The Topher Trilogy

Chapter 2 - Pounds of Flesh-5

“Good Lord!” he wailed.

Topher moaned. He shook his head and opened his eyes. Something wet and pungent lay next to him. A wolf’s snout! The rest of it lay out in a great mound of muscle and nappy fur. It opened its eyes. They were dark and yellow and run through with red veins. A deep growl rumbled from its chest. Its foul breath blew Topher’s hair back from his forehead. He scrambled back, trying to ignore the pain in his skull, and was relieved to find that he had been able to hold on to his mace.

The beast gathered its legs beneath its body and launched itself with a growl. Topher shut his eyes and swung blindly before him, swung as hard as he could. He connected, heard the wolf yelp, and his shoulder popped, and pain flared through his arm. The beast flew past him and crashed into a tree, its head crushed. Topher fell to his knees, his shoulder hanging at an odd angle. He looked around the clearing, and his heart sank. Zorn was trapped beneath some invisible weight, his pelvis shoved repeatedly into the ground. Gertrude struggled with a vampire, its fangs still clinking against his neck collar. He swayed. He was hit from behind and sent sprawling to the ground. His shoulder popped back in and he cried out.

“Stay down!” somebody yelled. He tried to get up but a boot stomped on his back. “I said, stay down.”

And then, for the second time that night, something struck his head and knocked him out.

“If he’s dead, I get his mace.”

“Shhh! His lids are fluttering.”

Topher moaned, rocking his head back and forth.

“Perhaps he was bitten.”

“What if he’s been bitten by both vampire and werewolf?”

“Maybe he’ll become a werepyre.”

“Or a vampwere.”

“Depending on which bit him first.”

There was a short silence, during which the stroking of beards could be heard.

“At least his neck isn’t broken.”

“What about his spine? I should kick him in the head.”

“Do you think that’s entirely wise?”

“Right. I’ll kick him in the back.”

A blinding pain seared through Topher’s lower lumbar, and his eyes flashed open. Above him hovered the faces of Gertrude and the Crews boy. Zorn’s face appeared shortly thereafter, his cheeks red.

“I kicked him with the strength of ten bulls,” he said. “Is he well?”

“You,” Topher groaned. “Idiot.”

“He’s well,” Gertrude replied.

They pulled him off the ground, his head pounding. Crews gave him a swig from his water bottle.

“What are you doing here?” Topher asked.

“He saved your life,” Zorn said, beaming. “Leaped into the clearing alone and cleared all the ghouls and what have you. A real professional.”

“Did he?”

“Killed the vampire,” Gertrude said.

“And the incubus,” Zorn added.

Crews stood a bit away, measuring the trio. Upset at his roommate’s death, he hadn’t truly seen them in the lunchroom. The two large boys in furs with the strange names seemed impressive enough, but the one in the linen suit (Topher, was it?) was lacking in a variety of ways.

“Didn’t expect to see you out here.”

Topher allowed Zorn to help him to his feet.

“You told me to find out for myself!”

“I tell that to a lot of people. You were the first to listen.”

Topher felt a little small.

“Well you’re certainly the hero, aren’t you? Is this what you do in your spare time?”

Crews smirked.

“Not by choice. It’s about survival.” A howl rang out behind them. “Come on. We’ve got to be going.”

“Didn’t you kill them?”

“I killed enough to get you out of there.” Another howl shot through the air, this one closer than the first. It was answered from somewhere in a different direction. “Are you okay to run?”

“Not necessarily.”

“It’ll be really necessary here in about two minutes.” Crews started to jog away. “I don’t need anybody holding me back.”

Topher’s vision swam in the darkness. He was lightheaded, and his mace, now holstered in his belt, dragged him down, but he was determined to hold his own. Zorn tried to help by holding his elbow, but he shrugged it off. Branches whipped against his face, bloodying his cheeks, so he put his head down and thrust his arm up to deflect them.

“These thorns are a menace,” he declared. “They’re still trying to stop us!”

“Come on!” Crews called. Topher could just make out his white shirt ahead of them. “They’re coming!”

The edge of the wood lay before them, the fields beyond lit by the moon. The boys made for it as fast as they could. More howls dogged their heels. Topher chanced a look over his shoulder; a dozen pairs of red lamps bobbed and weaved behind him.

“This is ridiculous.”

The forest’s edge wavered before him. He saw Crews break through it, then Zorn, then Gertrude. He stumbled on, nearly hitting his head on a tree.

“Come on!” Crews yelled.

How does one indicate that he was trying as hard as he could without stating the obvious? Rather than waste any breath on explaining himself, Topher gasped, “Don’t leave me,” but doubted anybody heard him. He completely expected to not make it. Right before he reached the tree line, right before he burst out of the woods, something horrible would bite into his calf and take him down. His friends would stand there, waiting, wondering where he was, and maybe he’d let loose a feeble “garg” as whatever horrid monster dragged him away, his one good hand scrabbling for purchase, trying to delay the inevitable. But it didn’t happen. He kept running, un-chomped. He was two feet away. One foot away. And then he was through, stumbling onto the gravel maintenance path.

Of course they would be dead, lying there, gutted. Of course there would be no salvation, no team of well-trained student monster assassins whose job it was to take care of such brazen attacks. Of course he would merely run from one slobbering pack of beasts right into another, these uglier and more deadly, and as soon as he realized it, one would launch itself at him, all greasy, tangled fur and drooling, sharp teeth, and of course the last thing he would think right before it decapitated him or severed him in two would be “of course.” But that didn’t happen. Instead all he saw there were his friends standing around Mr. Floyd’s truck, and Mr. Floyd himself, staring at them in disbelief, about to dump a shovelful of gravel into a hole in the path.

Without a word, he threw his shovel into the payload, lumbered around to the cab, yanked open the door, and jumped inside. The truck chugged and chugged, straining to turn over, finally roaring to life just as Gertrude, Crews, and Zorn jumped into the back.

“Wait!” Topher cried.

He grabbed the tailgate with both hands and was yanked off the ground as the truck peeled away. Gravel shot out from beneath the tires, striking his face, chest, and legs. One hit his eye and he saw stars. Zorn grabbed his wrist, trying to pull him aboard. Crews grabbed the other. The truck bucked as Mr. Floyd changed gears, and the boys were sent forward, teetering for one dizzy second over the edge, then they righted, and the truck bucked and shifted again, and they flew back, pulling Topher with them, and he was about to sail over the tailgate when something clamped onto the heel of his boot and pulled him backwards. He grew taut, stretching like a rope being pulled between opposing forces of equal strength and determination. Gertrude tried to anchor everybody by hugging Crews around the middle.

Topher turned his head to see what had him. It was squat and ugly and foul, and it whipped its head back and forth so hard that he thought his ankle would break. Behind them ran a full pack of creatures of all sizes, gaining even as the truck whined at the top edge of sixty miles an hour. Some were as big as the payload of Mr. Floyd’s truck; a few were even larger. Those in front were the smallest and fastest, their red eyes narrowing in on Topher, drooling in anticipation. They were covered in tumors, their white flesh poking through filthy fur.

Zorn tightened his grip on his wrist.

“Shake your boot free!”

Topher kicked once, to no avail.

“Harder!”

Topher pulled his right leg forward with all of his strength.

The wolf at his heel planted its feet in the ground.

Dirt shot up around as it dragged along.

Then Topher thrust his leg back, and the boot flew off and the wolf went spinning off behind them, tumbling along the path like a bowling ball, sweeping five more out of the way. The truck shifted again, and the boys hauled back as one, pulling Topher over the tailgate and crashing in a heap against into the pile of gravel. As the truck sped away, the monsters behind them gave up. They pushed their warty snouts into the air, sending up a colossal howl to befoul the night.

Topher wiggled his toes just to make sure they were still there.

“Did it bite you?” Crews asked. He picked up Topher’s foot before he could say anything and inspected his heel. It was bruised and dirty, but whole. No blood. No bite wounds. He let it drop.

Mr. Floyd whipped the cab’s rear window back and cried, “Lose anyone?”

“Just Topher’s boot,” Gertrude reported.

This, for some reason, tickled the man. He laughed out loud, raspy and harsh, and slid the window shut. The boys didn’t share his delight. They just lay there, panting, nauseated, and terrified.