short bus and dove inside, braced his back against the driver’s seat, and held the door closed with his feet. Beyond the windows, a sea of red numbers assembled—hands raised to break open the bus and kill their former mascot, hiding inside.

  He couldn’t hold them off. The door of the bus broke open and the Horsemen flooded in, bloody white gloves balled into fists, faces blank, reaching for Zef. He scrambled away, climbing over rows of seats, falling. He felt as if he were drowning, as if his little submarine were sinking and a tide of blood were pouring in, filling the space. He reached the rear emergency door. He pounded his fist against the upper window and kicked the lower one, but the door wouldn’t open. The glass cracked like spider web. He was caught. Caught.

  He turned to face the advancing Horsemen. He made a fist and punched one in the jaw, but the kids kept coming. One struck Zef in the cheek. The back of Zef’s head thumped against the glass. Strands of his hair caught and ripped from his scalp as his head fell forward again. A fist found his abdomen. Another struck his chest. A kick caught him in his injured thigh.

  And all the while his psychic alarm screamed:

  FEAR! HELP! JOEY! DEATH!

  Joey ran for his life down the halls of Sleepy Hollow High. He ran into the gym, his loafers raising bright squeaks on the polished floors. The Horseman came riding after. Joey ran into the hall, past rows of maroon lockers and spirit posters and a sign proclaiming BULLY-FREE ZONE. He passed the trophy case, lost his balance in the atrium, and fell on the great Rorschach blot of the Horseman logo. A bright grinding-wheel sound rose. The Horseman was riding slowly down the hall, savoring the kill, dragging his weapons down the lockers and raising sparks.

  Joey made for the exit doors, but they were locked. He beat his fist, trying to get the attention of the firemen passing outside, but he had no time. He took off down the woodshop hall, the Horseman gaining speed behind. He dashed past the seniors’ lounge with its Horseman mural and Gandhi quote. He passed planters full of ferns, counted to three, and exploded them from behind, hoping to slow the Horseman down. He ran through the cafeteria, skidding and zigzagging between tables, wrenched a mop out of a bucket, and threw it. The hatchet came flying and embedded itself in a vending machine.

  Joey was running out of hallway. He tried the biology lab. Locked. The choir room. Locked.

  The Horseman came galloping hard and Joey braced himself for the inevitable. But strong hands grabbed him and pulled him into the school library, flinging him into the stacks with enough force that they dominoed and vomited books. He stepped on a hardback and fell. He crouched and pulled himself into a little triangle of darkness beneath a fallen bookcase, tucking his legs and sobbing.

  The hooves of the Horseman flew past and dwindled down the hall.

  Joey hid until breathing didn’t hurt anymore, then peeked out of his hiding spot. The library windows blinked with red and blue. The police were here. Thank God. He crawled out on hands and knees, wondering who had saved him.

  “Hello?” he whispered.

  “WHERE IS JASON CRANE?”

  Joey fell onto his back, gaping up at the ghost above him. The figure was thin, homely, with an angular face and wild eyes. Joey held up his hands. He couldn’t speak. He didn’t know what to say. Or did he? The lines from Hamlet came to mind: “Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn’d, bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell, be thy intents wicked or charitable, thou comest in such a questionable shape that I will speak to thee.”

  What he actually said was: “Hic!”

  “Where is Jason Crane?” demanded the ghost, speaking swiftly.

  “I-I don’t know.”

  “He must be found. He must, or the death-dealing shall never end. The Hessian has returned, stronger than before. His bloodlust is terrible. His thirst unquenchable. He must be sent back to hell.”

  “How?” whispered Joey.

  “He must have what he desires. He must have the death of the Crane line. His revenge at last. For the crime. The crime. The crime. The crime.”

  “What crime?”

  “Jason must be found. Only his sacrifice will end these horrors.”

  “You want me to find him so he can die?”

  “The Horseman demands restitution.” The ghost looked sad. “The sins of the father shall be visited upon the sons. My line must end.”

  “You’re a Crane?”

  The ghost tore at his own hair. “Find the boy. Give his head to the Monster. It’s the only way.”

  “Wait. Are you—Ichabod?”

&
nbsp; “Ichabod was my son.”

  “So you’re William. William Crane. The Hero of Gory Brook!”

  The ghost rushed at Joey screaming, “I’M NO HERO!” and vanished.

  Joey lay trembling on the pile of books. When he’d recovered his senses, he glanced down and saw the titles. The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, by Washington Irving. The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon. The Annotated Sleepy Hollow. Legends and Lore of Sleepy Hollow. Chronicles of Tarrytown. The CliffsNotes edition. The TV show companion. A novelization of the Tim Burton film.

  Joey collapsed onto the pile, staring at the ceiling, feeling empty and numb.

  “Wow,” he whispered to the dark. “Hell of a first date.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “The Dark Man”

  Zef braced himself for unconsciousness as the possessed Horsemen pummeled him. At least Joey was out of danger. Too bad he would probably die now and never see Joey’s face again. He took another blow to the stomach and gagged. But the jammed emergency door of the bus flew open behind him with a scream of tearing metal. He fell to the asphalt, limply. He shook his head clear and looked up. Valerie stood over him, protecting his body with her own, her hands raised into claws.

  He stumbled to his feet and they backed away together. The Horsemen pushed against some invisible force, wrenched the door aside, and jumped down from the bus one by one. Valerie turned a wrist. A barbecue grill flew into the air and knocked down number nine. Was—was Valerie doing this? Did Valerie have a Gift as well?

  “What’s wrong with these boys?”

  “They’re possessed!” Zef shouted.

  Valerie froze, as if Zef’s words had pulled her plug. Her face went blank too, and for a moment, he thought she had been taken by a spirit too. Her hands trembled and fell. She hugged herself, backed away from the boys, tripped over the corner of an upturned merchandise table, and lay on the ground, white-faced and terrified. She didn’t engage her valve, but her lips were moving. She was saying, “No, Mama. No, Mama. Oh, please no.” Over and over, as if reverting to some childhood state—helpless to act.