Drummer Boy: A Supernatural Thriller (34 page)

That’s when a man stepped from the woods and stared down the assault, holding his own saber to match Jeff’s. He was bearded, wearing a cavalry hat, and his breast was decorated with medals. “Fall back,” he shouted, his voice echoing out as if from a cold, rocky cave.

Except Littlefield couldn’t have sworn in a court of law that the words had been shouted; they may have merely fallen from the sky or crawled up through the ground from his feet to his skull.

The man looked so solid that Littlefield wondered if he were one of the re-enactors, but then he noticed the man’s dusty boots were several inches off the ground. Littlefield realized the bearded man was the officer of the dead, the Big Cheese of the buried brigade, Kirk himself. Littlefield drew his Glock, thinking that if he somehow killed the leader, the others would dissolve and drift back to whatever netherland they had escaped from.

The Hole…back to the Hole…

He steadied himself, leveled his arm, and fired.

The bullet whizzed through the empty space where the colonel had been standing moments before, not even a thread of mist to mark his passing.

They were on the railroad tracks when the first shot sounded, and Bobby figured somebody down at the camp was popping one off early, probably showing off a new gun. It’s not like the fake soldiers needed target practice, since they were shooting blanks.

When the next few shots up echoed from Aldridge Park, Vernon Ray said, “They weren’t supposed to start until tomorrow.”

“Maybe the other side isn’t playing by the rules,” Bobby said.

“Lame,” Vernon Ray said. “If you’re going to employ gallows humor, at least try to be funny.”

“Should we go down and check it out?”

“Think the reporter’s there?”

“Well, she could either cover the re-enactment or sit around the office waiting for two dorks to walk in with another bizarre tale of occult encounters.”

“I’m not a dork. You’re the dork.”

“Nah, I’m more like a geek,” Vernon Ray said.

Bobby wasn’t sure homosexuals could be geeks. Neither of them had pimples yet, and Vernon Ray was skinny and Bobby was a jock, but they both read comic books.

Maybe the only difference was Vernon Ray hated Star Wars and Bobby had seen all the movies at least twice and owned a busty action figure of Princess Leia.

Except Vernon Ray would rather kiss Han Solo . . . .

They increased their pace, juiced by the adrenaline of the unknown. The staccato volley of shots was louder now, and Bobby guessed there were dozens of guns going off. “Sounds like a war.”

“If Dad has anything to do with it, the sooner, the better.”

“He’s getting his jollies, then.”

“I don’t want to think about Dad’s jollies.”

Bobby was about to blurt out a comeback, but figured it might hit too close to home. Half of all eighth-grade jokes centered on guys giving blowjobs. Bobby wondered if he’d ever be able to tell a “queer joke” again. Even before he’d begun wondering about Vernon Ray, he’d never found them all that funny, but in the locker room, you had to laugh at them just the same.

Something crackled overhead, making a sudden beeline through the treetops. A yellow leaf fluttered down against the dizzying sunshine. Bobby recognized the sound from the incident with the bulldozer man.

“Crap, that was a real bullet,” Bobby said, instinctively hunching.

“Think somebody’s hunting this close to town?”

“No, I think your buddies from the Hole-”

Bobby swallowed the rest of his sentence. On the tracks ahead of them, three soldiers materialized, running at full speed.

Except their boots aren’t touching the ground.

“It’s them,” Vernon Ray said, his voice flat.

They were 50 yards away. Vernon Ray had told Bobby about the inaccuracy of Civil War-era weaponry. Still, the image of the bulldozer man’s shattering skull was vivid, and Bobby wasn’t willing to bet his life that these dudes’ rifles followed rules of any sort.

“Come on,” Bobby said, grabbing Vernon Ray and jerking him toward the woods.

One of the soldiers shouted-except Bobby couldn’t be sure if the noise was audible or just in his head-and the nearest soldier was slowing enough to raise his rifle butt to his shoulder.

And though Bobby stood near Vernon Ray, it was clear the soldier was targeting Bobby alone.

He either thinks I’m the “leader,” or-

The
pock
of the powder charge echoed up the forested alley of the tracks. The shot nicked off the gravel in front of Bobby, kicking up a rock and skittering it against his shoe. If not for the canvas Nikes he wore, the stone would have cut into his flesh.

“Move it, or your disco days are done,” Vernon Ray said, pushing Bobby toward cover. Bobby reached the edge of the gravel railroad bed and slipped on the loose stone, flopping onto his butt and sliding into the brown bristle of briars and locust. A second shot zipped overhead, and Bobby rolled to his hands and feet, crawling deeper into the scrub brush. Damp leaves soaked his pants and thorns bit into his palms, but he scurried forward toward the gurgling creek, wrestling doghobble and honeysuckle vines.

The tracks were now out of sight, along with Vernon Ray. Bobby was afraid to call out lest he attract unwanted attention, but if he reached the creek he’d be exposed.

Great, I’ve thrown my best friend to the wolves again.

Except that didn’t quite jibe, either. Vernon Ray had not only survived his encounter with Col. Creep, he’d come out of it with his chin up and a little strut. And the troops on the tracks had not aimed at Vernon Ray at all. Maybe they’d picked Bobby because he was a moving target and the most likely to escape, but if the dead really were at war with the living, then any victim should have done the job.

Before Bobby could dwell on the puzzle, other shouts erupted from the woods. He recognized his dad’s voice among them: “They’re on the tracks!”

Bobby wanted to warn them that their quarry wasn’t real, but he didn’t know how many ghosts were around. About a dozen had surrounded him on the mountain just before killing the bulldozer guy, and who knew whether the dead could summon reinforcements? For all he knew, they could have dug up a Confederate graveyard somewhere and raised an entire army.

He held his breath, but his heartbeat pounded in his ears, muffling the creek that splashed between cold stones. The sulfur smell of ghost gunpowder hung in the air. Branches snapped as men plowed through the woods.

Ghosts shouldn’t make noise, right? But they can shoot real bullets. Why can’t these bastards play fair?

Vernon Ray’s dad yelled something Bobby couldn’t make out. No shots had been fired in the last minute or so, but Bobby’s heart had probably drummed a thousand beats in that time. The Living History soldiers were moving up the tracks, which meant the ghost soldiers must have moseyed the hell back up the mountain.

But where was Vernon Ray?

Bobby crawled out of concealment, accompanied by the pungent tang of broken milkweed. Briars tugged at his clothes but he fought through, afraid he’d be left behind.

As he crawled out of the woods, several of the re-enactors ran along the tracks. He recognized Stony Hampton and Whizzer Buchanan, two well-diggers who sometimes worked with his dad. They were out of breath, legs pumping, gravel flying from beneath their boots. Whizzer’s dented tin canteen bounced against his bony ass, making a pinging sound.

Ahead on the tracks, Vernon Ray’s dad was leading the way, his revolver pointed at the sky. The ghost soldiers had either vanished or had kicked into some sort of supernatural gear and choo-chooed away.

And Vernon Ray had vanished with them.

“What the hell you doing here?”

Bobby turned to see his dad limping up the track, a bloody handkerchief wrapped around his bowling hand, a red wound blooming in his shoulder. “Me and Vernon Ray-”

“I told you not to hang around with that little faggot.”

“The ghosts took him.”

“The enemy, you mean.”

“Dad?” Bobby sniffed the air, wondering if his old man was drunk. A hint of bourbon, nothing more, and Dad could always hold his booze. His eyes were not bloodshot, but they were glazed, the pupils engorged.

“Your dad’s up yonder,” Dad said, nodding up the tracks.

“Huh?”

Dad’s face scrunched into a sneer. “Captain Jeffie Davis. The man who planted your seed.”

Dad brushed past him, tottering up the tracks. The rest of the Home Guard had rounded the curve and were lost among the trees. Bobby took two steps after them then realized he was heading toward the mountain and the ghost soldiers instead of away, to the sane safety of town.

“Are you okay, Dad?” Bobby was almost afraid to ask, because it was the sort of question that answered itself.

“Gone around the bend,” Dad said, gripping his musket so tightly his knuckles were white. A thick drop of blood welled at the end of his ragged bandage and his other wound looked like raw hamburger.

Dad took off, heading toward the shouts of his fellow soldiers. A shot fired somewhere on the slope above, then came an answering report from behind. Bobby debated crawling back into the obscurity of the weeds, pondering sitting out the war. But Vernon Ray was his best friend.

Who cares if he has Bambi eyelashes and a little extra wiggle in his walk? He’s the closest thing to normal I’ve known in this life.

And Dad had suggested an even tighter kinship between Vernon Ray and Bobby, but Bobby didn’t have time to figure that one out at the moment. His forehead hurt as if a wire were stretched around his skull. Dad was nearly to the curve in the tracks. In a moment, Bobby would be alone.

He glanced around for some kind of weapon, but the nearby branches were flimsy. He stuffed some rocks in his pocket, the way he did when they passed the mean dogs at the Stillwell house. Rocks didn’t intimidate the dogs one little bit, and Bobby didn’t expect they’d scare the ghosts, either, but the gesture made him feel better.

Th’ow it, doof.

If he’d stayed away from the Hole in the first place, all this never would have happened. But maybe the Hole was bigger than all of them, the inside-out darkness that was barely hidden by the thin painted illusion of life that lay over it.

He dashed after Dad, expecting to round the bend and find the entire Home Guard gone, Dad included, and the rest of the world giving way to a blank netherworld, the tracks dangling into the vast white void of space like a comic book page that had been partially erased.

Instead, he saw the battle lines drawn as if the stakes were not merely life and death, but past and future as well.

The ghost patrol stood in a loose formation behind Col. Creep, their weapons glinting dully as if they’d been salvaged from an underground cache. One of the men had a slanted face, his left eye frozen open, a jagged scar over one eyebrow. The colonel stood with his shoulders square, eyes blazing from beneath the brim of his cavalier’s hat. Kirk’s gloved hands were folded across his chest as if he’d been laid to rest that way, but Bobby didn’t think the colonel had gotten much sleep in the 150 years he’d been dead.

Behind the colonel was Vernon Ray, standing among the ghost soldiers as if he’d been recruited into their ranks. He was a little pale but appeared unhurt. A ragged, stained kepi was tucked down on his head.

Cindy’s words came back to Bobby:
Or they’ll take a replacement . . . .

Jeff Davis and his men stood spread across the tracks, weapons at ready. The rounded tip of Jeff’s saber was pointed at the heavens, the polished edge gilded by the sun. Stony and Whizzer knelt in the gravel, muskets leveled. Five Home Guard troops stood behind them, Dad among them.

Dad aimed his gun and his cheek was pressed against the butt of his rifle as if he were sighting down the barrel. The battle cries had died away, along with the gun smoke, and leaves flapped in the hushed wind. The air carried the funereal taste of October, clouds brushing their slow shadows across the mountainsides and tinting the trees gray.

The two sides faced off, awaiting orders from above or below. Bobby couldn’t be sure because of the woolly beard, but Kirk appeared to be smiling, though the eyes were as black as rotted sin.

They’re making their stand. Which doesn’t make a bit of sense, because even a dummy like me knows they’d be better off defending higher ground.

But maybe they already occupy the high ground, because I sure can’t tell good from evil anymore.

“Looks like you’re done running, Kirk,” Capt. Davis said, as calm as if he were playing a video game.”I’d give you a chance to surrender, but I don’t think we make garrisons that can hold such as you.”

Bobby crouched behind Whizzer and Dad, peering through the gap in the firing line. The copper stink of Dad’s wound blended with the mustiness of the old uniforms and the acrid tang of gunpowder

Capt. Davis raised his saber toward the sky and leveled his pistol. “Ready!” he shouted.

The boys of the Home Guard tensed, though across the way their undead adversaries were blank faced and as stoic as Spartans.

“Aim . . . .”

“Damn, Jeff, your boy’s in there,” Stony Hampton said. “He might get hit.”

“There’s no such thing as innocent blood,” the captain said.

Col. Creep stepped protectively-
floated
, Bobby thought, still not used to the unnatural, liquid motion-in front of Vernon Ray, as if his amorphous flesh could shield the boy from real bullets. Bobby’s and Vernon Ray’s eyes met and Vernon Ray gave a small nod and silently moved his lips.

Bobby couldn’t be sure, because he’d rarely seen the words formed, but he thought they might have shaped “I love you.”

“Fire!” the crazed captain bellowed, and all hell broke loose in a cannonade of thunder, smoke, and screams.

Littlefield arrived on the scene just as the smoke cleared.

Jeff Davis was poking around on the gravel bed with his saber, chinking up rocks and tapping as if checking for escape hatches. The Home Guard looked as if the soldiers were fighting off a long hangover instead of a renegade pack of ghosts. Where Littlefield had expected carnage, bloodshed, and the moans of the dying, he found only the weekend warriors collapsed about the railroad tracks, wiping sweaty hair with their caps and rising unsteadily to their feet.