by Ken Douglas
And all through the sledgehammer beating it was taking from Sarah, it kept its eyes on Arty, and it kept trying to get at Arty, each jerking bullet blow only slowing it for a few seconds. Then it was back on track and the track led to Arty.
He looked into those eyes and he knew the animal was going to keep coming for him, because the bullets blazing from Miss Sadler’s gun, powerful as they were, were made of lead. They might be strong enough to slap it around, make it bleed and piss it off, but they weren’t mighty enough to kill it and Arty knew it.
And the hyena knew it.
Arty thought it was over. The giant animal, bloody and raging, came off its hind legs with a laughing, cackling, roar-jaws wide, fangs bared, steam flaring from its nostrils, eyes glaring and glowing like the fires of hell. Its front legs hit earth and it was flying across the clearing, a deadly arrow-Arty the target.
“ Stop, you,” Carolina screamed out, moving up beside Arty. She was holding the silver-knife cross in front of herself. And as if by magic, the beast dug in its hind legs and stopped its charge. The hits from the forty-five may have wounded it and slowed it, but it was the silver-knife cross that stopped it.
“ Now,” she said in a hushed whisper that sounded loud in the night. Arty pulled the trigger and the world turned into a blur as he went tumbling backwards a second time, landing on his back on the soft, wet earth, fighting to keep from losing the gun.
“ You got it! You hit it good!” Carolina screamed. The blast ripped into the face of the beast, stripping matted and bloody fur from its face and snout, like a summer storm strips the leaves from a strong tree. And like a leafless tree, the hyena was still standing, a bloody skull, strands of sticky flesh and fur hanging from white bone, laughing toward the heavens.
“ Quick, Arty!” she yelled and Arty scrambled over onto his stomach, bringing the shotgun up to his shoulder. He took aim and pulled the trigger again. He didn’t see the silver dimes tear into the grizzly skull because the kicking gun smashed into his shoulder. But he saw it a flash of a second later, as its red eyes dimmed to orange. It howled again, only this time there was no laughter in its wail. It was howling its pain into the night for all the world to hear.
“ Why won’t it die?” Arty wailed.
The beast turned toward Carolina, letting out a roar that sent shock waves shooting toward her like the blast from a hot air furnace. The oxygen was momentarily sucked out of her and she threw an arm in front of her face to block off the heat.
“ Carolina,” Arty yelled, but he was too late, because in her desperation to breathe and get away from the monstrous heat, she dropped the silver cross and the animal was charging before it hit the ground. Arty struggled to get up, but he knew he would never make it in time.
“ Over here,” Sarah screamed, trying to distract the animal away from the children, as she slammed the second clip into the forty-five. She started pulling the trigger the instant the clip clicked home. All her shots found the beast, thudding into it as it charged toward the children. But this time it ignored her, recovering from each jerking hit in an instant, and continued toward the kids.
However it couldn’t ignore the new thunder coming from the barrel of another forty-five. The shot whizzed over its head, but the animal instinctively knew this was ammunition of a different sort. It turned away from the children and charged toward Harry Lightfoot, moving with blurred speed.
And Harry stood firm, a wild Indian, long hair blazing in the wind, fringed buckskins flowing, and a lone feather stuck in a leather head band. The moon at his back covered him in a soft glow, his hair, whipping out from around the head band, picked up the moonglow, reflecting it away and forming a halo that surrounded his grinning face.
Harry fired a second silver bullet. He missed again and the animal kept coming. He stood his ground, grin intact, and fired a third time, and this time it was Harry’s laugh that filled the night as a trail of blazing flame and smoldering blood seared along the back of the beast, causing the animal to roar like no hyena had ever roared.
Then it was in the air as Harry fired again, hitting the monster in the chest, before its gaping jaw ripped into Harry’s own chest as it barreled into him, knocking him down and raking his face with a clawed front foot. He was wounded badly, but he still managed to stick the gun into the belly of the beast and jerk off two rounds, blasting the animal off of him.
The hyena backed away and Harry fired again, missed and the animal turned to flee. It started across the clearing toward the path, but Arty blocked its way, firing the shotgun again, missing by inches, but the silver dimes flying over its head were enough to turn the animal toward the cliffs at a full run. Harry put his last two shots into the beast, the last one hitting it in the rear as it shot into space, before it started its fall to the rocks below.
The night was quiet save for that lone cricket Arty had heard earlier. The air was cool and still. No rustling of leaves, no whispering of pines, no sounds from the city below. The clearing was an alien world, soundless except for that forlorn chirping. Arty watched, dazed, but unafraid as Sarah Sadler helped Carolina’s father up.
Arty and Harry walked and hobbled to the cliff’s edge and peered over. They could see the rocks below, but they couldn’t see where the hyena had landed, or even if it had landed.
“ Daddy,” Carolina said, rushing across the clearing. She hugged her arms around her father’s waist. He grimaced against the pain of broken bones as he ran his left hand through her hair, and he smiled a little, despite his hurt, when she squeezed even tighter.
“ I’m sorry,” was all he could say. He wrapped his left arm around her and hugged her into himself.
“ Is it over?” Sarah asked. She was holding the empty gun in one hand, trying to keep her windblown hair out of her eyes with the other.
“ No,” Harry Lightfoot said, clutching his bloody chest. They all turned to look at him. His hands were covered in blood and his grin was forced, but he looked like an avenging angel straight out of the Black Hills.
“ Not until we kill it,” John Coffee added.
“ After all that, and it’s not dead?” Sarah said. She tucked the warm gun into her pants and used both hands to hold her hair in place against the strong wind.
“ Low tide,” Harry said, bending down on one knee. It was easy to see he was hurting.
“ I don’t get it.” Sarah said, not understand his meaning.
“ He means,” John Coffee said, “that if the tide would have been in, the creature would have landed in salt water. End of story. It would have burned up. But the tide’s out, so it landed on the rocks. It’ll build its strength and come back, strong as ever, maybe stronger.
Arty dusted himself off and looked down again. The tide was beginning to roll in and splash among the rocks. He used to like to sit down there and watch the crabs scurry around and he hoped that the Nightwitch was smashed, and the little crabs were having a ball as they chewed into and ate up all the witch parts, but he’d heard the conversation and he wanted to be ready when it came back.
“ Carolina, I need the rest of the shells,” he said.
She eased herself out of her father’s embrace and opened her backpack. “Come on out girl,” she said. The ferret jumped onto her shoulder and nuzzled her ear. She handed Arty the backpack without a word, then pulled Sheila off her shoulder and hugged her to her chest.
John, Sarah and Harry Lightfoot watched as Arty fished the shells out of the bottom of the pack and started jacking them into the side of the shotgun, like he’d been doing it all his life. The gun was too big for the boy. The boy was too young for the job. But he was doing it just the same.
“ The locket is under the ferret’s nametag,” he said to the adults. “If the Nightwitch finds out, I think it’ll kill me and Carolina, but I’m not gonna let it.”
“ It’ll take more than silver dimes to kill it,” Harry said.
“ You knew I took the other rolls?”
“ I knew,” Harry sa
id.
“ He’s right,” Carolina’s father said, and Arty saw the man screw his face up with pain. He was hurting and Harry Lightfoot was, too. Blood covered Harry’s chest and stomach and he had a bloody gash on the right side of his face. It didn’t look like he could open his right eye, and he wheezed when he talked. These men would not be able to help anymore. It was up to him now.
“ I know where the skin is,” he said, shoving the last shell home.
The adults didn’t get the time to appreciate what he’d said, because a giant shadow blocked the moon. Carolina, her father and Sarah had their backs to the cliff and didn’t see the giant vulture as it rose from below, riding up on the wind.
The mammoth bird carried a twenty foot wing span, had a head the size of a Volkswagen, blazing red eyes the size of tires, a five foot, black beak and its red eyes were fixed on Carolina.
“ No,” Harry screamed, jumping from his crouch. He shot forward, grabbed the knife out of John Coffee’s hand and dove over the cliff onto the great bird. He hugged the vulture around the neck, with his head under the beak and sliced the knife across the giant bird’s throat.
Arty’s hands tightened on the gun as they fell to the rocks below, with old Harry’s warrior scream mingled with the shrieking squawk of the vulture. Arty closed his eyes, but it didn’t help. He pictured Harry riding the bird to his diving death, silver hair blowing in the wind, gray eyes laughing, as he held on to the bird one handed, plunging the knife into its neck and head all the way till the rocky bottom.
Arty opened his eyes when the screaming and the shrieking stopped. Carolina was holding the ferret tight in her hands. Miss Sadler had an arm around Carolina’s father, helping him to stand, and once again the only sound in the clearing was the mournful chirping of that lonely cricket.
“ I gotta go,” Arty said.
“ Where?” John Coffee asked.
“ It’s between the houses. I saw the wolf carry it out, just before it changed into the old woman. I just figured out what it was.”
“ You’ll need rock salt and hot pepper.”
“ I got salt and cayenne pepper,” he said, turning to go.
“ Wait,” John Coffee said. Arty turned back around to see Carolina’s father drawing his good left arm around in front of himself, digging into the right pocket of his Levi’s. He pulled out a jar. “It’s gotta be rock salt,” he said, tossing a small plastic container to Arty, “Use your cayenne pepper, but use this, too. It’s a mixture, hot ground chili peppers and rock salt.”
Arty stuffed the container into his pocket along with the salt shaker and the cayenne pepper. He smiled at Carolina.
Now it was up to him.
Chapter Twenty
Arty turned and ran across the clearing. He saw Brad Peters and Ray Harpine when he reached the path. They’d been waiting.
“ That’s what you want to kill?” Brad said. The two boys had been watching and had seen everything. Arty made an instant decision.
“ Wanna help?”
“ Yeah,” Brad said.
“ Take this and follow me,” Arty tossed the shotgun to Brad. He didn’t have to look back to know that Brad was running right behind him, holding the shotgun out in front of himself, like a soldier, as they jogged down the path. Brad was a bully, but Arty never thought he was a chicken.
He was able to move faster without the weight of the heavy gun. He used his hands to whisk aside branches, as he slipped and slid down the hill. Once, he fell on his backside, but he was able to push himself up without tumbling, and all the time he heard Brad chugging away behind. Arty used his hands and arms as much for balance as for obstacle clearance. Brad had no choice but to take the flinging branches in the face, but he kept on, without falling, without faltering and without complaining.
At the bottom of the hill they burst out of the woods, running three abreast across the baseball diamond, Arty in the middle, Brad to his right, Ray to his left. Arty saw the police car as they crossed center field. Its lights were flashing. It stopped and Arty saw someone get out.
“ It’s your dad,” Arty said, between breaths.
“ Yeah,” Ray answered.
“ Tell him about the clearing. They need help.”
“ All right.” Ray peeled off to the right to talk to his father as Brad and Arty turned left. Arty had never run so fast for so long. Every step was a shockwave to his system. He hoped Carolina was all right. He didn’t think the Nightwitch would be after her now that Arty was going for the skin, and she would know. As soon as it got back to the clearing and saw him gone, it would know and it would come.
“ Where we going?” Brad asked.
“ Carolina’s,” Arty said.
They turned on Fremont Avenue, running down the center of the street as one, their feet hitting the pavement in unison. Arty snatched a look at Brad and noticed the determined set of his jaw and the white knuckles holding on to the shotgun. Sweat was dripping down the side of Brad’s face and Arty felt again the sweat dripping down his own back.
The boys started drawing strength from each other as they passed Big and Tiny’s Mini Market and turned right again. Two blocks to go, then a left and halfway down the block and they would be there. Arty started to pick up the pace and like a mind reader, Brad responded.
Slap, slap, slap, their driving feet echoed thorough the night. One block gone and the rain started. A gullywomping, gutterfilling downpour mingled with driving pellets of November hail that stung when they scored, but still the boys ran on, splash, splash, splash through the blinding, driving rain.
And, still moving as one, they hung the left onto Lark Lane and sprinted toward the dark area in the center of the block. The streetlights were still out. Did they get here first? Would he have time to find the skin? Or were they too late? Was it waiting? Were they going to die?
“ Here.” Arty stopped in the center of the street in front of Carolina’s house. They were panting like dying race horses, dripping wet and fighting the chilling cold.
Arty tried to wipe some of the water from his eyes, as he moved from the street, to the sidewalk, to the center of Carolina’s front lawn. The rain started to fall even harder, with a thunderous din that made it hard to see and harder to hear. He looked at the bushes covering the place between the houses, the place he’d seen the wolf with that bag. The place where the crate under the window disappeared from. The place with the bushes way in back, by the fence. The place where he hoped to find the skin of the witch that can’t die.
Arty moved his face close to Brad’s, so he could be heard above the rain and he looked into his dark eyes and saw a flicker of fear. Brad had seen the Nightwitch in action up at the clearing, but he was here, standing beside him, panting and gasping for breath in the rain, when most people would be long gone.
“ I gotta go in there,” Arty said, pointing to the area between the two houses.
Brad nodded.
“ If it beat us here, then it’s inside waiting and I’m a goner, so when I go in there you count to ten, and if I don’t yell out that it’s okay, you take off out of here.”
Brad nodded again.
“ If I yell out it’s okay, then you gotta cover me. It’s gonna wanna get in there and get me, and you gotta stop it, okay?”
Brad nodded twice.
“ You only got five shots.”
“ Yeah, I know,” Brad said.
“ All right,” Arty said. He turned to the area between the house and crouched down onto his knees to crawl through the bushes.
“ Hey, Farty Arty,” Brad called out from the center of the lawn, and Arty turned. Brad was smiling, holding the shotgun with his right hand and giving him the thumbs up sign with his left. “I’ll keep it out,” he said through the rain. “You can count on me.”
And for the first time, he wasn’t ashamed of being called Farty Arty. In fact, the way Brad said it, he kind of liked it. It wasn’t a name to put him down anymore, now it was a nickname and it had character.
“ Start counting now,” he yelled back, returning the thumbs up sign, before he started crawling in under the bushes. And he started counting himself.
One, one thousand, and he was under the bushes, heart racing, head down.
Two, one thousand, and he was through the bushes, in the dark area between the houses.
Three, one thousand, and he was pushing himself to his feet, straining his eyes to try and see in the dark.
Four, one thousand, and he was holding his breath, expecting the wolf’s strong jaws to rip into him any second.
Five, one thousand, and he was still holding his breath as he stuck his hands out in front of himself and tried to feel his way toward the wall.
Six, one thousand, and he was at the wall, feeling along it, moving toward the bushes at the back by the fence.
Seven, one thousand, and he stopped, using his ears, looking for a sound that would tell him the Nightwitch was there.
Eight, one thousand, and he exhaled and inhaled the cool night air.
Nine, one thousand, and he shivered from the cold, quivered with anticipation, and trembled with fear.
Ten, one thousand, and he yelled out, “It’s okay.” Then he dropped to his knees in front of the bushes in the back by the fence.
“ Nothing’s getting in there, Arty,” Brad yelled out and Arty started feeling around for the skin.
The rain stopped as quickly as it had started, leaving the neighborhood covered with that fresh smelling clean taste that usually makes you feel good after a rain has finished. But Brad didn’t notice the crisp feeling as he stood in the middle of the lawn, shotgun at the ready, eyes scanning in the dark.
He shuffled his feet and took a right hand off the shotgun and tried to wring some of the wet out of his hair, and wipe some of the water from his forehead, but the wet on his forehead was sweat mingled with the sweet rainwater, and it came right back. He put his hand back on the gun, wrapping his index finger around the trigger, and rotated his head a hundred and eighty degrees.