DP Tool Club 26/CD_ASCQ_26_1295.iso/vrac/df9511g.zip/3R

Text File | 1995-11-01 | 43KB | 792 lines

 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
 THE THIRD BEAST
   by Patrick H. Adkins
 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

            (What do you do when civilization collapses
            all around you into depravity and madness?)

      [STORY THUS FAR:  Anthropologist Carl Stevens' quiet
      suburban neighborhood is disturbed by the screams of
      a woman who claims her child has been stolen. The
      police are called to investigate.]

 CHAPTER 2&3.
 -=-=-=-=-=-=

   I tried to settle back down at my desk, which was overflowing
 with books, notebooks, and stacks of manuscript, both hand and
 typewritten, all in various states of disorder. I had managed to
 excavate a small clearing near the middle of the desk in which to
 work, and a half-filled page waited there for me, my pen acting
 as a paperweight. I stared at the page for some moments, picked
 up the pen hopefully, and immediately lost myself in useless
 conjecture about the odd episode I had just witnessed.

   When I finally remembered what I was supposed to be doing, I
 realized that I was hungry. That presented an excellent excuse to
 avoid actually accomplishing anything, so I went to the kitchen to
 forage for food. I hadn't been shopping in several weeks, so there
 wasn't much to choose from. Eventually I uncovered a forgotten can
 of Spam and a few scraps of bread that had managed to survive in
 the back of a nearly empty refrigerator. If not a culinary delight,
 they at least offered a quick and easy solution to my hunger and
 postponed a little longer the necessity of venturing out to the
 supermarket.

   For some reason or other, I clicked on the television when I
 passed near it. I probably hadn't had it on in three or four
 months, but today the house seemed much more silent than usual,
 so that even electronic companionship seemed better than utter
 loneliness. I was immediately met by a commercial suggesting
 that I turn my life around by dialing a 1-900 number to get the
 advice of a world-famous psychic.

   By the time I found a paper plate and opened the can of Spam,
 cut off several thin slices, laid them out on the bread, and was
 ready to deposit my epicurean concoction in the microwave, the
 obnoxious commercial had been replaced by a still more obnoxious
 "talk program." A female moderator was encouraging several
 weeping women and one young man to describe in graphic detail
 incidents of child molestation to which they had been subjected.

   The microwave rang a bell to signal that my meal was ready. I
 retrieved the remote control for the TV from the cupboard shelf
 where I normally kept it and changed the channel, then went to
 retrieve the food.

   As I settled down at the table I found myself watching yet
 another talk show, a virtual duplicate of the first, except that
 this one had a black female moderator. She encouraged several
 enthusiastic couples to describe in graphic detail the sadomas-
 ochistic sexual practices that were responsible for enriching
 their relationships. I clicked the remote again, with very
 similar result. This time, though, the moderator was an elderly
 male with gray hair and the panel he interviewed consisted of
 eight nude men and women.

   The cameraman or someone in the production booth managed to
 keep small blurry spots over the primary and secondary sexual
 characteristics of the guests, but clearly the view of the live
 studio audience was not similarly impaired. The fully clad
 audience cheered and applauded raucously as the host moved from
 guest to guest, encouraging each to detail the delights of nudism.
 The camera came in discreetly for a close-up on a man with multiple
 blue-green tattoos and focused in on his nipples, which were pierced
 with large metal rings.

   If anything, the standards of afternoon television had taken
 a nosedive since the last time I had tuned in, and they had been
 shockingly low then. The spectacle held me captive, meal forgotten,
 for several minutes, until another tacky commercial -- this time
 for a medical clinic specializing in the treatment of "sexual
 dysfunction" --broke the spell. I took advantage of the interruption
 to turn off the set, smugly congratulating myself on my decision
 several years before to watch television selectively, rather than
 allowing myself to fall into the trap of using it as a time-filler.
 As it turned out, once I stopped turning the set on regularly, I
 discovered less and less reason to turn it on at all, and many far
 more profitable ways to spend my time.

   I remembered, too, a conversation I had once had with a
 colleague about the increasingly lurid nature of our popular culture.
 I defended such material on the basis that clearly many people wanted
 such entertainment and that the alternative -- censorship -- was
 unacceptable. Besides, I told him, you can always change the channel
 if you find something objectionable. His answer took me by surprise.
 "Very well," he said, "but remember that you're going to have to live
 the rest of your life surrounded by people who grew up watching and
 reading that stuff, and thinking it's normal."

   When I finished eating, I went back to my desk and forced
 myself to concentrate on the book I was trying to complete. I
 would have preferred to do just about anything else right then --
 even make one of my rare, dreaded shopping trips -- but I had a lot
 of incentive to keep my shoulder to the wheel instead. My one-year
 sabbatical was drawing to a close. If I didn't complete my book
 within the next two months -- and that included not merely
 finishing the remaining four chapters, but also revising and
 polishing the entire work -- I would find it nearly impossible to
 do so after returning to my classes at the university in the fall.
 If I couldn't get it done now, under relatively ideal conditions,
 I might never finish it.

   Back in my chair at the desk, I picked up a two-inch-thick
 section of manuscript and ruffled through it, all too aware of its
 failings. Prehistory was one of my childhood fascinations, and the
 study of our prehuman and early human ancestors had been the
 motivating intellectual passion of my life. I had finally reached
 a point where I had the time necessary to mold that passion into a
 book. I planned to call it _The Third Beast_ after a line from the
 New Testament, "and the third beast had a face as a man . . ." That
 line struck me as particularly apt when applied to what was probably
 the first creature with a genuinely human appearance, however
 unattractive that appearance might have been by our standards. I
 figured that I could count the apelike _Australopithecus_ as the
 first "beast," _Homohabilis_ as the second, and _Homo erectus_, the
 primary subject of my book, as the third. I also found that title
 nicely suggestive of a line from Yeats' poem "The Second Coming":

        And what rough beast, its hour come round at
        last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

 -- a thematically interesting quote I hoped to work into the book
 somehow, since it might be stretched to fit my theme of a moral
 evolution paralleling the mental and physical evolution of _Homo
 erectus_ into _Homo sapiens_.

   The book was to be a popular review of the current state of
 knowledge in the field of paleoanthropology, with emphasis on the
 multiregional hypothesis of human evolution. It was mostly to focus
 on _Homo erectus_, our brutish forebears, who despite low
 intelligence survived, prospered, and for perhaps some two million
 years surmounted every obstacle they encountered. I had scraped
 together every bit of information I could find about this pre-sapiens
 species, as well as a great deal of conjecture, and hoped to produce
 a work that would paint a compelling portrait of those distant
 ancestors and the world they inhabited.

   _Erectus_ were an earlier form of mankind. Their scientific
 designation, unfortunately, turned out to be something of a misnomer,
 since later evidence disclosed that they were not the first hominids
 to walk upright; that distinction now seems to belong to
 _Australopithecus_. Although paleontologists at first thought of
 _erectus_ as savage ape-men, we now know they were actually very
 similar to us physically; from the neck down they probably would
 have appeared indistinguishable from modern man. From the neck up,
 however, was a different story. Their skulls were thick, with sharply
 sloping foreheads and very heavy brow ridges. The least intelligent
 of them had brains about half the size of ours; but over their nearly
 two-million-year reign as a species (if, indeed, they can be
 considered a separate species, which is debatable), their average
 brain size increased until it nearly equaled our own. Probably their
 language skills were rudimentary, more like the calls and grunts
 common to anthropoid apes than the symbolic expressions of true
 humans. Despite their limitations, though, they populated three
 continents, learned to produce a wide variety of stone tools, and
 conquered fire.

   I saw them heroically, as benighted animals struggling to become
 human beings, and tragically, too -- human in outward form, human
 in emotions, with all the loves and hates, fears, yearnings, and
 sorrows to which mankind is subject, and with our most important
 of human attributes as well, the longing to know and to understand.
 But they were doomed to failure, doomed always to be not quite
 human. Not only were their brains smaller, but they also must have
 been organized differently from ours. Among other things, their
 sloping foreheads suggested a lack of frontal lobes, an area of the
 brain where many of humanity's higher mental functions are said to
 reside, perhaps including the moral conscience.

   The problem with my book was that the manuscript had become a
 sprawling, self-indulgent monster that was already two and a half
 times the size I had originally intended. Much of this bulk was
 composed of material that I knew perfectly well had no business
 in a work of this kind--pages I knew would have to be discarded
 even as I was writing them, but which I found myself helpless to
 omit. Shuffling through the manuscript now, my eyes fell on a
 section that perfectly illustrated this flaw.

   There was a dark side to _H. erectus_. Some researchers believed
 they had practiced cannibalism as a part of their culture. This
 evidence consisted mostly of skulls with the foramen magnum -- the
 hole at the base of the skull where the spinal cord meets the brain
 -- broken open. Some type of implement seemed to have been used to
 enlarge the natural opening there, to allow greater access to the
 brain inside.

   As part of my analysis of this topic I had devoted nearly thirty
 pages of tightly written script to the implications of cultural
 cannibalism, even going so far as to suggest that this development
 might represent a sort of original sin -- the first clear evidence
 of evil in the archaeological record of the genus _Homo_. I reasoned
 that acts that are merely undesirable or harmful to the individual
 or group are not _evil_; true evil is innately unnatural -- something
 outside the normal, established behavior of the species.

   Cannibalism is rare among mammals and almost always is found only
 under certain prescribed circumstances, such as when mothers eat the
 bodies of their stillborn offspring. Among chimps it occurs only with
 individuals that might be termed insane. The first sane _H. erectus_
 (I argued) to conceive of eating his fellow man when not driven to
 such an exigency by starvation, employed his human imagination to
 invent something completely new -- an act that transcended in kind
 mere murder, which has been common practice since our anthropoid
 days. I even went so far as to refer to this terrible new act of
 conscious perversity as "the birth of evil."

   There was a great deal about this section that I liked, but I
 knew full well that my arguments were built on questionable evidence
 and that I had no business devoting so much space in a scientific
 work -- even one intended for a popular audience -- to what,
 truthfully, could only be considered romantic speculation.

   Sighing, I set the manuscript back on the corner of my desk. A
 lot of work awaited me, reshaping this lumbering, overgrown child
 into a mature, publishable book. Meanwhile, the final four chapters
 still remained to be written. With a still deeper sigh I retrieved
 the half-filled sheet of paper on which I had left off and rummaged
 about for the thought that had been interrupted by the screaming
 woman. I certainly wasn't in any mood to work, but (in the words of
 a well known writer whose name eludes me) I continued to apply the
 seat of my pants to the seat of my chair, and after several minutes
 the ideas began to flow again.

   When I finished the section I was working on I discovered that
 several hours had elapsed and it was already late afternoon. I put
 away the chapter, straightened my papers and books, stood up, and
 stretched. The long hours hunched over my desk had left me stiff and
 cramped. I stretched a second time, then crossed the room to the
 front door and looked out. My gaze automatically went to the Caxtons'
 house, but no one was in sight there and the house looked its normal,
 unremarkable self.

   I was surprised to see that it had rained. It must have been a
 light summer shower. There was an unseasonably cool breeze blowing
 now, which was quite refreshing after the heat of the day, and I
 decided for no particular reason to take a walk. I had been cooped
 up far too long without reprieve, and the cool afternoon was too
 inviting to pass up.

   I strolled slowly, instead of walking at the brisk pace I normally
 would have employed, heading toward the river. Maguireville, as it
 was known to its older inhabitants, was a small, settled
 neighborhood. The land had originally been part of the huge Maguire
 plantation, located on the west bank of the Mississippi, across the
 river from New Orleans. About a half-mile wide in each direction, it
 had been settled just after the War Between the States by immigrants
 from Germany and French Alsace-Lorraine, who carved out their own
 small farms and orchards here. Later, with the coming of the railroad
 and the construction of a train yard at the far edge of the community,
 parcels of land were sold to the railroad employees, who built homes
 along the train route.

   The architecture of the area was simple and sturdy -- mostly
 one-story frame houses built in the classic "shotgun" and "double
 shotgun" styles found throughout the New Orleans area, with rooms
 arrayed one behind the other in such a way that it was said a shotgun
 could be fired through the front door at a target in the back yard
 without damaging anything in between. A "double" was a duplex with
 two sides constructed to this design. The older houses could be
 spotted easily by their greater height, with ceilings up to fourteen
 feet high.

   I had lived in this neighborhood most of my life. My house had
 been built for my grandparents, and I had grown up there. Nearly
 every tree and building along my route had some sort of memory
 associated with it. I passed the house where my great-grandparents
 had lived, then a yard where I had played many evenings after school.

   Of all the people I had known while growing up here, almost all
 were gone now, the parents deceased, the children scattered. Fenton
 and I were very nearly the last. New families had moved in to replace
 the old. And what survived of the hustle and bustle of that elder
 world, of all the daily comedies and tragedies and the ceaseless
 struggle of human life? Only a few relics, like these aging buildings,
 and memories -- memories that were already faded and untrustworthy,
 and which were destined to oblivion when the last of my generation
 died. The thought depressed me considerably.

   When I had travelled several blocks toward the river, I changed
 directions and headed toward the old water tower. The breeze and
 deep green of the trees that shaded the sidewalk during much of the
 route did their part in ameliorating my somber mood. I was about to
 turn around and start back home when I noticed The Nook, a little
 restaurant that occupied the bottom floor of a small, two-story
 residential building that had been converted to house the eatery.
 For several years, since I first had noticed the establishment, I
 had meant to sample their fare. Now, seeing it unexpectedly, I
 decided to accomplish that goal today. I wasn't really hungry yet,
 but I probably would be by the time my meal was actually served, and
 just now I welcomed anything that promised to direct my mind in a
 less melancholy direction.

   Inside, the restaurant was even smaller than I had expected, but
 clean and better lit than is common in such places. I let a waitress
 lead me to a table, took my time reading the menu, and ordered a
 seafood platter. Finally I settled back in my chair and took a fuller
 look around the room. This time I noticed an attractive young woman
 seated by herself at a small table against the far wall. She looked
 familiar, and I spent several minutes trying to place her. She was in
 her twenties, I judged, a petite woman with short, dark hair and
 striking features. Finally, perhaps sensing my eyes on her, she looked
 toward me.

   I smiled and nodded my head in sort of an abbreviated bow, and she
 smiled back -- for a moment, anyway. Her smile was quickly replaced
 by a puzzled expression, as though she found me oddly familiar, too.
 I am normally somewhat shy around women, particularly those I find
 attractive, but I put aside my natural reticence and went to her
 table.

   "Excuse me," I said, "but I believe we may know each other."

   "You're excused," she replied, smiling again in a most winning way,
 "especially since I was just thinking the same thing about you. I
 know I've seen you before, but I haven't a notion where . . . ."

   I grinned back at her, enjoying her openness. "I'm afraid I don't
 have any idea either. I've been trying to figure it out since I first
 saw you. Hi, I'm Carl Stevens."

   "Ruth Petersly."

   "Petersly? I went to school with Jimmy Petersly. Could you be
 related to him?"

   "I certainly could. He's my brother -- one of them."

   "I used to play at his house when we were in grammar school.
 Why, I _do_ remember you. You were just a tyke then. You couldn't
 have been more than four or five years old the last time I saw you."

   Having established our ancient relationship, Ruth invited me to
 join her. Her parents were dead now and her brothers had moved away,
 but she continued to occupy her old family home, which was only a
 block away. She explained that she often frequented The Nook,
 stopping to eat on her way home from work because a girl friend of
 hers worked here. Ruth was employed part time at a bookstore in the
 mall and looking for a full-time job. We reminisced at some length
 while waiting for our meals to be served, updating each other on what
 had transpired in our separate worlds over the intervening years
 since her brothers and I had shot marbles in her back yard. The food,
 which was excellent, served only to slow down our conversation a
 trifle.

   It was toward the end of the meal that Ruth said something that
 made me sit up straight in my chair and brought back the uneasiness
 her company had managed temporarily to drive away. I had just told
 her about the missing Randelle child and her hysterical mother.

   "Strange things seem to be happening all over," she confided in
 return. "If you believe Mrs. Hatchen -- one of _my_ neighbors -- we
 have a monster in our neighborhood."

   "A monster? What do you mean?"

   "Mrs. Hatchen thinks there's some kind of creature living under
 her house. She had a handyman that did work for her -- Joe some-
 thing-or-other. She says he was poking around at the side of her
 house when he started yelling -- blood-curdling screams. She ran
 to see what was the matter and swears she saw him being dragged
 under her house, and that after the screaming stopped she could
 hear even more horrible noises -- low grunting and gnawing sounds
 that came from the same area."

   "Didn't she call the police?" I asked.

   "Of course she did. They came out and looked for Joe, but not
 very thoroughly." She laughed a little, sardonic laugh that was not
 without a touch of fear in it. "They didn't venture underneath the
 house themselves, and the way I heard the story, one of them came
 running out from the rear, looking like he'd seen something he didn't
 care to see again. Their search was pretty perfunctory, according to
 Mrs. Hatchen."

   I shook my head, not knowing what to say.

   "And that isn't all. Mrs. Hatchen claims she hears noises under
 her house regularly now, mostly at night. Sounds of movement, like
 something big moving around underneath there. And gnawing sounds,
 too, now and then."

   "What do you think?" I asked Ruth. "You don't actually believe
 any of that, do you?"

   She stared down at the table between us for a few moments, then
 looked me directly in the eyes. "I do know that at least two other
 people seem to have vanished without a trace -- old Mrs. LaSonne,
 who lived a few houses down from the Hatchen house, and the young
 man who was renting one side of the Ziegler place. And not only that
 -- Mrs. Terrance says that her cats have all disappeared. She says
 that most of the cats and dogs in the neighborhood are gone now."

   I frowned. "Now that I think of it," I said slowly, "I haven't
 noticed any dogs or cats in my area lately. There used to be
 quite a few." I laughed abruptly. "Of course I haven't actually
 been looking for them, either, so I'm sure it must just be that I
 haven't been paying attention."

   Ruth shrugged her slender, shapely shoulders and placed another
 morsel of food in her mouth. "I don't know what to think," she said
 quietly. Almost immediately she laughed, as if to banish troubling
 thoughts. "Oh, it's probably mostly overactive imagination. All those
 old people don't have enough to keep their minds busy!"

   When we finished eating, I walked her home.

   "Which is the house with the monster?" I asked.

   "We just passed it." She pointed behind us toward a building
 on the other side of the street. I  started toward it, but she
 laid a hand on my arm and held me back. Almost immediately, though,
 she let her hand drop and laughed a little, embarrassed laugh.

   "Oh, I know I must seem silly, but please don't go over there.
 That house frightens me. I wish I hadn't mentioned it to you. I
 have a terrible feeling that it was bad luck to tell you about it
 -- as if talking about such things helps make them real, gives
 them substance. I'm really not superstitious, you know -- at least
 not usually -- but if there _is_ something horrible under that
 house, I don't want you to be the one to find out."

   Finally we stood on the sidewalk in front of her house and I
 told her good night. "Let's not make it so long between get-
 togethers this time," I told her. "Are you in the phone book?"

   She shook her head. "No, I'm not. Wait a moment."

   She pulled a slip of paper and a pen from her purse, wrote her
 phone number on it, and handed it to me. Then she turned and hurried
 away. I watched her go, admiring her lithe, sprightly form as she
 bounded up the steps.

                         *  *  *

 -=-=-=-=-=
 Chapter 3.
 -=-=-=-=-=

   It was growing dark now. After leaving Ruth, I walked down
 the block until I stood across from the Hatchen house. My mother
 used to tell me that my unbridled curiosity would be my undoing,
 and I suppose she may yet turn out to have been right; certainly
 I've always had difficulty controlling that aspect of my person-
 ality.

   For several minutes I scrutinized the house from across the
 street. It was probably close to a hundred years old, in need of
 fresh paint but otherwise in reasonably good repair. Rows of
 lilies bloomed along one side of the building, where a narrow
 concrete walk led toward the back yard. Orange and yellow
 marigolds were interspersed on either side of the front steps,
 giving the place a pleasant and completely ordinary appearance.
 I had an overwhelming urge to cross the street and view it at
 close range, but I knew that would accomplish nothing, since it
 was unlikely that I would be able to uncover anything the neigh-
 bors and the police hadn't already discovered.

   In retrospect, it might have been better if I had given in to
 my curiosity and spent a few minutes dallying about the front of
 the house and listening for noises. What was about to happen
 might not have happened, and an old man might still be alive. I
 didn't have a flashlight, and so it was unlikely that I would
 have ventured down the side alley and toward the dark rear of the
 building, where I might have fulfilled my mother's grim prophecy.
 But instead I valiantly resisted temptation, continued walking
 home, and events took a different deadly course.

   I had traveled two or three blocks and was on Tyler Street when
 I became aware that someone was following me. I turned and saw a
 young man, probably still in his teens, half a block behind me.
 He had been walking fast, as if trying to catch up with me, but
 when I looked in his direction he first slowed his pace, then
 changed course and turned into the yard he was passing. I couldn't
 say exactly what it was that made me suspicious, but I had the
 distinct impression that he had changed his destination at the last
 moment. I kept walking, but glanced back several times to see if he
 reappeared.

   Then for the first time I heard a high-pitched, trilling sound
 -- a loud, drawn-out, three-note whistle that was probably audible
 for many blocks. I wasn't sure why, but the sound, which seemed
 to come from about the place where the boy had disappeared, made
 me very apprehensive, and I quickened my pace.

   When I glanced back again my follower had reappeared, this time
 accompanied by another young man. The two of them were laughing
 and pushing at each other, careening along now at a half-run that
 would soon bring them up beside me. I noticed, too, a third figure
 -- a youth across the street from us who was running at full throttle.
 Within a few moments he passed my position and continued on down the
 block toward the next corner, where Tyler and Wilson intersected.

   There have been few times in my life when I have sensed danger
 with more certainty than I did then. I had nothing firm to base
 my fear on, and I realized that my overwrought imagination
 predisposed me to all kinds of unfounded fears, but my adrenal
 glands had already gone into high gear, the hair at the back of
 my head was bristling, and I felt as if every molecule of my body
 was suddenly on alert.

   Past the intersection, partway up the next block I saw an
 elderly man near the street, moving his garbage cans out to the
 curb in front of his house. It occurred to me that if I sprinted
 in his direction I might be able to reach him before my followers
 caught up with me. The presence of a witness probably would be
 sufficient to discourage them from whatever mischief they had in
 mind. Before I could put this plan into action, however, the
 youth who had run past me on the other side of the street reached
 the intersection. Instead of continuing on in the same direction
 he had been traveling, he crossed over to my side of Tyler and
 now stood at the corner just ahead of me, apparently waiting for
 me.

   I saw clearly what they had in mind. They had me trapped between
 them. I am not a small man, but even at six-foot-one and a hundred
 ninety pounds I knew that I would have a serious problem trying to
 defend myself against three opponents. Had luck not interceded, I
 might not have survived the encounter. As I was debating what course
 of action to take, I came upon a pile of rubbish next to the curb.
 Someone must have cleaned out a shed or similar storage area, for
 there were cans of old paint, several cartons overflowing with
 assorted pieces of wood and metal, and several lengths of pipe. I
 snatched up a stout segment of pipe about three feet long and perhaps
 two inches in diameter, hefted it in one hand, and then continued in
 the direction I had been going, which would take me past the lone
 fellow ahead of me.

   As I got closer I could see him somewhat more clearly. Dressed
 in an unbuttoned shirt that hung loosely about him, revealing a
 bare and hairy chest, he presented a rather predictable portrait
 of youthful male aggression, complete with close-cropped hair,
 close-set, glassy eyes, and several dark blotches on his arms. I
 eventually realized these were tattoos that had already faded and
 begun to run together to form blue-green blobs.

   The boy, who couldn't have been more than about seventeen,
 backed away as I came toward him, moving his empty hands in
 little circles in the air in front of him in a way that was
 probably intended to indicate that he didn't intend me any harm;
 and he started to laugh in an odd, humorless way that was not so
 much frightening as disgusting. I passed him, reached the corner
 and turned down Wilson, at first walking backwards so that the
 young ruffians could not take me unaware. I held the hefty pipe
 in my right hand, ready to swing it with all my might if forced
 to defend myself. The other two youths came into view, gave
 their companion several friendly slaps on the back, and the three
 of them moved on, laughing in that same mindless fashion as they
 crossed the intersection and continued on down Tyler Street. I
 waited until they were a safe distance away, then hastened on
 toward home.

   I had almost reached my house when I heard that trilling,
 three-note whistle again. It was only then that I remembered the
 old man I had seen ahead of me on Tyler Street. For a moment I
 hesitated. If those thugs redirected their attention toward him,
 he wouldn't stand a chance. Then, indistinctly, I heard a
 distant voice yelling for help.

   Truthfully, I wanted nothing more than to reach the safety of my
 own home. The nearness of danger had left me emotionally drained. I
 was trembling. I certainly did not want to face those thugs again,
 and yet I knew I would never forgive myself if I didn't do something
 to help that man. Clutching the length of pipe in my hand, I crossed
 the street at an angle and ran in the direction from which the plea
 for help had come. My worst apprehensions were verified when I reached
 a position from which I could see them clearly; there was a street
 lamp nearby, and it illuminated the scene quite fully. The three
 youths had assaulted the old man in front of his house. He lay on the
 ground surrounded by them. As he struggled to rise, they kicked him
 repeatedly. With each kick he let out a agonized moan. Laughing and
 dancing around him, they continued to kick him in the sides and face.
 It was then that I realized what the laughter of these boys reminded
 me of -- the mirthless cackle of hyenas.

   "Stop!" I cried. Without stopping to think, I raised the thick
 length of pipe above my head and dashed head-long toward them.

   I must have constituted quite a sight, but if I expected my
 threatening demeanor to send them scurrying off in a panic, I was
 very wrong. Instead they spread out in front of me and prepared
 to fight me. My opponents were all younger than I had first
 thought, somewhere in their mid to late teens, I guess, but the
 most startling thing about them was their faces. Because of the
 dim light I hadn't been able to observe two of them clearly until
 now, and they presented a far more arresting sight than their
 accomplice. Their eyebrows were shaven and their faces painted.
 Using what I took to be lipstick, they had outlined their mouths
 with a thick, ragged border of scarlet, making them look like wild
 beasts interrupted at their kill, their mouths covered with blood.
 This, combined with the savage glee in their eyes, gave them a
 shocking appearance, but by now I couldn't have retreated if I
 wanted to. I was already upon them, swinging the stout pipe with
 all my strength.

   One of them leaped forward to meet my attack, and something in
 his hand glistened in the light. It was a long, wicked-looking knife
 -- a butcher's knife or something similar. I altered my aim at the
 last moment so that I struck his arm as he lunged toward me. The pipe
 connected solidly, flinging the knife out of his grasp. While he was
 recovering from the stunning blow, which might well have shattered
 his forearm, I swung back in the opposite direction and struck him in
 the shoulder, knocking him to the ground. Then, stepping past him, I
 went after his two companions, raining blow upon blow down upon them
 and driving them away from where the old man lay on the ground.

   While I was thus occupied, the first youth recovered sufficiently
 to scramble after his knife, and when I turned around I found him
 coming toward me again, that deadly weapon in his hand and murder in
 his eyes. I realized then that if I were to survive I would have to
 kill him, or at the very least deliver blows that _might_ kill him. I
 waited until he lunged at me, then swung my club up behind my back
 and then forward with all my strength, aiming at his head instead of
 his limbs or torso.

   I put every bit of force I could muster into the blow, and had it
 connected, I have no doubt that it would have smashed his skull like
 an egg shell; but at the last moment he realized what was about to
 happen and threw himself backwards, so that instead of connecting
 with his head the pipe missed him by no more than a fraction of an
 inch. His maneuver probably saved his life, but at the expense of
 his balance. Losing his footing, he tumbled to the pavement and lay
 there, stunned by the fall.

   Now I turned to renew my assault on his companions, who had crept
 up close behind me while I was occupied. Before I could leap away,
 they threw themselves upon me from either side and wrenched the club
 from my hands. One of them punched me in the gut, and while I was
 gasping for air, the other managed to twist my right arm behind my
 back and push it into a position that left me virtually helpless and
 in excruciating pain every time he nudged it upward. I knew that he
 could easily break my arm just by forcing it a little higher.

   By now the first youth had risen from the pavement and recovered
 his knife. While one of them continued to hold me immobile, he and
 the third boy danced around me, punching and kicking me and laughing
 that same hyena laugh. The one with the knife kept poking at me, and
 more than once the blade succeeded in pricking my skin. When he backed
 away, the other youth leaned in close to my throat and snapped at me
 with his teeth, as if to bite me. I don't think I'll ever forget the
 bizarre expression on his face.

   I knew that they would kill me unless I somehow managed to
 fight back. The only advantage I had was that I was larger and
 stronger than any one of them, though that was proving to be of
 little actual benefit. I waited until the two in front of me let
 up their torment for a moment, and then I acted.

   Sweeping backward with one foot, I caught the leg of the youth
 behind me and ripped it from under him, so that he had to struggle
 to avoid falling. As he started to go down, I twisted my arm free
 from his grip and flung myself toward the other two. The one with
 the knife stabbed at my chest, but I dodged to one side, caught his
 wrist in one hand and his elbow in the other, and snapped his elbow.
 The knife fell from his useless fingers and I turned on the remaining
 boy. He was coming toward me with outstretched arms, as if to wrestle.
 I waited until he was almost on top of me, then balled up my fist,
 pulled back my arm, and put every bit of my strength and weight into
 shoving my knuckles as deep into his face as I could. I heard his
 teeth crunch.

   Victorious, chest heaving, I stood over them, ready -- even eager
 -- to continue the fight. The physical exertion, the pumping
 adrenalin, the nearness of death, and the righteous anger that
 welled up in me in response to their murderous, unprovoked attack had
 so thoroughly altered me from my normal reserved and deliberate self
 that I was ready to crush the life from them with my bare hands. The
 three savages -- and they deserved that appellation as thoroughly as
 the most merciless and warlike of "primitive" people -- didn't wait
 to find out what I would do next; they crawled off a ways, then rose
 and ran, so that I now found myself alone with the old man, who lay
 lifeless on the grass nearby.

   Kneeling beside him, I realized who he was -- Mr. Mosley, a
 pleasant, gray-haired gentleman I had chatted with several times
 in the past. There was no movement, no indication of life. I rolled
 him over and shook him slightly. "Come on, Mr. Mosley," I found
 myself saying. "You're all right now. They're gone. Say something.
 Are you alive?"

   Glassy, fixed eyes stared up at me. His mouth was partly open
 and covered with blood. I took his arm and tried to find his pulse,
 and when I was unsuccessful at that I put my ear against his chest
 and listened. I could find no sign of life.

   Standing up, I brushed myself off. Then I looked up and down
 the street. No one was in sight. That was certainly odd. We
 had made sufficient noise to arouse everyone on the block, yet
 all the houses were quiet and no one had come out to investigate.

   I looked down at the old man's body one last time, then started
 home at a brisk trot. I was fairly certain he was dead, but I wanted
 to get him to a hospital as quickly as possible just in case I was
 wrong and there was still some life in him. When I got home I
 immediately phoned the three-digit emergency number and provided a
 brief summary of what had happened. The woman on the other end of
 the line had a pleasant, helpful manner that struck me as a bit too
 professional and emotionally detached for the situation. She asked
 me to return to the scene of the attack and wait there with the
 victim until the ambulance and police arrived.

   I was parched, though, and fixed myself a glass of iced tea first
 -- a plastic cup, actually. The tea had been brewed hours before,
 and after downing the first cup I fixed a second and carried it back
 with me.

   While I was still some distance away I saw a small white vehicle
 pass the intersection ahead of me and continue on in the direction
 of Mr. Mosley's house; it looked like a police car. When I reached
 the corner and looked down Tyler Street, I could see that it was
 indeed a cruiser. It had pulled up near the curb close to where the
 body lay. As I watched, two officers dragged something big to the
 car and shoved it into the back seat. Then they closed the door, got
 into the cruiser themselves, and drove away.

   I kept walking until I reached the place where Mr. Mosley had
 lain. His body wasn't there any more. I was certain that what I had
 seen the officers manhandling into the back of their vehicle was
 Mr. Mosley's corpse, but that was such an unlikely thing to happen
 that I didn't fully believe my own eyes.

   I just stood there, too surprised to even attempt an explanation.
 Then, too, I expected other police cars and an ambulance to arrive
 soon. When I began to wonder whether or not I had somehow gotten
 confused and not returned to the same place, I scrutinized the
 sidewalk. Several large spots of blood clearly indicated that I was
 not mistaken.

   I waited in the eerie stillness for nearly an hour before
 another police car finally arrived. An officer took my report. I
 didn't tell him what I had seen as I walked back here; I only said
 that the body had been gone when I returned. He and his partner
 knocked at Mr. Mosley's house, but got no response. I told them that
 I thought he was a widower and lived alone.

   "He was probably dazed," one of the officers said. "He probably
 wandered off."

   I shook my head and started to explain why I didn't think that
 possible, but changed my mind. They weren't listening to me anyway.

   Finally I was dismissed. The stout piece of pipe I had used as
 a weapon lay on the ground where I had unintentionally flung it
 following my battle with the young savages, and I recovered it on
 my way and carried it home with me. When I went to bed later that
 night, after a great deal of fruitless thought, I positioned it
 carefully on the floor nearby, beside my flashlight, where I could
 avail myself of it if the need arose.

   It took a long time to fall asleep.

                          {DREAM}
                  ***[To Be Continued]***

 Copyright 1995 Patrick H. Adkins, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
 --------------------------------------------------------------------
 Patrick H. Adkins is the author of three traditionally published
 books Lord of the Crooked Paths, Master of the Fearful Depths, and
 Sons of the Titans, all from Ace Books/Berkley Publishing Group).
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