Mascot to the Rescue!

by Peter David

  Unfortunately he makes some noise as he does so. The tree branches rustle, and this attracts the attention of the mercs. The lead one points in their general direction and says, “There! Over there!”

  Immediately they hit the ground, dropping to their bellies, to present lesser targets. They’re smart, these mercs, and clearly battle trained. Mascot, however, has the high ground. That has to count.

  The mercs elbow crawl toward them. Mascot desperately wishes he had a weapon of some kind. Then he looks up and his eyes widen.

  Sitting there, big as life, and about two feet away from him, is a hornets’ nest. There’s no sign of movement, but Mascot still recognizes it. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

  Crouched on the long limb, he sees a branch that looks breakable. It’s about two feet away from him. Slowly, carefully, hoping that the leaves continue to hide him from view, he crab walks along the limb until he’s within reach of the branch. He wraps his fingers around it even as he sees that the mercs are drawing way too close. Large Lass and Waistline are looking up at him, fear in their eyes. No need. He’s got everything under control.

  He snaps off the branch.

  But it makes way too loud a sound.

  The mercs look up. “Up there! One of them’s up there!” shouts the lead merc, and they bring their weapons up.

  Moving as fast as he can, Mascot swings the branch up and over and hits the hornets’ nest as hard as he can. He has one shot at it, and he lucks out. The hornets’ nest tumbles from overhead, spinning through the air like a soccer ball, and lands squarely in front of the mercs.

  They see what it is and immediately yell in alarm. Two of them roll backward, while the third scrambles to his feet and charges forward. Mascot waits for the furious hornets to emerge from the nest in a furious dark cloud of anger that will furiously sting the Mercs with furious…uh…furiocity.

  Nothing. No hornets.

  It’s a dead nest; the hornets abandoned it who knows how long ago.

  The other two mercs haven’t realized it yet, but the one closest to the tree does. “Hey!” he says, seeing the lack of insect activity. “It’s just a—”

  Mascot has no time to consider his next course of action. He just does it. He leaps from the tree, dropping like a rock and landing on the back of the closest merc. The merc staggers but doesn’t go down. Mascot, hanging on desperately, grabs at the merc’s mask. He twists it around, and the eyeholes of the mask are yanked to the side. The merc is shouting, “I can’t see! Leggo!” He drops his gun. It clatters off a rock and tumbles to one side.

  “It’s a kid! It’s some kid!” one of the other mercs is yelling, and now all the mercs are on their feet and running toward them.

  They’re almost there when Waistline steps out into view and roars, “You get out of here!” He is holding a rock, and he throws it as hard as he can. It lands squarely on the chest of one of the mercs, knocking him off his feet.

  The merc whom Mascot is clutching grabs around and snags Mascot by the ankle. The merc tries to yank him off, stumbles, and falls. He twists at the last second and lands so that he comes down on top of Mascot. The air is expelled from Mascot’s lungs with a loud whuffff! He lies there stunned for a moment. The merc, standing, is twisting his mask around so that he can see again.

  That’s when they hear a low, frightening growl, a noise that isn’t coming from any human throat.

  Mascot turns and then freezes.

  A monstrous dog is standing about ten feet away, crouched low to the ground and snarling. It has no collar, no dog tags. Its fur is brown and black. Its body is tense. Its lips are drawn back and its fangs are exposed. The growling, deep in its throat, continues. Foam is welling up from the edges of its mouth. It’s probably rabid.

  The mercs, all of whom are standing now, see it. As one, they back up slowly.

  The growl transforms into a vicious bark and the dog charges.

  The mercs scream like little girls and bolt through the woods.

  One of them, the one that Mascot had been wrestling with, trips over the fallen hornet’s nest. His foot tangling in it, he goes down, sprawling. He cries out for his friends. They keep running.

  The terrifying animal starts to pursue them, but then sees the fallen merc and turns toward the easier prey. The merc is terrified. “Get away…get away…help! Help me! Somebody help me!”

  Mascot stands there for a moment, torn. This is a merc. He was out to get them. But now he is helpless. It’s Mascot’s mission to help the helpless. Yes, if the situation were reversed, the merc would doubtless leave Mascot to be torn to shreds by a wild dog. That, however, is no excuse. What separates Mascot from the merc is that Mascot cannot turn away from someone in need…even if that someone is an enemy.

  The dog advances on the merc, and Mascot sees the merc’s fallen gun. It’s just out of reach. He leaps for it, goes into a shoulder roll, and comes up holding it. It’s remarkably light, not that different from the ones in his video ga—in his training room.

  Mascot’s sudden movement attracts the dog’s notice. It turns toward him and obviously sees him as a threat. Large Lass lets out a scream as, this time, the dog bounds straight at Mascot, barking furiously, its eyes crazed. Rabies is eating its brain. The creature’s obviously not long for this world; the only question is whether it’s going to take Mascot with it before it goes.

  Mascot never flinches. His mind flashes away from the forest, and he’s back in front of his TV screen, effortlessly picking off the electronic monsters.

  He levels the gun with his right hand, grips his right wrist firmly with his left hand, and fires. The noise from the gun is far softer than he would have imagined.

  The first shot misses. The second doesn’t. It strikes the charging dog squarely in its open mouth. The dog gurgles in alarm, and blood is spilling out of its maw. Mascot fires a third time, striking the dog squarely in the head. It literally flips backward through the air, blood tattooing the right half of its skull. Mascot shoots a fourth time, this time hitting the animal in the side of its body. Blood explodes from its side. The dog is covered in red. It is yelping, gasping piteously; and for half a heartbeat Mascot actually feels sorry for the thing. But that’s not going to stop him from defending his friends.

  He’s ready to shoot again, but the dog has had enough. It turns tail and runs off into the woods, disappearing from view seconds later.

  Mascot turns to the fallen merc and aims the gun at him. The merc’s eyes widen.

  “You go back and you tell your friends,” Mascot says to him, “that I could have killed you just now. Heck, I could have let the dog kill you. But I didn’t…because guys like Captain Major and me are better than you.” Then he shoves the gun into his belt, adjusts his jacket to cover it, and says briskly to Large Lass and Waistline, “Come on. Let’s go.”

  There is no subsequent feeling of terror, of near loss, as there was when the oncoming train threatened Large Lass. In this case Mascot was the one who was in direct danger, and he knows that he is—for the time being—safe. He needn’t worry unless, and until, he finds himself perched on a bridge. Until then he knows he’s going to be fine.

  They head off in a random direction. All Mascot wants to do at this point is get as far from the merc as possible.

  “Josh, you…you were amazing back there,” said Kelsey. “I just…I…that…that was…”

  “That was like watching Mascot in action,” Paul said in wonder.

  Josh kept his cool, not wanting it to seem like it was any big deal. “Just did what I had to,” he said dismissively as if it were the most routine thing in the world. “Although,” he added for Kelsey’s benefit, “Mascot does stuff like that all the time.”

  “I’m sure he does,” Kelsey said. “So that’s why, when Josh Miller does something like that, it’s a really big deal. One of the reasons he’s so much easier to like than Mascot.”

  Josh didn’t know how to respond to that, and he was relieved when Paul shouted “Loo
k!” and pointed, thus breaking the moment. Josh and Kelsey looked in the direction that Paul was indicating.

  It was the edge of the woods. There was a sidewalk visible and a row of houses across the street.

  “Outstanding,” said Josh.

  “Yeah,” Paul agreed. “It should be easy from here on in.”

  CHAPTER 11

  THE LONG ARM OF THE LAW

  Sheriff Tom Harrelson strode into the interrogation room, where one of his deputies was seated with a shaken-looking young man dressed in what appeared to be camouflage clothes. The young man had dirty red hair that hung down around his ears, and deep-sunken eyes.

  Harrelson was big, barrel-chested, with a shaved head, kind blue eyes, and infinite patience. “So what’s up, Andy?” he inquired of the deputy.

  Andy Cox, one of the newer additions to the Northchester police department, said, “I thought you’d want to hear this for yourself, Sheriff. You know those kids that the guy from Wonder Comics said were on their way? I think they’re here.”

  Harrelson frowned as he pulled a chair over, turned it around, and straddled it. “You sure? I’ve got our boys at the train station, the bus station. No one’s reported seeing ’em. And from what I hear, the big guy with them doesn’t drive.”

  “Well, based on what this gentleman tells me…”

  “Why not tell me, Mr….?”

  “Friedman. Bob Friedman.” His hand gestured vaguely. “I could really use a cigarette. Can I light a cigarette?”

  “Sure you can.”

  Friedman started to reach for a pack in his pocket.

  “But since there’s a sign there that says NO SMOKING”—Harrelson pointed to the red-on-white sign on the wall—“I’d have to book you for it.”

  Friedman’s hand dropped away from his pocket and he sighed heavily. “Okay, okay, fine.”

  “Mr. Friedman here came running out of Tillman Woods and nearly collided with a passing police car,” said Andy.

  “I see.” Harrelson cleared his throat. “Well, Mr. Friedman, stumbling in front of police cars, that’s kind of a problem for us. But my man Andy here seems to feel you got something worthwhile to tell us. So…?” he prompted.

  “Yeah, well, okay…so here’s the thing. A bunch of friends and me were out in the forest playing paintball.”

  “Paintball?”

  “Yeah.” He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his hand still twitching, clearly craving a cigarette. “About half a dozen of us go into the woods with paint guns and do war games. The guns shoot red paint capsules. You get hit in the arm or leg, it’s a wound. In the chest, it’s fatal. But the whole thing’s a game; it’s harmless fun.”

  “Really.” Harrelson wasn’t amused. “Funny thing, Mr. Friedman: We hereabouts in the sheriff’s office don’t tend to consider people running around shooting each other as ‘harmless’ or ‘fun.’ Guess it comes from the idea that if people shoot at us, we don’t just go home and have to wash it out of our clothes, get it?”

  “Yeah. I guess so,” said Friedman, looking down.

  “So am I to understand that you encountered some youngsters in the woods?” He looked at Andy Cox. “That where we’re going with this?”

  “The kid jumped me.”

  “Jumped you?”

  “Yeah. Me and two buddies were out in the woods, and then he threw a hornet’s nest at me….”

  “You don’t look stung.”

  “There weren’t no hornets in it. Then he jumped on me and knocked me to the ground.”

  “You do realize the boy is twelve. You’re telling me you were beaten up by a twelve-year-old?”

  “He surprised me,” said Friedman defensively. “And he had two people with him…a big guy and some chubby girl.”

  “You planning to press charges?”

  “Charges?” Friedman looked surprised at the idea. “Heck, Sheriff, if you find the kid, I want to shake his hand. Kid saved my life.”

  “By knocking you down?” Harrelson was completely confused. “I’m not following….”

  “You know that wild dog we heard reports of wandering the woods?” asked Cox. “The rottweiler? The one that animal control hasn’t been able to find?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, apparently it was worse than just wild. It was rabid…and it attacked Mr. Friedman here.”

  “The thing showed up out of nowhere,” Friedman said. “I was flat on my back…my buddies ran off, and you can bet I’ll let ’em have it for that. Anyway, dog’s coming right at me, and this kid, he picks up my paint gun and, cool as a cucumber, starts shooting the thing. Drove it off.”

  “With a paint gun?”

  “He didn’t just drive it off, Sheriff,” said Cox. “I just got a call; a routine patrol found its body. He killed the thing.”

  “Got a shot right down its throat,” Friedman told them.

  “Paint in the lungs. That would do it,” said the sheriff. “Kid did us a huge favor…the dog, too, truth to tell. May have saved the lives of future half-drunk fools who wander around in the woods looking for trouble. So tell me, Rambo…where’d the boy get off to? Him and his friends?”

  “I don’t know. They ran off. I went back to where we’d left the car and found out the other guys had driven off.”

  “So your good pals left you to die and a twelve-year-old kid bailed you out.”

  “That’s…pretty much right.”

  Harrelson had been tilting forward in his chair. Now he leaned back and stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Deputy,” he said distantly, “toss Mr. Friedman here in lockup.”

  “Hey! You can’t do that!”

  “Reckless endangerment? Misuse of public lands? I’m pretty sure I can. Deputy…” He tilted his head toward the door on the other side of the room. Cox took Friedman firmly by the elbow and led him out.

  The sheriff stayed in the interrogation room for a few minutes, thoughtful, until Deputy Andy Cox came back in. “He’s tucked away, Tommy,” said Cox, instantly becoming less formal once he was alone with Harrelson. “We arresting him?”

  “Nah. Not worth the paperwork. Just keep him on ice until he’s dried out, then kick him loose. So…the woods. The woods butt up against the train station. Who’ve we got out there?”

  “Kellerman.”

  “Tell Kellerman that he’s got to learn to keep his eyes open. They must have slipped off the train and gone around into the woods. But they’re on foot.”

  “If they’re on foot, how are we going to find them?”

  “Northchester isn’t that big, Andy. If we got the whole population together—had them join hands and walk across the town in one big line—we’d find them that way.”

  Andy looked puzzled. “That what you want me to do?”

  “Noooo…no. Here’s what you can do, though. Get word out to every bus driver, every cabbie. Tell them who we’re looking for. If any of them spot ’em, inform this office immediately. We have a unit over at Mr. Kirby’s house?”

  “Yeah.”

  He rose from his chair and straightened his shirt. “Tell them someone is going to come and take over for them.”

  “Who?”

  “Me.”

  “You, boss? How come?”

  “Because”—Harrelson smiled—“any kid who faces down a vicious dog when the adults go running away is definitely worth meeting.”

  CHAPTER 12

  ON THE ROAD AGAIN

  Much of the drive up to Northchester had been made in silence. The miles flew by, Zack watching the road carefully as the convertible sped through the Bronx and up toward Northchester. Doris leaned back, enjoying the way her hair blew in the wind. “This takes me back,” she finally said.

  Zack glanced over at her. “Back where?”

  “My ex-husband had a convertible when he was a teenager.”

  “You knew him when you were kids?”

  “Yup. High school sweethearts. Guess we got married too young. Anyway, back then we’d go for drives and my h
air would be all over the place. Drove me crazy.”

  “Do you need me to pull over, put the top up?”

  “No, no,” she assured him. “My hair’s much shorter now, and besides, I’m too old to worry about such things anymore.”

  She was quiet for a moment and then said something so softly that Zack didn’t hear her at first, thanks to the wind snatching her words away, and asked her to repeat it. “I said, how did she die? Your wife, I mean. If you don’t mind my asking. If you do, and you don’t want to talk about it, I totally underst—”

  “Cancer.”

  She winced. “I’m sorry. That…must have been terrible for you. And for Kelsey. I mean, obviously for your wife as well, but you’re the ones who had to deal with it after she passed.”

  “I’m not sure how well we’ve been dealing,” he admitted. “Kelsey…she wasn’t really all that slim before her mom passed away, but after that she ballooned. Just so sad, I guess. Eating was how she coped with it.”

  “And how did you cope?”

  He cast a glance at her. “I got sloppy.”

  “Pardon?”

  “In answer to your question about coping: I got sloppy.” He slowed to allow some nut in a Corvette to go speeding by. “In my work, I mean. I stopped caring. Stopped being cautious. I guess…I mean, I know this’ll sound crazy, but maybe part of me figured, you know, if I die, then at least I’m with her again.”

  “But you’d be leaving Kelsey behind.” Her tone was faintly scolding.

  “Yeah. I know. Wasn’t thinking straight. I kept throwing myself into dangerous situations, and for a while I was lucky, but eventually my luck ran out. I saw a liquor store holdup going down, and instead of radioing for backup or waiting for the perp to exit the store, I went charging in like some idiot on a TV show and tried to John Wayne the whole situation. I didn’t realize he had a friend backing him up, and the friend shot me. Then when I was lying there bleeding, and I couldn’t move and thought that maybe I was going to die, that’s the point when it really sank in that, if I was gone, who was going to watch after Kelsey? Who’d be there for her? My goofball sister off in Alaska? My parents, both in their seventies? She needed me.”