Wyvern and Company (3 page)

Randall was a bully, in every sense of the word. He didn't
bother me, because I was taller and outweighed him. That didn't stop him from
taunting Mack every chance he got, though.

"When will Mack come home?" I asked.

"In a day or two, I think," Mom said. "I hope
this doesn't traumatize him too much. He went through a terrible ordeal—not
only at the party but in that jail cell, too."

"Yeah." I shook my head—Mack's mom lived in Colorado
with her second husband. She'd left Mr. Walters when Mack was eight; that was
traumatic enough for him to deal with.

"What do you think attacked those kids?" The rest of
them began to weigh on my conscience—I hadn't really thought about all the
classmates who'd died, or the others still in the hospital with injuries—I'd
only thought about my best friend at first.

"Son, we can't say for certain," Dad said. "Don't
worry about it—I'm sure someone is on their trail. I only hope they can do
something about it when the monsters are found."

"I'm going to bed," I announced. "Mom, how long
will the police keep my cell phone?"

"I don't know. It's evidence and that means they may hold
onto it. You can borrow mine if you want—I seldom use it—until we can get
another one for you."

"Okay."

"I'm more concerned about Mack's phone," Dad said. "I
don't believe the investigators looked hard enough for it before arresting him
and stuffing him in a cell with a repeat offender."

"I could go look for it," I offered.

"You will not go looking for it," Dad said. He used
the voice that accepted no argument, too.

"Honey, we don't know whether the monsters are still out
there," Mom said. "It's too dangerous."

"Yeah. Well, maybe the police will look again. In their
next life."

I stomped toward my bedroom, angry about the many things I
couldn't resolve or define.

* * *

Sunday's news broadcasts were filled with names of the dead.
Warren James, Matt Brown, Brett Brinkley and Travis Duncan were on the list—all
starters on the football team. I considered them friends, although we didn't
hang out together much.

Trace Linn and Clay Holder's names only ramped up my
anger—Mack and I played video games with them. They'd been to the house plenty
of times. Clay loved Mom's brownies.

"I know, baby," Mom sat beside me in the media room
while I watched names of classmates crawl past on the bottom of the screen. I'd
tuned out the reporter after a while—he was only spouting what everybody else was
about Mack's brush with a criminal, when he shouldn't have been in jail in the
first place.

Six survivors were listed, too—two of the initial eight died
during the night. Marilee Short's name was on the survivor list. Yeah, I sort
of blamed her. She'd had a party at her parents' cabin while they were out of
town and didn't know. They were refusing interviews or to make statements to
the press.

Well, I'd be mad, too, if something like that happened on my
property without my knowing.

"Do we know how bad the six survivors are?" I turned
to Mom, then.

"Honey, I can't say," she said, but there was worry
in her eyes. That worried me in return. "They're under medical care at the
moment, but none of them are speaking."

"They're not talking? That doesn't sound like Marilee,"
I huffed. "She never shuts up."

"We'll find out eventually," Mom said, rising from
the sofa we occupied. "Want breakfast? I think we can see Mack this
afternoon at the hospital if you want."

"Of course I want to," I said, hunching my shoulders.
"How did he get away?"

"Honey, Mack's special. We both know that. Come on, I'll
make biscuits and gravy for you."

"With bacon?"

"With bacon."

I followed her into the kitchen to help.

* * *

"Dude," I said, handing an iPod to Mack, who took it
eagerly. I could tell he wanted out of that hospital bed—bad.

"Thanks, man," Mack said, fiddling with the attached
earphones. "Hi, Mrs. G, Mr. G." He took a moment to grin at my
parents.

"Mack, hon, are you all right?" Mom went to the side
of the bed and brushed dark hair back from his forehead.

"Yeah. I guess." Mack lowered his eyes and the smile
disappeared. That's when I knew all the crap that happened to him in
two-and-a-half days had taken a big toll.

"Stop worrying about it," Mom soothed, stroking his
hair. Mack let out a breath when she did that, as if a weight had been removed
from his shoulders.

"Thanks, Mom," he sighed and closed his eyes.

Yeah, Mack sometimes calls her Mom. I wasn't about to argue
with that. His Mom was hundreds of miles away, and I didn't see her standing in
his hospital room, taking care of her son.

My mom was.

"I brought something for you, too," Mom said when
Mack opened his eyes again.

"What?"

She pulled a cold bottle of Dr. Pepper out of her purse.

"Thanks." He had the cap off and was drinking when
his older sister walked in. Mom doesn't let us drink soda at the house very
often. She says it should be an infrequent treat instead of a several-a-day
habit.

She knows Mack loves Dr. Pepper. She'd brought him one. Mack's
sister, Beth, grinned as he emptied the bottle, then smacked his lips. "Good
vintage," Mack said. It sounded so normal, I laughed.

"The doctor says he'll be released tomorrow, if he
continues to improve," Martin Walters walked in and shook hands with Dad.

"Awesome," I breathed.

* * *

School was canceled for three days; Mack came home on Monday
afternoon. His dad had already replaced his lost cell phone, so he called me
the minute he could.

"Dude, we need to talk," Mack said.

"Okay," I hedged.

"Really. We need to talk."

"I said okay."

"Can you come over?"

"Yeah. I think so. I'll tell Mom."

Ten minutes later, I was on my way to Mack's house. His dad
does specialty cabinetwork and sometimes my dad hires him when a job requires
the fancy stuff. Martin Walters is an artist—according to Dad, and Dad would
know—he's an architect.

Mack met me at the door, so I followed him to his bedroom. It
always looked rumpled, but his dad makes him clean up at least once a week.

"You okay, man?" I asked the minute he shut the
bedroom door behind us.

"Yeah. For the most part. I just wanted to talk about a
few things with you, first. I think they're hallucinations, mostly, but,"
he shrugged.

"What hallucinations? After that guy almost killed you?"

"Some of it," he said. "Look, sit down. This
may take a while."

I sat. Mack didn't say anything for a while; he just leaned
against his headboard and stared out the window.

"Those—things," he began, "they looked
half-lizard and half-human."

"Huh?" I stared—I know I did. "Which half was
human?"

"No. That's not it—they looked like grayish-brown humans
with scales and nasty teeth," he said. "Geez, maybe it was all a
hallucination."

"Dude, I've never seen you do that. Keep talking. There
has to be an explanation for this."

"They just walked out of the trees. A bunch of them. Most
of the football team was already drunk, but when one of those things jumped
Matt and bit him, the rest of the team jumped on the thing. That's when all of
the things went nuts. Blood started to fly. When they started eating people,
that's when half of us were either taking pictures with cell phones or calling
nine-one-one."

"What were the other half doing?"

"The ones that weren't being eaten? Running. They didn't
get far. I guess the monsters figured the rest of us were too stupid to run, and
they didn't want anybody getting away. They were too fast for just about
everybody."

"Who were they not fast enough for?" I thought to
ask after blinking at Mack for several seconds.

"Me. They weren't fast enough to catch me," Mack
whispered. "Dude, I can't explain that either—because I have a memory of
running on all fours."

"That can't be," I shook my head at him. "Nobody
runs that fast on their hands and knees."

"I don't remember hands and knees."

"Have you talked to your dad about that?"

"Would you?" Mack sounded terrified at the idea—as
if somebody, somewhere, was waiting to lock him up again because they thought
he might be crazy.

"I guess you're right—that does sound kinda weird,"
I acknowledged. "Maybe it was because of the circumstances that you're
making something up—some reason for you to get away when most of the others
didn't."

"Yeah. Dude, I don't think they'll find anybody else
alive," Mack said softly. "Those things—monsters—were just too
vicious."

"Then you are one lucky dude," I said.

"You think I don't feel guilty about that?" His
words surprised me.

"Yeah. I guess you would," I sighed. "You can't
let this rule your life, man. Out of all the people who could have gotten away,
I'm really glad it turned out to be you."

"Do you think it's weird that I want to hunt those things
down and kill all of them, now?" he asked.

"I think that's normal," I said. "If it were
possible, I'd help."

"I'm not sure either of us would live over it if we did.
That doesn't mean I don't want to, anyway."

"I feel guilty, too," I confessed. "I should
have been there with you and I wasn't."

"Look, if you'd died, I'd feel worse than I do, now."

"Too bad we're not superheroes. That could solve
everything."

"We're not superheroes," Mack sounded depressed. "Man,
I wish your mom was here."

"I think she's your mom, too," I shrugged. "She
sure left the house the other day like a bat out of hell when she heard you got
hurt," I added. "And pissed—man." I shook my head at Mack.

"She made me feel better yesterday—for sure," Mack said.
"Like the weight was lifted for a while."

"Want me to call her?" I lifted the cell phone she'd
lent me.

"If you don't mind."

"Hey, you think your dad will let you come home with me?
I don't think Mom will mind if you stay with us."

"I want to," Mack nodded. "Dad's got a job
going in Visalia, and Beth's classes at Fresno State take up most of her time."

"Then call and ask," I nodded toward his cell phone.
"I'll call Mom."

Twenty minutes later, I drove Mack to my house. Mom met us at
the door. "Honey, how are you feeling?" she held Mack's face in her
hands. He let out a sigh, as if the weight were lifted again.

"I have your bedroom ready," she said. "But you
and Justin can play video games in his if you want."

"I do," Mack nodded and offered her a lopsided grin
when she let her hands fall. "Thanks, Mom."

"Anytime, baby."

Normally, Mack would consider himself too old and way too
macho to accept baby as an endearment. He didn't mind a bit when Mom said it to
him. "I'll have dinner ready in two hours," Mom said and shooed us
toward my bedroom.

"Let us know if we can help," Mack called out.

"What are we having?" I asked.

"Fried chicken."

Mack stopped in his tracks and turned around to walk back to
Mom. "I love you." He flopped his arms around Mom's neck and gave her
a hug.

Mom cooks meat for Dad and me, because we're carnivores. She's
vegetarian. Yeah, it sounds weird, but that's the way it's always been. Mack's
favorite meal is homemade fried chicken, mashed potatoes with gravy and fresh
green beans. Mom wanted him to be happy and get his mind off recent events, so
she was cooking something he loved.

I was all for it.

* * *

Adam's Journal

Sweetheart, Lion and Dragon are coming for dinner
, I
sent.
We have to discuss this mess and what we should do about spawn in the
area. What the hell are they doing here, anyway? This is a breach of the
agreement
.

You can't ever rely on their complete compliance
, she
sent back.
Maybe somebody didn't get the memo after Corpus Christi
.
I'll
cook extra chicken for Lion and Dragon. Mack is here to spend the night with
Justin, and if I have my way, he'll stay until Martin is done with that job in
Visalia. He's too far away if Mack happens to need him, right now
.

Are you prepared if things happen with him?
I asked. It
was a valid question.

I think I can handle it
, she responded.
He's having
trouble dealing with the emotional fallout from that pile of spawn-induced
shit. I'm more concerned about those six kids they have locked up in a mental
ward at the hospital
, she went on.
You know they were bitten.

That's why Dragon and Lion are coming—we have to discuss
this and come to some sort of decision.

Adam, I'm really not feeling good right now.

Sweetheart?

I think I'm going to be sick.

On my way.

Ten seconds later, I held my breath and my wife's hair while
she vomited in our toilet. This hadn't happened in more than eighteen years. I
sent mindspeech to Joey, telling him to get here quickly. He folded in, took
one look at Kiarra bent over the toilet and put his hands on her forehead.

She stopped dry heaving immediately.

I flushed the toilet while Joey pulled Kiarra away and set her
on the dressing bench nearby.

"Let me check," Joey's hands went to her abdomen. "Yeah,
Adam, you're gonna be a papa again. I'll ask Karzac to come so we can confirm, but
this looks like a done deal from my perspective."

"Fuck, shit and damn," Kiarra cursed before shaking
her head at Joey. "Right when we have to deal with the fucking spawn from
fucking who knows where."

"Sweetheart, you're cursing in front of the baby."

"Look, you're probably five or six weeks along, if that,"
Joey attempted to placate my wife. "You still have six more weeks or so to
smite spawn if the need arises."