Farewell Summer

When Douglas walked, his mind ran, when he ran, his mind walked. The houses fell aside, the sky blazed.

At the rim of the ravine, he threw his cap–pistol far out over the gulf. An avalanche buried it. The echoes died.

Suddenly, he needed the gun again, to touch the shape of killing, like touching that wild old man.

Launching himself down the side of the ravine, Doug scrambled among the weeds, eyes wet, until he found the weapon. It smelled of gunpowder, fire, and darkness.

‘Bang,’ he whispered, and climbed up to find his bike abandoned across the street from where old Braling had been killed. He led the bike away like a blind beast and at last got on and wobbled around the block, back toward the scene of awful death.

Turning a corner, he heard ‘No!’ as his bike hit a nightmare scarecrow that was flung to the ground as he pumped off, wailing, staring back at one more murder strewn on the walk. Someone cried, ‘Is that old Quartermain?!’

‘Can’t be,’ Douglas moaned.

Braling fell, Quartermain fell. Up, down, up, down, two thin hatchets sunk in hard porch and sidewalk, frozen, never to rise.

Doug churned his bike through town. No mobs rushed after him.

It seemed the town did not even know that someone had been shot, another struck. The town poured tea and murmured, ‘Pass the sugar.’

Doug slam–braked at his front porch. Was his mother waiting in tears, his father wielding the razor strop …?

He opened the kitchen door.

‘Hey. Long time no see.’ Mother kissed his brow. ‘They always come home when they’re hungry.’

‘Funny,’ said Doug. ‘I’m not hungry at all.’

CHAPTER EIGHT (#ub400fd8f-08b5-5bf1-a6d3-28eb256f00b1)

At dinner, the family heard pebbles pinging against the front door.

‘Why,’ said Mother, ‘don’t boys ever use the bell?’

‘In the last two hundred years,’ said Father, ‘there is no recorded case in which any boy under fifteen ever got within ten feet of a doorbell. You finished, young man?’

‘Finished, sir!’

Douglas hit the front door like a bomb, skidded, jumped back in time to catch the screen before it slammed. Then he was off the porch and there was Charlie Woodman on the lawn, punching him great friendly punches.

‘Doug! You did it! You shot Braling! Boy!’

‘Not so loud, Charlie!’

‘When do we shoot everyone on the school board? For gosh sakes, they started school a week early this year! They deserve to be shot. My gosh, how’d you do it, Doug?’

‘I said, “Bang! You’re dead!”’

‘And Quartermain?!’

‘Quartermain?’

‘You broke his leg! Sure was your busy day, Doug!’

‘I didn’t break no leg. My bike …’

‘No, a machine! I heard old Cal screaming when they lugged him home. “Infernal machine!” What kind of infernal machine, Doug?’

Somewhere in a corner of his mind, Doug saw the bike fling Quartermain high, wheels spinning, while Douglas fled, the cry of Quartermain following close.

‘Doug, why didn’t you crack both his legs with your infernal machine?’

‘What?’

‘When do we see your device, Doug? Can you set it for the Death of a Thousand Slices?’

Doug examined Charlie’s face, to see if he was joking, but Charlie’s face was a pure church altar alive with holy light.

‘Doug,’ he murmured. ‘Doug, boy, oh boy.’

‘Sure,’ said Douglas, warming to the altar glow. ‘Him against me, me against Quartermain and the whole darn school board, the town council – Mr Bleak, Mr Gray, all those dumb old men that live at the edge of the ravine.’

‘Can I watch you pick ’em off, Doug?’

‘What? Sure. But we got to plan, got to have an army.’

‘Tonight, Doug?’

‘Tomorrow …’

‘No, tonight! Do or die. You be captain.’

‘General!’

‘Sure, sure. I’ll get the others. So they can hear it from the horse’s mouth! Meet at the ravine bridge, eight o’clock! Boy!’

‘Don’t yell in the windows at those guys,’ said Doug. ‘Leave secret notes on their porches. That’s an order!’

‘Yeah!’

Charlie sped off, yelling. Douglas felt his heart drown in a fresh new summer. He felt the power growing in his head and arms and fists. All this in a day! From plain old C–minus student to full general!

Now, whose legs should be cracked next? Whose metronome stopped? He sucked in a trembling breath.

All the fiery–pink windows of the dying day shone upon this arch–criminal who walked in their brilliant gaze, half smile–scowling toward destiny, toward eight o’clock, toward the camptown gathering of the great Green Town Confederacy and everyone sitting by firelight singing, ‘Tenting tonight, tenting tonight, tenting on the old camp grounds …‘

We’ll sing that one, he thought, three times.

CHAPTER NINE (#ub400fd8f-08b5-5bf1-a6d3-28eb256f00b1)