by Terry Brooks
Rusty did just that, in order, to end the fifth inning.
Coach Tom greeted the players with high fives as they returned to the bench, though the only Mariners who had even touched the ball that half of the inning were Rusty and Tony, the catcher. Coach Kaplan’s smile, meanwhile, was ear-to-ear, those huge teeth shining against his dark complexion. The situation looked good indeed: two runs up, last inning, and the top of the order coming to bat. That was Billy—Billy Socks, they called him, because it was said that he would often run right out of his shoes. LC had never actually seen this amazing phenomenon, because he wasn’t really a part of Billy’s social group, and he didn’t believe it at all. Still not wanting to be chastised, or worse, he yelled for “Billy Socks” right along with the rest of the Mariners.
Billy hit the first pitch up the middle, a looping, soft liner. The team went crazy, Coach Kaplan howled, and apparently, all the excitement got to Billy Socks, because he never stopped at first. The Mariners and their fans were surely surprised, but the Panthers’ players were not.
Billy Socks was out by ten feet as he tried to get to second base. LC noted that he still had both of his shoes on as he walked dejectedly back toward the dugout.
When the next batter hit a ground ball right to the first baseman, who scooped it up, dropped it, and still had plenty of time to step on the bag for the out, Kaplan’s toothy smile was long gone. The Mariners could have put the Panthers away this half of the inning by scoring a few runs, but that chance was slipping through their little fingers.
LC figured that he wouldn’t be getting up to bat. He had been hoping that he would, figuring that if they got all the way through the order anyway, if eight other batters had come to the plate before he stepped up to bat, his ups couldn’t really be vital. Even if there had been two outs with the bases loaded, three other runs would have had to score and the lead would be five, not two. So the situation, if LC did get the chance to bat, would be safe enough. Maybe he would walk, or even manage a hit, and then he would truly be part of the team, not just a benchwarmer. Maybe he would close his eyes and swing as hard as he possibly could, and hit the ball over the fence!
Yeah, a grand slam, and then he would be a part of Billy Socks’s crowd, and then he—
The boy glanced around nervously, wondering if his private fantasy was being openly observed by his teammates. He noticed then that he was sweating. LC hoped that he would get the chance to bat; he was terrified that he would have to bat.
Those conflicting thoughts grew stronger when Ben Oliver made up for his last choke by ripping a hard grounder that was bobbled by the Panthers’ first baseman. Safe at first.
That brought up Tony, the catcher, the cleanup hitter. “Tony Boomboom,” who had once hit a ball so far over the center field fence that it had dented the hood of Kaplan’s pickup four rows back. Kaplan had never fixed that dent, displaying it on his truck proudly, as if it were a testament to his coaching prowess.
The first pitch was way outside: it was obvious that the Panthers’ pitcher was wary of Tony, but with dangerous Rusty on deck, there was little that he could really do. The next pitch came in high and hard and Tony nailed it, launching it sky-high. All the Mariners’ fans leaped to their feet. At least a dozen yelled, “Get outta here!” or “See ya later!”
But it was too high, way high, so high that lumbering Tony, who was even slower than LC, was nearly at second base when the Panthers’ left fielder leaned up against the fence and caught the ball.
Momentum was a funny thing, and so, to LC, was the way that this entire side of the field suddenly drooped back down at the exact moment the people on the other side of the field leaped up, as though some underground wave had sucked all the energy on the Mariners’ side and pushed it underground into the waiting legs of the Panthers’ fans.
LC chuckled at the thought, but wisely coughed to disguise his mirth. He took up his glove and started for the field along with the rest of the Mariners. Coach Kaplan stopped them and brought them into a huddle, counting heads and coming up one short. He yelled out to Joey DiRusso and waited until the frustrated youngster joined them, then spent a long moment dressing Joey down for his lack of team spirit.
Right after that Kaplan confused LC, although most of the others didn’t see any irony in it, when he told the players taking the field to win this one ”for Joey.”
You mean the kid with no team spirit? LC thought, and he chuckled again, and this time it was okay because it seemed like he was joining in with the rising cry for the Mariners.
Here it was, bottom of the sixth. Last inning, trophy on the line. It took a while for play to begin, because Tony had made the last out and now had to put on all of his catcher’s equipment. Each passing second seemed interminable to everyone in attendance, but worst of all to LC, who only wanted it all over with so he could breathe again.
Finally Tony came trotting out of the dugout, slipping on his catcher’s mask and glove as he went. LC tensed and patted the pocket of his glove hard; the first Panther batter was a lefty, which made it far more likely that the ball would be hit to right field. LC hoped that Rusty would strike the kid out, or keep the pitches so far outside that the kid couldn’t possibly pull anything to right. At the same time that he was hoping the ball wouldn’t be hit his way, however, LC was fantasizing that the ball would indeed be hit his way, and that his incredible diving catch would make the first out!
His fantasy was shattered by a yell from Coach Kaplan, one of those animal howls, aimed directly at LC. The boy looked up to see the man waving him over to left. He didn’t understand, even put a finger against his chest as if to say “Me?” but then he noticed Billy Socks, the left fielder, jogging his way.
LC got it; Coach Kaplan was shifting him over to left field while the left-handed batter was at the plate. LC felt itchy suddenly, felt as if all the eyes in the world were boring into him. He didn’t really want the ball hit to him—was surely afraid of that—but for Kaplan to so obviously be attempting to keep it away from him…
LC trotted across the thick grass, not able to look in toward the dugout and stands, feeling ashamed and humiliated. Most of all, he couldn’t possibly look his father in the eyes. He could almost hear the relieved sighs of those people in the stands near his dad, quietly congratulating Kaplan for his cunning coaching. What would those sighs and whispers do to his father?
As he crossed near second base, LC heard Kaplan call to Rusty to keep it “high and tight.” Now they could pitch the lefty aggressively, because a well-hit ball wouldn’t wind up anywhere near LC.
The young boy wanted the game over; he wanted to take his trophy, earned or not, and go home.
Rusty came in high and hard with the pitch. The lefty hit a shot down the first base line, into the outfield. He took the turn at first, but had to go back, for speedy Billy Socks fielded the ball cleanly and threw it on one hop to second base.
The next Panther batter was right-handed; LC started back toward right field before Coach Kaplan even motioned to him. He noticed, too, that Coach Kaplan and Coach Tom were nodding to each other, confirming that they had done well in shifting LC out of right field.
It took seven pitches, including one foul ball that landed dangerously close to the right field line, but Rusty managed to strike the kid out.
Up came the third Panther of the inning, another lefty.
Rusty brought his glove to his belt, ready to throw; LC tensed. His breathing would not steady.
“Time!” yelled Coach Kaplan, his hands up high, waving as he neared the first-base line. He yelled out angrily to Billy Socks and to LC, as though they should have understood and executed his strategy without being told. The pair swapped places again.
The batter eyed LC every step of the way. He glanced out toward left field, then to his bench, where his coach was nodding subtly. LC didn’t miss it—the Panthers had figured out that he must be very weak in the field, and so the batter was going to try to come his way.
&n
bsp; Rusty’s pitch came in tight, too tight for the lefty to hit it the opposite way, and the result was a soft liner right back to the pitcher. Rusty grabbed it and fired to first, hoping to catch the runner before he could get back to the base.
“He’s out!” cried Coach Kaplan, looking for a double play. Half the Mariners howled, thinking the championship won.
But the umpire was right on the spot, his hands wide to either side. The runner had gotten back to the bag before the throw.
LC knew he could relax again for a few minutes. With typical intensity, Coach Kaplan got into it with the ump, shouting and screaming, kicking dirt and pointing repeatedly toward first base. Several of the Mariners piped in, the better players mostly, and many of the fans on both sides made sure that their perspective on the play was heard as well. Never mind that those fans were at least thirty feet away, with a chain-link fence between them and the play. Never mind that the ump, alert and moving toward first base before Rusty had even turned to throw the ball, couldn’t have been more than ten feet from the bag, with a perfect angle to see the diving runner’s hand and the catch by the Mariners’ first baseman.
Before he left the field, the argument futile as always, Coach Kaplan motioned angrily for LC to get back to right field.
And so the boy watched, far out of the play, as Billy Socks raced for the next batter’s line drive to left-center, watched and fantasized that it was him, not Billy, as Billy dove for the ball.
And missed.
The center fielder headed it off, though, making a great play, and fired it back toward the infield. The Panthers’ coach took no chances and held the lead runner at third base, while the batter, the game’s tying run, chugged in easily to second.
Coach Kaplan called time-out again, this time going out to the mound for a talk with Rusty. After a few tense moments, with Kaplan growling and kicking dirt, the man stalked back to the edge of the dugout. He managed to get in another insult at the umpire as he went, complaining that the runner had been out on the line drive and that the game should be over.
On Kaplan’s orders, Rusty walked the next batter intentionally, loading the bases, resulting in a possible force-out at every base.
LC could hardly find his breath. Five batters had come to the plate; the game should have been over, one way or the other, by now! The fans on both sides were going wild. The Panthers shouted at Rusty, who just rubbed down the ball and let fly a wad of spit in the general direction of the Panthers’ bench, glaring at the next batter as the kid dug in at the plate.
All LC cared about was that this batter was big and strong and right-handed, which meant he wouldn’t be likely to hit the ball anywhere near right field!
Rusty’s first pitch popped into Tony’s glove with the sound of a firecracker. Strike one.
The next pitch was too far inside, nearly clipping the kid on the hands, and the third pitch, too, was a ball. It bounced in the dirt, and only a smothering grab by Tony prevented all three runners from advancing.
The Panthers’ batter ripped the next one down the left field line, foul.
LC breathed a little easier. Not only did the kid now have two strikes, but Rusty was working him inside, and he seemed quite willing to pull the ball to the left.
Rusty fired; the batter swung.
LC and all the Mariners nearly jumped for joy, for the ball went right by the hitter. There was a moment of confusion, of the sheerest tension LC had ever known.
The kid wasn’t out; he had foul-tipped the pitch and Tony hadn’t held on to it.
The situation only got worse when the next pitch came in too tight again. Ball three—full count.
LC hated this game.
Rusty rubbed down the ball. The entire park seemed to go eerily silent. Three balls and two strikes, two outs, tying run on second, winning run on first.
Rusty went into the windup and let it fly. All three base runners took off. Rusty had to get this one over, couldn’t afford to tease the kid inside again. The ball came in waist-high over the outside part of the plate. LC saw it all as if in slow motion: the batter’s puffy cheeks, the great exhalation as the bat came around and connected.
And then, suddenly, the ball was in the air, soaring high into right field.
LC’s glove came up immediately—all the inexperienced ballplayers did it that way, putting the glove above their heads as if it were an umbrella. LC was all alone then, just him and the ball, and he heard nothing but the sound of wind in his ears as he ran back, back, and toward the line.
Five short steps put him under the peaking fly ball, he thought, with plenty of time to spare, for the ball had been hit so high.
And then it was coming down, down, spinning and falling. LC shifted back a bit more. Since a right-handed batter had hit the ball to right field, it was tailing toward the line, spinning like one of Rusty’s patented curveballs.
But LC was there, in position. Down came the ball, right into his glove.
And out it spun, rolling up his index finger and hopping back into the air. LC felt as if he were in a dream, moving slowly, too slowly. He could count the stitches on the rotating ball, could see its arc as it rose above his head. His short legs pumped for all his life, cleats grabbing at the turf, propelling him forward. He dove straight out, trying to get to the ground before the ball landed.
He did get down fast enough, but his arm wasn’t long enough; the fingers on the vinyl Kmart glove his father had bought him for his first year of baseball weren’t long enough! The ball hit the ground just beyond his reach and rolled tantalizingly away from him.
LC knew that he was in trouble. The runners had taken off with the pitch. One run was in, maybe two, and the winning runner was nearing, or rounding, third. LC scrambled to his feet, took a running stride, then glanced back and saw his doom.
The third run, the winning run, was halfway home; he couldn’t possibly pick up the ball and throw it to the infield in time!
He looked at the ball as though it had betrayed him. He heard the screams of delight from the third base side of the field, the Panthers’ side of the field.
Kaplan howled. Still the world seemed to turn in slow motion. LC’s gaze went over his shoulder, to his teammates, to the coach with big teeth, down the line to the stands behind first base. He wanted his father, but something was wrong. He couldn’t even pick out the man, for all the fans, the fathers and mothers, the little sisters, even, seemed to change. They got hairy in the face, like Kaplan, blond hair becoming black.
And their jaws, every one! Square and huge, opening to show those monstrous teeth, unleashing those feral howls. LC stood openmouthed as they came down from the stands in a pack, swirling like flowing water as they came through the fence gate just down the line from the Mariners’ dugout. Only then did LC glance back to the field, to his teammates and two coaches, all looking like Kaplan, all charging his way!
The terrified boy turned to run. He started right, but then realized that the center fielder had cut him off that way. Back to the left went LC, screaming and crying, his legs seeming to move impossibly slow, the howls growing closer, closer. He slammed into the four-foot fence and threw his chest over, scrambling to get his legs up.
Billy Socks got there first, clawing at LC, tearing the boy’s Mariners shirt with two-inch fingernails. Other hands joined in, grabbing and pinching, clawing viciously. LC hung on for all his life, screaming denials, and tried to kick out. But he was pulled back into the mob, taken down on the grass, thrown on his back right beside the settled baseball.
Despite their frenzy, they took their time in tearing him apart. A hundred scratches, a hundred trickles of blood. LC tried to grab onto something, and blindly latched his fingers through Tony Boomboom’s catcher’s mask. Then he screamed, more loudly than he ever had before, for Tony Boomboom promptly bit off one of his fingers. LC looked at the large boy, the mask on crooked, no longer fitting the now-elongated jawline. Blood spurted from the stub onto Tony’s face, but it only seemed to e
xcite the vicious boy-creature more.
LC looked back up just in time to see Kaplan’s—the real Kaplan’s—face descending, mouth opened impossibly wide, wide enough to cover LC’s entire face. And then the hands were back, beating him, clawing him, ripping him.
Nearly blinded by agony, LC turned his head and somehow looked back down the line, to the fence entrance, to the one Mariners’ fan who hadn’t transformed, who hadn’t come after him.
His father, standing with hands in pockets.
The man walked away.
The coach with big teeth tore out LC’s heart.
I learned to draw by making my own comic books. Throughout my childhood I wrote as well—in my mind I saw movies or TV shows. Love of story compelled me to become an artist, but it was a choice that left half of my desire unfulfilled.
In 2005, I began work on a book of dragons. At first I imagined a coffee-table book of art, but soon she who inspires the written word stirred. She’s a demanding muse, but has such a comely form…
Before I knew it, the book of art inspired a cast of characters, a history, a landscape. A story demanded to be told. I spent most of the following years studying and bettering my craft. Shawn had opportunity to read my manuscript before I sold it to a publisher—we’d already combined forces on other projects. When he invited me to submit a story to Unfettered, I leapt on the chance to reveal a bit of backstory, a snippet of ancient history from my world.
— Todd Lockwood
KEEPER OF MEMORY
Todd Lockwood
Daen screamed until the monster’s teeth crushed ribs against ribs. Blood poured from his lungs, a bright flower unfurling on the pavestones.
He bolted upright. A tree root scraped his back as he tried to crab backward, but his feet were entangled in his blanket. He sat still, surprised to feel moss and short grass under the heels of his hands. A soft hush surrounded him, the landscape shrouded in fog that deadened sound and confused distance, rendering trees and stones into ghostly shadows of themselves. Panting, he rubbed his face with pale fingers and blinked away the blur in his eyes. His sweat grew cold in the damp air.