by Brian Hodge
All around him, the woods seemed perfectly normal—actually, too normal. Birds were singing. The wind was sighing gently in the branches. Above the treetops, tumbling fair-weather clouds glided smoothly across the bright blue sky. Everything seemed calm and peaceful. Exactly the kind of day he cherished, sitting with his back against a tree and reading Tolkien or Burroughs. A perfect day except he was about to go into the caves and face real danger.
The peacefulness of the woods was suddenly shattered by the sound of someone approaching, rustling leaves and snapping branches as they walked. Kip squinted and looked around, trying to get a fix on the direction of the sound. Before long, he saw a bright flash of a plaid shirt through the leaves, and then Watson's sleek black hair framing his smiling face broke into sight.
"Over here," Kip called out, standing and waving the knife in the air. Sunlight glinting from the blade caught his eye like a blast of laser fire.
Watson saw him, then lowered his head as he pushed through the brush to where Kip was waiting. The rope was draped over his shoulder. In one hand he held the one-gallon gas can; in the other hand, he cradled the home-made torch and shotgun. Watson's pants and shirt pockets bulged with bullets and batteries. Watson grunted as he dropped his load to the ground.
"Christ, that's heavy." Watson rotated his shoulder before he undid his belt and passed a loop through the handle of the gas can. Pulling it tight, he moved the can to rest on his left hip. "You ready?"
Kip nodded.
"You ain't reconsidered, have yah?" Watson asked. He looked at Kip with a piercing, hawk-like stare that made Kip wonder if it was already too late to back down from this crazy adventure. Playing a fantasy adventure was one thing, but they were actually going up against an army of something a lot worse than orcs or trolls.
"I'm ready," Kip said, forcing his voice to sound strong in spite of how he was feeling.
"Let's go, then," Watson said.
He took the shotgun in one hand, the torch in the other, and walked to the mouth of the cave. "Aww, shit," he said. "One thing we didn't think of that we need right off is a shovel."
"What for?"
"Years ago, my grandfather and I blocked off this entrance with a big stone. We're gonna have to dig down a bit before we'll be able to move it out of the way."
"You mean you put that rock there?" Kip was amazed. He'd always assumed that rock had always been there since the cave was formed.
Watson nodded. "We'll have to use sticks or something. Let's check it out first." He ducked his head and entered the cave with Kip following close behind. After they dropped the equipment onto the worn cave floor, Watson knelt down by the back wall.
"I always thought that stone didn't look quite right there," Kip said, "but I never thought a person put it there."
Watson ignored him as he began prodding the ground by the stone with his fingers. "Looks to me like this has shifted a bit since I last checked it. Look here. I'll bet yah they could slip through this openin'."
"You think the untcigahunk moved it? So they could get out?"
Kip turned on his flashlight and trained it into the opening and peered into the darkness beyond the stone.
He had done the same thing hundreds of times when he and his friends had played out here, but this time he was really scared because he knew what was behind there. The darkness looked almost solid and swallowed the feeble beam. A sudden chill gripped his stomach when he considered that, after all those times of guessing and scaring themselves about what was behind this rock, he was about to find out.
"Here. Gimme your knife." Watson held his hand up without looking at Kip.
Kip was about to protest that he might ruin the blade by digging in the ground with it, but he placed the knife, handle first, into Watson's waiting hand without a word. The cave filled with a gritty chopping sound as Watson worked to loosen the packed dirt around the stone.
"Do you think they'll hear us and know we're coming?" Kip asked, cringing as the sound of Watson's efforts reverberated off the stone walls.
Watson continued working. "They ain't dumb, if that's what you mean. Just remember, these things are almost as smart as you and me."
Kip shivered when he remembered the little brothers in the cellar doorway yesterday. They had looked dazed and stupid in the glow of late afternoon sunlight, but he realized the sounds Watson made pulling the boards away must have attracted them. Thankfully, the sunlight, as faint as it had been, had been enough to blind them and make them lethargic.
"What I'm counting on—You know, you could help by scoopin' away some of this dirt," Watson said.
Kip got down on his hands and knees and started pushing the dirt to one side in huge handfuls. "What are you counting on?" he asked, making sure he kept working while he spoke.
"I'm counting on our torches holdin' 'em off. If we can't keep 'em at bay, they'll be all over us like Airedales on rats. My gun 'n your knife ain't gonna hold 'em back for long." He looked at Kip over his shoulder. "You ever seen Davy Crockett at the Alamo?"
Kip shook his head, no.
"Probably just 's well," Watson said as he bent back to work.
Kip thought it funny how time seemed to move differently in the cave, but after fifteen or twenty minutes, a lot of dirt had been scraped away, exposing the bottom of the stone. Still, it looked too heavy for just the two of them to move, but Watson insisted he had been Kip's age when he and his grandfather had first rolled it into place.
"Ready?" Watson asked. He pushed their equipment to one side and positioned himself so he could reach into the crack and get a good grip on the stone.
"Ready as I'll ever be," Kip said. He felt useless, but he braced his feet against the wall and took hold of an exposed edge of the stone.
"Once we open this up, there's no turning back," Watson said. "So this is it. This is your last chance to say no."
"Those things killed my mother," Kip said, struggling to keep his voice even and thinking how hollow and weak it really sounded.
"Okay, then. Heave away."
The cave filled with echoing grunts and the heavy puffing of their breath as they both struggled to move the stone. Watson leaned back, tugging for all he was worth. Kip's feet scuffed up the cave floor as he pushed.
"Son—of—a—bitch," Watson grunted.
By the little bit of sunlight that filtered into the cave, Kip could see the old man's face was turning red from the effort. He felt a momentary panic that the old man might have a heart attack or something. That only made him redouble his efforts to get the damned thing to move.
He pushed as hard as he could until pinwheels of light spiraled across his vision, but the stone had been in place for many years, and it gave way only grudgingly. They got it to shift forward only a foot or so before it came to a sticking point.
Exhausted, Kip was the first to stop trying. He let out a long exhalation and collapsed onto the ground, leaning his back against the cave wall. Watson also eased up and stepped back, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his shirtsleeve.
"Don't worry," he said, his voice tight with determination. "We'll get this son of a bitch to move."
"Too bad we don't have a stick of dynamite," Kip said.
Watson laughed as he stretched back, flexing his arms, and then resumed his position. Kip scrambled to his feet, took a breath, positioned himself, and nodded to Watson when he was ready.
Once again, the cave filled with the sounds of their efforts. At first, it was just like before—the stone wouldn't yield more than a foot or so. Then, without warning, it suddenly shifted forward. Watson had to scurry out of the way to avoid being crushed against the wall.
"Damn!" he shouted as he snatched his flashlight from his back pocket and shined it into the opening. It was easily big enough for him to pass through. Off to one side, in the space behind the stone, there was a crumpled up paper bag, limp with moisture. In their eagerness to get going, neither of them bothered to inspect it.
Kip laughed,
sweating and smiling with satisfaction. "I think I'm gonna need a long, hot shower after this." He raised his arm and sniffed his armpit. "I smell like a barnyard."
Watson shook his head, squinting as he looked down the tunnel. The beam of light showed a rough rock wall that gently curved to the left and down. It seemed to get narrower as it receded, but that might have been an optical illusion. The old man's nostrils flared as he sniffed the air that wafted from the depths of the earth. It was damp and had a rich, fresh-turned earth smell, but below that was a rancid, decaying odor.
"We can take a minute or two to rest," Watson said, smiling with satisfaction at Kip. "If the untcigahunk heard us 'fore now, they would have been right behind the rock when we moved it. Maybe we'll catch 'em by surprise after all." He held his hand out. "Gimme a swig of that water."
They both sat down, leaning against the smooth rock wall next to the cave entrance, careful to keep their eyes on the opening. Watson kept his shotgun cocked and cradled in his lap while Kip held the knife in one hand and one of the flares in the other. They passed the canteen back and forth, drinking until it was nearly empty. Given a choice, Watson would have preferred something a bit stronger.
After a few minutes, Watson shook the canteen, listening to the hollow sound it made. "Run down to the stream 'n fill it so's we can start full," he said, handing the canteen to Kip. He struggled to stand up.
Kip stood and ducked back outside, squinting in the sudden brightness of direct sunlight. He ran to the stream, refilled the canteen, scooped a mouthful of water, and then returned. Watson suggested he carry a couple of the flares in his pants pocket in case he needed them in a hurry. Then he struck a match and touched it to the tip of his torch. Thick, flickering orange flame engulfed the ball of gasoline-soaked cloth.
"Let's hope these things last long enough for us to get in there, do what we gotta do, 'n get out," Watson said. "We'll save yours 'case we need it later."
The flames burned with a muffled roar as warm orange light filled the cave and cast their wavering shadows on the stone walls.
Watson gripped his shotgun in one hand and the torch in the other. As he entered the descending corridor, he saw something in the corner of the cave. Kip tensed and looked in the same direction, expecting—for one frozen moment—to see an on-rushing untcigahunk. He smiled when all he saw was a soiled, tattered sneaker.
"Check that out," Watson said.
Kip went over to it, bent down, and picked it up. He held the sneaker up to the light for a moment, then with a sudden squeal let it drop to the cave floor. When it hit, something flaked off the rubber heel. It looked like old, black paint, but he knew what it was—
"It's full of blood," he said, gagging and almost puking. "Dried-up blood!"
Watson grunted. "You recognize it?"
Still gagging and afraid he was about to spew up his meager lunch, Kip shook his head.
"Could be nothing," Watson said, turning back to the tunnel opening. "Then again, could be something the untcigahunk did." He looked at Kip over his shoulder. The flickering torchlight caught his eyes, making them gleam wickedly. "I'd be willin' to bet someone from town's been missin' for a few days now." With a quick nod of the head at the opening in the wall, he said, "Com'on. Let's go. 'N make sure you keep that gas can away you're the torch. I'd hate to burn you up 'fore you get even one lick in on the untcigahunk."
"The string," Kip said, pulling the ball of thick white cord from his makeshift roller. "Hold this." He handed Watson his flashlight and quickly tied a loop of string around the stone they had just moved.
"That ain't gonna be too clumsy unwindin' it as we go, is it?" Watson asked. "'Cause if it gets in the way, it's just gonna screw us up."
"It'll be fine," Kip said. He positioned the string at his back, just below the pack, and unwound it a couple of turns. "Works just fine."
"I'll trust this," Watson said, glancing at his compass and taking a quick reading, "'n my own sense of direction. You wanna lead the way?"
He expected Kip to say no and was surprised when the boy approached the opening without hesitation. With one last look behind him at the V of daylight filtering through the cave door and with Watson at his heels, his torch flickering, Kip stepped into the tunnel that led—he hoped—down to the home of the untcigahunk. But the one image in his mind that just wouldn't go away was of a tattered, blood-filled sneaker.
5
"Any calls?" Bill called out as he walked from the car to the back door. Through the open screen window, he could see Marty at the kitchen table.
Marty straightened up for a second and then slouched back down in his chair while he waited for his father to come into the kitchen. He jumped when the screen door slammed shut, sounding like a gunshot.
"Nope. The cops didn't call." Marty scratched the skin around the bandage, leaving thin red marks on his arm. "God, this itches unreal. Oh, yeah. Suzie LaBlanc called. She's in the hospital in Portland."
"Parkman told me she'd been in an accident last night. She must be doing okay if she's calling. What'd she want?"
Marty shrugged, trying to appear casual, but Suzie's phone call had only intensified the agitation he had been feeling. "She said something about wanting a—she wasn't sure of the word, a 'restraining order,' I think she meant. She sounded funny, like there was something wrong with her mouth."
Marty, of course, couldn't tell his father that hearing from Suzie had made him think she—and Woody—knew exactly where the stolen pot was. And that made him wonder where Al and Jenny had gone. He hoped he didn't look too shaken, but the idea of Woody coming after him was pretty much the worst thing he could imagine. Maybe Woody had already killed Al and was waiting for a chance to get him.
Bill nodded and ran his fingers through his hair. "Yeah, yeah. I'll have to call her later today, but Parkman didn't call?"
Marty shook his head and started to stand, but then he dropped back down into his chair. With his clenched fist pressed against his mouth, he stared out the window wondering if maybe he could get a restraining order for Woody to leave him alone, too.
"You know, Dad... the other day I—"
He stopped himself by pressing his fist tighter against his mouth. The last thing he needed was to say anything that would give away what he and Al had hidden out there in the Indian Caves. Then again, for the first time since his brother had gone "missing," Marty actually started to worry—just a little—that something might have happened to him.
His father apparently wasn't listening to him and had already picked up the telephone and was dialing the police station. Marty squirmed in his chair, avoiding eye contact with his father while he listened to him talk to the cops. His father used the name "Roy" a few times, so he knew he was talking with Holden, not Parkman.
The phone conversation seemed to last long, torturous minutes, but it was pretty clear the cops hadn't done anything yet. Marty cringed when his father's voice got steadily louder and angrier.
Finally, Bill let fly a string of curses before slamming down the phone, making it ring once.
"Those lousy sons-of-bitches!" he shouted. He took a wild swing at empty air and, spinning on his heel, started pacing back and forth across the kitchen floor. "That's the goddamned best they can do?"
"Still nothin', huh?" Marty said dumbly.
His dad shook his head angrily and brought his fist down hard enough on the counter top to make everything jump. "Goddamned bastards!"
The back of Marty's neck felt like it was on fire when he looked away from his father and back out the window. He was trying to think things through, but it always came back to one thing—What if he let something slip, and his father ended up finding out about the stolen marijuana?
Okay, so Al had stolen the pot from Woody, not him.
Big deal.
He had overheard enough to figure out there was some heavy shit going on between Woody and Suzie. By the sounds of things, Woody was also in some kind of trouble with the Portland cops. Marty was
afraid if he got connected with the whole mess... well, a stretch in summer school would seem like a vacation compared to what might happen. He was beginning to think he should have told Al right from the start to take a hike with his stolen pot.
And still, Kip hadn't come home last night like Marty had figured he would. No matter how much of a jerk-off he thought his little brother was, he was pretty sure he'd never pull a stunt like this on purpose. The truth was, he didn't think Kip had the balls to do something like this, so that left just one possibility.
Something must have happened to Kip.
Marty had seen him, out by the caves two days ago.
Maybe that's where he was. He cleared his throat. "Ahh, Dad. You know, I was thinking." He turned to face his father, who stopped pacing back and forth and leaned against the refrigerator with his arms folded across his chest.
"What?"
"One place Kip always hangs out—at least he used to, anyway—is the Indian Caves." On sudden inspiration, he added, "Yesterday afternoon when we got back from the doctor's, I thought I saw him heading out that way."
There—that was safe. No mention of his being out there. No mention of why he'd be out there, either. He was safe... so far.
Bill's temper suddenly flared. He turned on Marty.
"Why the Christ didn't you say something before now?" When he took a threatening step toward Marty, Marty shielded himself with his bandaged arm. He was convinced his father was about to slug him.
Marty's face flushed red, and his voice trembled when he spoke. "I—uh, I just remembered it," he stammered. "Maybe you could go out there and have a look around."
Bill backed off at the sight of his son cowering away from him. He turned and went quickly to the door, but then paused and looked back at Marty. "I'm surprised I didn't think of it before," he said, trying to sound calmer than he felt.
Marty pushed the chair back and stood up. "Want me to come with you?" he asked, wanting to sound helpful. Also, in the back of his mind, he was thinking, if he went with him, he could make sure his father didn't find the pot they still had stashed out there.