“Stand well clear,” Bruce said to James. “Your Uncle Hugo would have been a bit more precise with the design and would have understood the tensions and pressures involved, but for me, this is a bit of guesswork. All I know is this baby is ready to fly.”
One of the dogs was standing nearby, looking on with curiosity. In the center of the slingshot sat a truck tire.
“Here we go,” Bruce said, flipping the stainless-steel quick-release.
The dog flinched as the slingshot whipped forward, sending the truck tire flying into the distance.
“Woo hoo,” James yelled, caught up in the excitement.
The tire soared sixty feet in the air, clipping the side of a building before falling to the ground and bouncing along the boulevard.
The dog's ears pricked. The hair on its back was raised in alarm. Its muscles tensed as its head darted back and forth between watching the tire skid down the road and turning back to look at Bruce.
“What are you waiting for,” Bruce cried, raising his arms in the air. “Go. Go!”
The dog flexed and bolted, chasing after the tire. With its head down, the massive beast ran in hard for the kill, tackling the tire as it slid to a stop in the next block.
James laughed, jumping and calling out with excitement. “Do it again. Do it again.”
Bruce smiled. He hadn't had this much fun in years.
The rest of the pack saw the first dog returning triumphant with the tire between its teeth, and began milling around the intersection, sniffing at the slingshot. For Bruce, the attention of so many dogs was still a little unnerving. Jane had always been so confident around them, and they seemed to sense that and respect her. Bruce, on the other hand, could never get used to the stench of their breath, their large canine teeth and lean muscular bodies. They were monsters, not pets, and try as he might, he couldn't drop his guard quite as easily as Jane.
The dog with the tire strutted over toward Bruce, holding the tire between its massive jaws. Bruce reached up and tried to pull the tire out of its mouth, but the massive beast wasn't finished with its artificial prey just yet.
“Come on,” Bruce said, pulling on the tire. Saliva dripped from the dog's mouth. A low growl said, mine. That was enough of a cue for Bruce. He let go and started looking around for something else he could fire off down the street only to hear the tire falling to the pavement behind him. He turned, looking back at the dog as it stood there panting.
“I suppose you think that's funny,” he said to the animal.
“Come on, Dad,” James said, grabbing the tire and dragging it over to the slingshot. “Let's do that again.”
A couple of the dogs stood right in front of the slingshot, and Bruce found it difficult to shoo them away. Eventually, he fired again and the dogs bolted, thundering down the street, tearing up the crumbling concrete as they each scrambled to reach the tire first. They fought with each other, pulling at the tire, fighting over it as though it were a bone.
One of the younger dogs made a break with the torn remains of the tire hanging from his jaw. The others followed hard behind. As they pounded down the street, Bruce became acutely aware of how easy it would be for the two of them to be crushed in the stampede. He grabbed James and pulled him behind the sandstone stairs leading up to the library and hid as the dogs came charging up to them, howling and barking. Sure enough, the dogs overran the slingshot in their excitement. They rolled, play fighting with each other, only their play fighting would have crushed a man. Jane would not have approved, but Hugo would have loved it, he thought.
“That's probably enough for one day,” Bruce said.
“Aw,” James replied.
They retired inside the library for the night, leaving the dogs to play with the tire. A couple of the dogs started chewing on the tires that made up the slingshot. Bruce tried to shoo them away, but they were too pumped up. Oh well, he thought, there were plenty of tires at the abandoned garage. He could always rebuild the slingshot.
That night, Bruce started teaching James to read. Although there were no children's books, he'd pretty much memorized The Cat in the Hat.
During the day he'd found a stack of aging paper inside a broken computer printer. After trimming and sharpening some burnt wood, Bruce and James made their own book, The Dog in the Library, using the charcoal as pencils. Sitting there in the gas light, they drew pictures rougher than any cave painting, writing silly rhymes beneath them. James loved it.
Over the next few days, Bruce taught the young man the discretion and valor of past ages, teaching him about historical figures like Washington, Jefferson and Lincoln, along with the heroes of past wars, General George Patton, Chesty Puller and Hugh Thompson.
James was fascinated by war, as most young men were, and Bruce explained how it was natural to overlook the horrors of battle. He told him about his brother, Jonathan, and the battle on Bracken Ridge, removing any possibility that war was anything other than a waste. War was a necessary evil, nothing more, nothing less.
Back on the farm, everything seemed lighter. Life seemed easier. James still had a glow about him. Bruce found a renewed sense of vigor. In teaching James to read he discovered the joy of learning himself. Perhaps this is what Jane had felt when she taught him to read. If so, he could understand why her eyes would light up when his began to glaze over. There had only been so much he could take at one time, but she had seemed indefatigable, and now he understood why.
The sun was high in the sky.
Sweat dripped from his brow.
A light breeze blew from the west, but it was humid and muggy, giving no relief from the heat of a summer's day.
Bruce was setting a fence post when the eagle struck. He'd been thinking about Jane, but not in a morose way. Since he'd begun teaching James to read he'd seen Jane's life in an entirely new light, appreciating all she'd given him.
With newfound resolve, he dug into the stony earth with his spade, working around a buried rock, trying to pry it loose. Bruce had to dig down a couple of feet before setting the post. Even then, fence posts were more of a guide for the cattle than a cage. The huge lumbering beasts could easily knock them over. But there was something about being fenced in that cattle responded to, somehow they found comfort in being enclosed. They were skittish in an open paddock, but a fence calmed their nerves, even though it was the spikes and pits that kept them safe from monsters, not low wooden fences.
The eagle struck with a sense of ferocity that took his breath away.
The pain that surged through his shoulders caused his whole body to spasm. Somehow, he kept hold of the spade. His fingers locked into a fist around the handle.
At first, Bruce had no idea what had happened. It felt like someone had hit him across his upper back with a lump of wood, but as his head hung down he could see his legs being dragged along in the dirt. Bruce found himself hurtling along parallel with the ground. His feet splayed beneath him, catching clods of dried mud, kicking up dust as he struggled to free himself.
A dark shadow blocked out the sun.
Vast wings pumped up and down, beating at the air.
Blood seeped through where the talons pierced his shoulders.
Slowly, the eagle gained height. Bruce swung wildly, trying to free himself as the hedgerows passed beneath his feet. He could hear someone screaming, but he never realized it was he himself. In some regards, it was as though his mind was operating on two levels; his base survival instinct took over from the sheer paralysis gripping his mind.
Bruce fought, struggling in vain as the eagle banked, turning and climbing higher in the sky, above the fields, beyond the meadows, high over the treetops.
He knew what the winged beast would do next. He'd seen this years beforehand, when one of his father's hands had been taken by one of the monstrous birds. As the eagle reached the low-lying clouds it would release him, dropping him to his death. Then the massive raptor would feast on his carcass, taking his remains back to its nest in the cliff-tops to
feed its young.
The wind whipped by him. The eagle fought to climb higher, struggling with his weight. In the distance, Bruce could see the farm buildings.
James was outside, running madly up the hill toward the fields. That he would see his father die in this manner, torn apart by a wild beast, hurt Bruce more than the talons cutting through his back and chest.
Simon was with James. Bruce could see Simon had a crossbow, but at this range he'd never hit the monster. Even if he got close, he was more likely to hit Bruce than the eagle.
With each beat of the massive wings, the ground receded further. Bruce felt a lump in his throat at the realization that this was all his life would amount to, all he would be remembered by. His life, his memories, the love he shared with Jane, the books they had read, the son he had raised, for him, all that would come to an abrupt end.
The barn appeared so small below him. What had once seemed so large had been given an entirely new perspective, as though a doll's house had been laid out before him.
Bruce could see the corral, the wood pile, the silo and the log cabins. Thoughts raced through his mind. How could life end like this? Life was so cruel, so unfair.
Fear welled up inside him.
Vertigo swept over him.
A tingling sensation ran through his legs at the expectation of plunging hundreds of feet to the hard-packed earth.
James was screaming. Although Bruce couldn't make out what he was saying, the boy's voice carried on the wind.
Rage swelled within Bruce. He had no more than a minute to live, perhaps just seconds before the bird dropped him and he plummeted to his death, but he had to go out fighting.
The initial shock of being snatched from the fields passed, and now self-preservation demanded action, regardless of how futile it might be.
Bruce swung the spade up, catching the eagle on the side of its breast. The spade glanced harmlessly off the dense muscle tissue, doing little more than knocking a couple of feathers out of place.
The giant bird responded by squeezing its talons, crushing his collar bone and sending pain searing through his body.
Bruce reached up with his left hand, grabbing the bird's leg just above its talons, and held on tight, striking again with the spade.
The eagle opened its talons, releasing him.
Instead of falling, Bruce found himself hanging beneath the eagle, holding on to the bird's leg. With his right arm, he lashed out, jabbing with his spade, driving hard into the soft abdomen of the giant bird.
The eagle swooped, dropping to one side, and plunged toward the ground for a few seconds, trying to shake him loose.
Again, he lashed out with the spade, striking at the bird's tail and drawing blood. The eagle leaned down, turning its head back beneath itself so it could strike at him with its beak, but Bruce found he could shift his weight. Swinging and squirming, he flexed his body, shifting his center of gravity, causing the bird to struggle in flight.
With its free leg, the eagle scratched at his forearm, tearing long gashes in the skin, cutting into the muscle.
Blood sprayed across his face.
Bruce struck at the free talon with his spade, swinging with all his might. He caught the base of the leg, carving out a clump of feathers.
The bird reacted, stuttering in the air as it twisted and banked.
The massive eagle dropped into a dive, screaming in toward the ground as Bruce struck at its tail feathers, hacking away at the monster with his spade, using it like an axe. The giant bird pulled up just a few feet from the ground and swooped over a hedgerow, trying to catch him in the branches and tear him free. The ground whipped by beneath him, just a blur on the edge of his vision.
Bruce let go as he cleared the hedge and rolled on the ground, kicking up dust. The spade went flying from his hand.
As he lay there, his body racked with pain, a dark shadow blotted out the sun. The eagle screeched as it came in for the kill, its wings outstretched, its sharp, bloodied talons leading it on.
Bruce rolled on the ground, seeing the monstrous raptor descending on him, its eyes dark with vengeance.
The spade was too far away.
With its wings beating at the air, the eagle's bleeding underbelly was exposed. Suddenly, Bruce saw an arrow embed itself deeply in the side of the eagle's ribcage. Another followed, striking its abdomen.
The bird pulled back, flapping its wings frantically as it pulled out of its attack and changed direction. Another arrow struck the eagle in the neck. The bird of prey turned and fled, blood dripping from its side as it sought the refuge of the skies.
Simon was standing less than twenty feet away, reloading and firing as fast as he could, but his last arrow fell short, missing the eagle as it moved out of range. James came running in to his father, smothering him, shielding him instinctively, but the danger had passed.
Simon and James helped Bruce back to the farmhouse where Martha tended to his wounds.
It was several weeks before Bruce felt strong enough to undertake even light chores around the farm.
James was overly protective. For the young boy, the eagle attack was a formative moment, they could all see that.
Bruce assured James he was fine, that he'd recover, but from that day on, James never looked at his father as indestructible again.
Over the next decade, as James grew into his teenage years, he remained focused and supportive of his father but he also became strong-willed and independent. Bruce told him he had nothing to prove, but his words fell on deaf ears.
Bruce tried to assure his son he was fine, but he never recovered fully from the attack. His back healed, but his collarbones never set properly. They became malformed, sloping sharply to his shoulders.
James told his father he struggled with the idea that one day he'd lose him to another monster. Perhaps not an eagle, maybe a bear or a wolf.
Bruce tried to assure James he was fine, but he could see the doubt in his son’s eyes. As he grew older, James would defy Bruce and Simon by going off hunting alone.
Bruce feared for his son. He'd seen this level of exuberance and hubris only once before in his life, while marching upon Bracken Ridge.
BOOK TWO
W R I T E R S
Chapter 01: Fool
James was nineteen. He was breathing hard as he moved onto the ridgeline above the snow-clad forest.
In the crisp cool air his breath formed a light fog as he exhaled, confirming the direction of the morning breeze. He was upwind from the stag and moving around behind it. If the animal continued in the same direction he'd first seen it moving, along one of the rocky paths running parallel to the ridge, then it was following an animal trail west, around the peak, toward the plains below.
It was early spring in the valley, but snow still blanketed the mountains. The trees around him looked like dwarf varieties, barely six to eight feet high, all perfectly uniform, in the shape of a cone. They had been buried by the drifts, the snowstorms that ravaged the land during winter. In reality, these trees were fifty to sixty feet high, James knew that from his summer hunts. But for now they lay buried beneath the treacherous snow and ice.
To stray too close to one of these idyllic Christmas trees was to risk injury or death by falling down through the branches under the compacted snow. Even with his snowshoes on, spreading his weight across the soft surface powder, sections of snow would occasionally collapse beneath him, subsiding two to three feet at a time as the snow settled.
Crossing an open snowdrift was often the most dangerous act of all, as the shorter trees hidden beneath the smooth, flat expanse of snow would weaken the surface. It was like stepping on thin ice, although there was no ominous crack to warn you of the danger that lay below. For James, though, this was the only way to cut off the stag. The huge beast couldn't negotiate a drift. It would have to circle the peak, and that gave him time to set an ambush.
James loved his father, even if he was too conservative. His father taught him to f
ollow subtle indentations running through the snow, as these were the signs of worn animal paths dusted with fresh powder. The wolves in particular, could smell the pine trees beneath the snow and had learned to avoid these deadly traps. There were a few small paw prints crisscrossing the open ground before him, probably from foxes, so James followed these, weaving his way across the open space, keeping his head low as he crossed the crest of the ridge.
Although the temperature was below zero, James was sweating in the still air. The bright morning sun reflected off the snow, causing him to squint. He opened his shirt, exposing the skin on his chest to the cool air. Sweat wasn't good. Any stray scent could betray his presence. He'd had a dry-bath before dawn, rubbing pine needles and dried leaves under his arms and around his groin to mask his smell.
The villagers had already seen at least one black bear in the forest below, but James was counting on the snow to keep them at bay.
The bears were the worst of the monsters. Where once they had rivaled the height of a man when rearing up on their hind legs, now they towered above the tallest of men, reaching up to fifteen feet and weighing in at upwards of eight hundred pounds. And they were deceptively quick, capable of outrunning a man over a hundred yards. Beyond a quarter mile, though, they lost interest, not having the stamina to sustain the chase. The accepted wisdom was that within a hundred yards, they'd run even the fastest of men into the ground. Bears were faster uphill than down, something James found curiously counterintuitive given how quickly he tired on an uphill run.
His father said it was because of their metabolism. He told James he'd seen a bear kill five men after being shot through the heart with an arrow. James had exclaimed, how is that possible? His father told him the bear had been fatally wounded, but its strength and prowess were such that it could fight on regardless, running the men down and killing them before succumbing to its own wounds.
Bears were lazy—opportunistic was the term his father had used. After coming out of hibernation they tended to stick to the valleys. Hunting above the snow line, James thought he should be safe, but by cooling his body and dulling his scent he was being particularly cautious. His father hated him hunting alone and would insist on coming along or would plead with him to go with a group, but James was a loner. Even a small group of hunters made a lot of noise and left a lot of signs, scaring the prey and making the hunt longer.
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