The Jersey Devil (18 page)

Daryl was surprised by the strength of the emaciated woman. No matter how hard he tried, she kept getting the best of him. She straddled his chest, nails digging into his arms, teeth gnashing dangerously close to his nose. He held her back as best he could, his fingers digging into her neck.

“What the hell's the matter with you?” he said, spittle flying from his mouth as he struggled.

One of her nails pierced his flesh through his shirt. The wound burned immediately, like the world's worst case of cat scratch fever.

“Son of a bitch, that hurts!”

Twisting to his right, he broke her grip on his arm, using his lower half to buck her off his body.

Now that he had one arm free, he balled his fist, swinging as hard as he could. The blow connected with the side of her head, snapping it back. One moment she was snarling like a rabid dog, the next it was lights-out. She slumped on top of him, a deadweight that belied her slight frame. Daryl was careful wriggling out, making sure not to just toss her aside like a filthy rag doll.

When he got to his feet, he took several cautious steps back, massaging his knuckles. The woman was all skin and bone, and the bone part didn't feel good when he punched it.

“Who are you?” He knelt to get a closer look at her face while keeping enough distance between them that she couldn't strike him if she suddenly snapped awake. “And how did you end up here?”

She looked like one of those feral people that he'd read about—usually children left to fend for themselves in the wild, becoming more animal than man in the process. This woman was no child. If he had to guess, he'd say she was in her thirties, maybe forties. It was hard to tell.

Her skin was so dirty, it camouflaged her nudity.

Now the dilemma was, did he get back to the business of getting out of here, alone, or did he bring her with him? Sure, he could carry her now, but what would happen when she woke up, probably madder than a lovesick wolverine?

Their struggle made the pain in his ribs even worse. Getting her out wouldn't be easy.

“You know, I didn't need any more complications.”

He moved some of the sturdier looking boards together so they were a ramp leading up to the surface. All he had to do was walk up them and leave this place in the rearview mirror.

Daryl looked down at the feral woman, her chest rising slowly, evenly. The side of her head was already starting to swell. She may have been bat shit crazy, but he felt bad for hitting her so hard.

“I don't know how I'm gonna do this.”

Getting her into a fireman's lift almost took his breath, and consciousness, away. If she woke up kicking and screaming, he couldn't save her from hitting the ground hard.

Carefully, he placed his foot on the first plank—then the next on the board beside it. He took the first few steps slowly. Any sign of the boards breaking, he could easily bail. So far, they held.

Release from the underground was just a few feet away. Gaining confidence, he stepped faster, his balance tipping from the woman's weight.

At the midway point, the sound of wood cracking made him stop.

Daryl practically ran the rest of the way. One of the boards snapped, slipping out from under his foot. He lost his balance, attempting to fall forward. The woman slipped off his shoulder, rolling in the dirt. Free from her weight, he reached out, digging his fingers in the dirt as both ramps collapsed. It took him a moment to realize he'd made it. Only his feet dangled over the old basement.

He rolled onto his back, greedily sucking in fresh air until the ache in his lungs made him slow down.

Resting on a knee, he checked her to make sure she hadn't gotten any cuts when she flew from his grasp. She was still out, but it was hard to find fresh wounds through all the grime.

He cast a wary glance at the trees, wondering if one of those Jersey Devils was lurking about. He wasn't about to let them take him unawares again.

Stepping away from the unconscious woman, he spotted something just above her hip.

“What the?”

Licking his thumb, he wiped as much dirt as he could from the area, worrying that he might be coming in contact with some kind of open sore or disease.

But no, it couldn't have been that cut and dried.

The woman had a blazing red mark in the shape of a hoof.

The same one he bore above his own hip.

He sighed, hands on his knees, staring at her matching mark.

“I can't leave you now.”

He lifted her again, not knowing how long he'd be able to carry her like this. Maybe when she woke up, he could reason with her.

“You showed me yours. Later, I'll show you mine.”

Maybe then she wouldn't see him as the enemy. Because they certainly shared a common one between them.

* * *

It was dawn by the time they got back to the vans. Bill felt like he was seconds from collapse. The cooler was where they'd left it inside the old Ford. He gave each of them a bottle of Gatorade. Water just wouldn't be enough. There was also homemade beef jerky they all tore into. Protein was a necessity. Carbs would come from the package of hot dog rolls.

“Norm, I think it's best we leave your car here,” he said, swallowing hard. “We need to stick together. The police scanner is in the old van. We can come back for your car and the minivan later.”

Norm took a gulp of Gatorade, his mouth full of jerky. “That old thing c-can carry us all?”

“Don't you worry about my van,” Boompa said. “Besides, it has a false bottom to hide our weapons. If we get pulled over in the minivan, we could be in big trouble.”

“I'll drive,” Ben said. Unlike the rest of them, he drank and ate sparingly.

“No, son, I'll take the wheel. You could use the rest.”

Bill's hand did a strange flutter, an act of betrayal he didn't need now. He stuffed it in his pocket before anyone could see.

“Dad, I sometimes went three days without sleep in that goddamn desert, on high alert the entire time. Trust me, I'm fine.”

As much as he wanted to father him, Bill knew he was right. Of all of them, his son was the best equipped to handle things now that they had gone to hell.

Ben slapped the side of the van. “Let's saddle up!”

April flicked a triangle of jerky at her brother as she stepped into the van.

Carol grabbed Bill's hand. “I keep thinking about what Ben said. Do you think it could get as bad as he says? The Jersey Devil has stayed hidden for over two hundred years.”

“I guess they never had people like us around to royally piss them off,” April quipped, taking the front passenger seat.

“Spoken with eloquence,” Boompa said, settling in behind her.

Bill worried about his father. He was eighty, after all. He looked like eight shades of dog shit, but so did they all. He never complained once, but that didn't mean he was well.

A dark, terrifying suspicion crossed Bill's mind.
He
's
thinking this is a one-way trip. He's not going to leave anything in the tank.

He patted his father's shoulder, feeling the solid muscle and bone.

In a sense, he was feeling the same way. Priorities had changed. If it meant losing his own life to get Daryl back, he'd do it without reservation.

Ben brought the Ford roaring to life. April turned on the scanner. Everyone in the van held their breath as they waited for the first report to crackle over the airwaves.

* * *

A sedentary retirement was never in the cards. When Jean and his wife, Rose, retired in the same year, they worried a lot about becoming too comfortable with days puttering around the house, tending the garden, mapping out what shows to watch on TV that week. Office dwellers their entire working lives, now that they had time, money and freedom, they wanted to explore all of the things they'd missed.

The problem was their friends had gotten old before their time. Diabetes, heart disease, bad joints, the litany of ailments that kept them either on the couch or in their doctors' offices was downright depressing.

When Jean left his job in Boston, he'd been diagnosed with early signs of diabetes. No way was he going to get on the medicine merry-go-round. He and Rose got off their asses, changed their diets, moved to New Jersey to be closer to their only child and grandchildren and got a new set of friends. They'd balked at the fifty and over community, but their protests were short-lived.

It was far from a cabal of aging retirees. Here were folks who wanted to get the hell up and do things.

Like this hike on the Batona Trail. Rose led the team of six couples on the trail after a night of camping. The goal today was to get to the Batona River and do some kayaking.

Jean admired his wife's newly sculpted ass, a perfect apple in khaki shorts. Neither had been this fit since their thirties.

He came up behind her, cupping a cheek, using his body to block his flirtation. “If more men had wives like you, there'd be no need for little blue pills,” he whispered in her ear.

“Try to keep it in your pants,” she said, chuckling. “You heard Jim and Dawn last night.”

“We all heard Jim and Dawn last night.”

“Exactly. You're gonna have to wait till we get home.”

“Hey, newlyweds, how much farther to the river?” Eddie McClusky said from the middle of the pack. His wife, Edna, walked a few paces behind him, munching on a Snickers bar. Jean was astounded by the amount of sugar the woman consumed. And a little jealous.

“Not far,” Rose said. “We should be there in under an hour if I've read the map and markers right.”

“Anyone down for some skinny-dipping?” Jim said with a mischievous smile. Dawn playfully slapped the back of his head.

“I don't need the sight of your pale ass to ruin the beauty of nature around us,” Eddie shot back.

It's amazing
, Jean thought.
We're all grandparents, yet somehow it feels like we're back to being kids again, blazing trails in the forest with libidos that have somehow managed to turn back the clock. Maybe it's the weed Jim brought.

Yes, they'd all sat around the campfire last night toking on what seemed an endless supply of joints that Jim had stuffed in his pack. Jean and Rose hadn't smoked in years, the last time being the day Mary had moved out to go to college. They'd both needed it to get through that night.

Rose said, “Does anyone need a break?”

Jean turned around to see if anyone looked too pooped. He tugged on Rose's arm. “Hold up a sec.”

“Something the matter?”

He double-checked the headcount.

“Hey, where's George?”

George Howard was a retired Philadelphia cop with a chest as wide as a wine cask. He'd taken up the rear, behind his wife, Allison. She stopped and turned around.

“He probably stopped to shed a tear for the old country,” Allison said. “George? We're all waiting for you.”

Now everyone stopped, waiting for the telltale sounds of the burly Irishman to come lumbering out from behind the bushes, zipping up his fly.

“George?” A tinge of concern crept into Allison's tone.

“That's not like him,” Jean said softly to Rose. “All those years checking in with dispatch. He always telegraphs every move he makes.”

“Hey, George, quit pushing so hard and zip up!” Jim called out, his hands cupped around his mouth.

“I don't like this,” Rose said.

“Me, either. Maybe we should double back. He might have passed out,” Jean said.

“Let's go,” Rose said. She was about to tell everyone to head back when the sound of cracking branches made her instinctively cower, covering her head with her arms.

Something wet and heavy crashed to the ground between her and Jean.

Jean felt something hot and sticky on his face. Touching his cheek, his fingers came away crimson.

Looking down, he stared straight into George's dead eyes. The big man looked as if sharks had gnawed at him, flaying open his chest.

“Oh, my God!” Dawn screamed.

“Where the hell did he come from?” Rose said, grabbing Jean's hand to steady herself. “He couldn't have just dropped from the sky!”

“What happened?” Allison shouted from the back of the pack.

Everyone rushed forward, then instantly regretted it. People were, retching, crying out or both.

“How . . . how did, I mean . . .” Eddie was at a loss for words.

Jean looked up into the thick trees. He didn't see a thing.

“He . . . he fell . . . he . . .” Rose trembled, unable to finish her sentence. Allison saw her husband and went into hysterics.

For a moment, Jean heard nothing. Everything around him faded into the distance, a constant but unintelligible thrum.

So it was with deaf ears that he saw Dawn, then Allison, tears streaking down their faces, get pulled into the untamed edges of the trail. He knew Rose was digging her nails into his arm, but he couldn't register the pain.