The Frank Peretti Collection

by Frank E. Peretti

  He’s going to tear up his insides, Steve thought.

  “You dirty dog! You’ve killed my dragon!” Bly screamed, raising his shotgun with shaking, fumbling hands.

  The gun discharged, almost leaping from Bly’s hands, before he could aim. Some of the shot pelted the dragon’s neck and head, and it flinched in pain as sparks flew from its scales. Hopelessly impaled, the dragon shifted its gaze toward the screaming, fumbling Harold Bly. The eyes of the creature narrowed, the breath hissed through clenched teeth.

  Bly was still holding the gun when he caught sight of the dragon’s hateful glare. He took a step backward. He started to tremble.

  “H-Hey now,” he stammered. “It wasn’t me. I’m on your side!” Bly pointed toward Steve. “He’s over there! Over there!”

  The dragon seemed to gain strength from its boiling rage. Its eyes locked on the bold, loudmouthed ruler of Hyde River as it pulled at the lance.

  The truck rolled, bounced, and screeched forward out of the tunnel. The dragon’s body cascaded over the top of it and to the ground, twisting and finally snapping the ladder off.

  As the dragon lay on its side, it craned its neck to and fro in search of Harold Bly. When it spotted him, the neck reached like a serpent, the head moved low to the ground, the breath sucked in, the left front leg reached out, claws extended.

  Bly started backing away, his face contorted with horror and disbelief, his hands chambering another round in the shotgun. “No! Now come on, you don’t want me . . .”

  The dragon’s burning eyes said otherwise as it slowly inched and slithered toward him.

  Andy and his buddies fled in terror back through the first tunnel, followed by Kyle, Carl, Bernie, Elmer, and Joe.

  The dragon pulled itself closer to Bly, its chin only inches from the ground.

  Bly aimed the shotgun directly at the dragon’s face and fired. A myriad of sparks and flashes exploded from the dragon’s face, but it didn’t flinch this time, and it didn’t turn away.

  The head rose from the ground; the dragon gasped a short breath.

  Bly’s hands were shaking as he chambered another round. “Get back . . . get BACK!” He aimed the gun and fired.

  The dragon’s face lit up like a fireworks display, but it kept crawling, clawing, slithering toward him. It opened its mouth and exhaled a blast of air, but there was no flame.

  Bly prepared to fire again, chambering a round, aiming the shotgun. He waited this time, feeling some confidence. He could see the dragon was fading.

  As if spurred on by Bly’s cockiness, the dragon gathered its strength, raised its head high, and drew in air for one more try.

  It couldn’t hold the air in. Its last breath escaped, and a very small flame appeared but quickly burned itself out. The beast stared at Bly, its neck swaying like a tree in the wind.

  Bly started to chuckle as he looked up at the gnarled face. “Not today, buddy. You’re finished. You can’t touch me!”

  The dragon’s fiery eyes dimmed, flickered, then went dark. Slowly, the neck went limp, began to sink—and then, in a long, slow arc, it flopped to the rocky ground with an earthshaking thud as Bly leapt and stumbled out of the way.

  Bly recovered his balance, ready to run, but then saw no need. The big, scaly head was flat upon the ground; the eyes still looked his way, but no longer saw him. There was a long, silent, motionless moment in which Bly stared into the dragon’s face, breathing hard, shotgun aimed, still shaking, needing time to believe the dragon was dead. Then a grin spread over his face, and he began to laugh defiantly. “There! There now!” He looked around for any witnesses to his triumph. “You see? You see that? This is Harold Bly we’re talking about! I’m still on top! Still on top!”

  He looked everywhere, wondering what had become of his followers. “Hey! Hey! Where’d you all go?” But no one remained in that vast, empty place except Steve Benson, battered, bruised, and exhausted, standing very still among the small fires and lingering smoke. It was just the two of them now, and Benson had to have seen everything.

  Bly’s jubilation soured into pure malice. “You!” He raised the shotgun. “Guess I still have one piece of unfinished business.”

  Steve sighed, his shoulders drooping with dismay. He’d survived so much. Would it all end this way? “Mr. Bly.” He knew his argument would sound weak. “I did save your life.”

  Bly sneered and shook his head as if he’d just heard the dumbest statement ever made. “Weren’t you watching?”

  Steve could look past Bly and see the lance rammed up the dragon’s belly. He’d fired enough rounds at the dragon to know a shotgun would never kill it. But Bly saw only what he wanted to see; it was that way with this town.

  Bly raised the shotgun and sighted down the barrel at Steve’s heart. “I don’t owe you a thing, Benson, except what you’ve got coming, right now. Nothing’s ever gonna kill Harold Bly—”

  THUNK! Three silver spikes skewered Bly from behind and sprouted from his chest with a spattering of blood. He quivered, his face contorted with shock, pain, disbelief. The shotgun fell from his hands.

  The dragon lifted Bly from the ground. His body hung on the claws like meat on a fork, his legs dangling. Then a claw sank like a needle through the black stain and into Bly’s heart.

  Through the wisps of smoke drifting over the rocky ground, Steve could see a slight, yellow glow from one half-open eye. The beast was alive, if only to finish the work the Hydes had begun so long ago. Slowly, mechanically, the dragon opened its jaws, flipped Bly’s body across the rows of teeth, and bit down.

  Then Steve was blinded by a sudden, unexpected flash of light. He turned away, his eyes tightly shut, expecting an explosion, but none came. He opened his eyes and slowly turned back toward the dragon and Harold Bly. He was still blinded. All he could see was a vague, serpentine spot in front of his eyes. He could hear no sound except sirens approaching from across the river and far down the valley.

  Finally his vision began to clear, and he could vaguely see the corpse of Harold Bly lying crooked and mangled on the rough stones. He could make out the wide, empty expanse of the old loading yard and the last, dying remnants of the dragon’s fires. The huge articulated loader was still sitting where Levi had parked it.

  But the dragon was gone without a trace. It had vanished as if it never existed.

  Gone.

  Steve’s knees buckled, and he sank to the ground, his strength gone. He was lying on hard, broken ore, but he didn’t feel it. He was slipping away, falling into the sweet oblivion of a dead faint.

  HE FELT a hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him, waking him up. He stirred and tried to open his eyes. How long had he been out? Where was he? Was the nightmare over?

  He looked up and saw Evelyn staring down at him. The pink light of dawn was just over her shoulder.

  There were other lights, too: headlights, flashing blue lights, flashing red.

  “Steve? Are you all right?”

  He sat up slowly. The world began to spin, and he lay back down. Evelyn was instantly beside him. She cradled his head in her arms. “Take it easy.” Now he could see the police cars that had come through the access tunnel, and an aid car. Cops. Badges. Paramedics. Flashlights and headlights and people moving around shouting orders, questions, answers.

  He tried to sit up again, and this time he made it.

  “So how’re you doing?” she asked.

  “I—I’m not sure.”

  “Where’s Tracy?”

  Steve was sitting, but as he probed his beleaguered mind for an answer to Evelyn’s question, the thought of Tracy pierced his soul, and he felt he would collapse again. He could see her face, young, pretty, and so intense at times. He loathed the sound of his words. “Tracy . . . is dead.”

  Evelyn looked so tired, so beaten down, and this news was one more cruel blow. He touched her shoulder to steady her.

  “Was it the dragon?” she asked.

  He nodded and knew he could say no more
. He could not bear to recount or describe that horrible scene. But of course Evelyn had been there herself, was still there. She understood.

  Steve looked across the loading yard and saw state troopers and fire fighters examining Harold Bly’s body with their flashlights, muttering to one another in amazement. Bly appeared to be in two halves. From up here Steve could see the town and thought he’d never seen so many flashing lights in one place. Fire trucks, patrol cars, aid cars, private vehicles with emergency flashers. The whole valley had turned out, maybe the whole county.

  “Where’s the dragon now?” she asked.

  “It’s dead,” he said simply, noticing how different it felt to share some good news for a change.

  Good news had been in short supply for Evelyn as well, and she was glad to receive it. “Are you sure? Did you kill it?”

  He looked across the yard at the nearly demolished telephone truck and the broken, mangled ladder. “No. I would say God did that—God and Levi Cobb. I just helped.” He struggled to his feet with her assistance. “It died—it died with Harold Bly in its mouth, right over there . . .”

  Evelyn was puzzled. “Where?”

  The area Steve indicated was empty except for the police and medics now bagging up Bly’s body. They walked over for a closer look, Steve leaning on Evelyn for support.

  They found Levi’s lance, still welded to the end of the ladder but now bent several ways in several places. The tip was intact, razor-edged, and clean—no trace of blood or flesh or scales. “Heh—look at that. Levi was right. He was the last one anyone wanted to listen to, but the old fanatic was right.”

  “Who is Levi?” Evelyn asked.

  Steve didn’t want to share more bad news. “A good friend. He saved my life. He built this lance—”

  “Where is he?”

  Steve knew he was telling the truth. “He’s safe. He’s out of harm’s way for sure.”

  He carefully retraced where he remembered the neck had fallen. He didn’t expect to find what he was looking for, but was pleasantly surprised when he did.

  “Here,” he said, stooping down. “Recognize this?” He picked up a piece of metal, sharp-tipped, sharp on one edge, and broken off. It was the tip of Evelyn’s hunting knife. He handed it to her. “In case you ever have any doubts . . . you were there, all right. You stood up to the dragon, and he couldn’t whip you.”

  They would never have to prove to themselves what they’d been through, but this special token brought Evelyn such assurance that tears came to her eyes.

  A trooper asked, “Excuse me. Did either of you see what happened here?”

  Evelyn looked at Steve, and Steve looked at the trooper, unable to think of any answer that would not take several days.

  “Yes, officer,” he answered after a futile attempt to think of something. “I saw what happened.”

  “Well,” the officer said, “I’ll need to get a statement—”

  Oh sure, Steve thought, like you’re going to believe it?

  Evelyn cut in, “Sir, this man is injured, and I’d like to get him out of here.”

  He nodded toward the access tunnel and let them pass but reminded them, “We’ll need a statement.”

  Then someone shouted from the tunnel, “It’s all his fault! Arrest him, you hear me?” It was Carl Ingfeldt, tugging at two burly troopers and pointing in Steve’s direction. “Benson! You killed our dragon!” He yelled up at a trooper, “He killed our dragon! It was our dragon, and he killed it!”

  Steve approached and noticed the black stain was still there on Carl’s shirt. “Carl, calm down.”

  “We’ll sue you, Benson!”

  One of the troopers asked Steve, “Do you know what he’s talking about?”

  Steve gave the trooper an apologetic look. “He’s beside himself.”

  Both troopers nodded in agreement.

  Steve looked at Carl curiously. “You’re going to go into a court of law and testify that I killed your dragon? What dragon?”

  Carl became flustered and couldn’t answer.

  Steve pointed to the black stain and lowered his voice to share a secret. “You still have him in there, Carl. You haven’t lost a thing.”

  “Okay, fella,” muttered one of the troopers, “clear the area. Go home.”

  Carl didn’t change his tune as the troopers prodded him along. “You killed our dragon, Benson! We’ll get you for that!”

  “Move!” a trooper warned.

  Steve and Evelyn could hear him arguing with the troopers, his voice a faint echo, long after they disappeared down the tunnel that led out of the complex.

  Evelyn was considering Carl’s ravings. “So now we have a witness in case you ever have any doubts. You really did kill the dragon.”

  Steve needed to check out one more thing to prove to himself that he had, indeed, killed the dragon. He looked down at his torn shirt. The black slime had turned to an ash gray dust he could easily brush off. He unbuttoned his shirt. Over his heart there was no wound, no pain. “I’m free,” he said simply.

  Evelyn gave him a hug, and then they turned and walked arm-in-arm through the tunnel, down the long ramp, over the bridge, and finally to Steve’s camper, still parked in front of Charlie’s Tavern and Mercantile. The camper’s tires were flat, of course, but now the windows were all broken out as well and the inside stripped clean of Steve’s gear, clothing, and guns.

  Oh, well, he thought. The bunk was still intact. At least there was still a mattress on it.

  Steve climbed in, his feet crunching on broken glass, and flopped on the bunk, dazed and exhausted.

  “I’ll see if I can find Lieutenant Barnard,” Evelyn said. “You going to be okay?”

  She got an unintelligible noise spoken into the mattress for a reply. She closed the door gently. One remaining shard of glass fell from the empty window frame and tinkled to the floor.

  Steve lay limp on the mattress and just let his mind wonder.

  He saw Cliff again, much younger, holding Evelyn by the hand and holding up a huge cutthroat trout, bigger than he’d ever caught before, and, he was careful to point out, bigger than Steve had ever caught before . . .

  Aw, c’mon, Cliff, it wasn’t that big . . .

  He could see Tracy up in Homer’s cabin, looking strangely at home in that little place, living in a part of her past when life was so much simpler and mistakes were not so costly . . .

  She wasn’t just beautiful on the outside.

  He dwelt a moment on the last sight he’d ever had of Levi Cobb, lying on the ground, slipping into death as peacefully as slipping into a sleeping bag.

  You weren’t crazy, old buddy. You had your quirks, but one thing you had that nobody else had was peace. That says a lot.

  He even considered Harold Bly for a moment, perhaps the best embodiment Steve had ever seen of all that could go wrong in a man. Harold was the very last of the Hyde family, and maybe that was just as well. The dragon came in with Benjamin Hyde, filled its cave with bones over the years, and finally went out with Harold. “If This Be Sin, Let Sin Be Served,” they had said. Not such a great idea after all.

  So count me out, he thought.

  With enough sorrow to last him for years, Steve just wanted to get out of Hyde River, away from this mess, these people, these patrol cars and cops and questions. He needed a shower, he needed some sleep, he ached all over, he was tired, he was filthy . . .

  But he wasn’t burned. That thought occurred to him again. He should have been a black cinder by now, deader than dead, gone from this world, pure history.

  But he wasn’t. He’d fought the dragon too, just like Evelyn. And just like Evelyn, he’d come out a winner.

  Which brought another thought, a thought that had been so far away for so long: “Hey, I’m not going to die today. I get to live. I don’t have to be dragon manure; I don’t have to end up a pile of bones in that cave.” He couldn’t quite believe it, so he told himself again, “You get to live, Benson. You’re free.�
��

  The sun would be up in just a few minutes. Wow. He’d be alive to see it.

  Flashing lights filled the camper for just a moment as an aid car roared by, heading for West Fork. He figured there’d be more of that kind of noise but decided he could sleep through it.

  He felt at peace; that was the main thing. Even in sorrow, while the fire crews mopped up the fires and the police rounded up the looters, while investigators asked their questions and the rioters slinked back to their homes, he felt so much at peace that he fell asleep right there—kind of like Levi—in his battered and broken camper, and slept until Evelyn and Lieutenant Barnard finally woke him and offered him a lift out of the valley.

  Epilogue

  THE MEDIA carried the story of the Hyde River riot for a day or two, blaming poverty, unemployment, and labor/management disputes for the sudden outburst of destruction and violence.

  The police concluded that Harold Bly had been torn in two— accidentally or intentionally they could not determine—by an articulated loader they found parked near his body. They determined that the fires around town were set by rioters and the burned corpses were victims of those fires. Because no witnesses came forward, there were few arrests other than looters caught in the act. The only persons regarded as missing were Charlie Mack, Phil Garrett, Sheriff Lester Collins, and Sheriff’s Deputy Tracy Ellis. Anyone else not found, either dead or alive, was accounted for by friends and relatives and crossed off the list.

  The people who were driven out of Hyde River have left for good; those still living there have had nothing to say.

  Levi Cobb is dead; the binder he had me read is gone and most likely destroyed. His killer, Harold Bly, is dead as well, so that case was summarily closed. Levi’s body was released to his sister, who with power of attorney and the key Levi gave me opened Levi’s safe-deposit box and recovered the original diary of Holly Ann Mayfield, the Hyde River Charter, and the other documents Levi had collected. Levi’s legacy remains.