The Grip (7 page)

Authors: Griffin Hayes

BOOK: The Grip

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Buck raised the hand wrapped in the bloodied hanky and pointed straight ahead. In the distance Tommy could see the depot shed with a patch of side paneling that looked as though someone had been yanking at it. This was Buck’s handy work.

“You’re sure it was dead, right?” Tommy asked, trying to ignore the squeak in his voice.

“I can guarantee you I bashed its head in with a cinder block. Trust me, it’s deader’n a doornail.”

A minute later they arrived at the shed. On a patch of yellowing grass was a cinderblock caked and crusted in blood, just like Buck had said. And on the metal siding was a thin red line that ran down one of the grooves. The place where Buck had cut himself. Again, just like he had said. But the creature was nowhere to be found.

Tommy looked over at Buck. The stunned look on the old man’s face slowly twisted into alarm.

“There’s no way it could have survived that…” Buck was mumbling as he scanned the ground for a trail of blood and found none. Neither did Tommy. He was about to suggest that they split up and search for where it might have disappeared to, when something far above them blocked out the sun. A cloud had just passed over. At least that was Tommy’s first thought, but deep down he knew that clouds don’t make a sound like the one he had just heard. Clouds don’t sound like industrial sized fans pushing at the air in great swoops. Both men looked up into the sky, blinking at the sun, and it was then, at nearly the same instant in time, that their jaws fell open.

What had blocked out the light was no passing cloud, no Jumbo Jet flying far overhead, but the wing of something that defied logic. Tommy tried to speak, but his mouth felt like it had been filled with a bucket of hot sand. Beside him, Buck’s chapping lips formed a perfect O. And for a moment they stood at attention, watching as something inexplicable circled overhead.

Tommy spoke first. “You seeing what I’m seeing? Wingspan’s gotta be nearly thirty feet. Oh God, Buck, what is that? What is that damned thing Buck? Buck, what in sweet he-”

Buck grabbed the meat at the back of Tommy’s arm and squeezed as hard as he could. Tommy yanked free with a yelp and for another timeless second both men stood staring at each other, the same thought telegraphed on their faces: “Run!”

Tommy looked down and like in slow motion saw the blood dripping from Buck’s hand. A small puddle had collected in the gravel by his feet. And a terrifying thought struck him with the force of a hurricane. He was thinking of the great white shark again, but no sooner had this thought begun to solidify than it was drowned out by the shriek—a nerve shattering sound—so loud it sent the hairs on the back of their respective necks straight up. When Tommy looked up again, the creature had already started to dive.

Both men spun on their heels. The car couldn’t have been more than a hundred yards away. But right now that felt like the longest hundred yards of their lives. They were two men who in all their collective years had never backed down from a single fight. Two men who could hold their own under any circumstance. Two men who were running with everything they had.

• • •

Tommy was the first to fall. He tripped over a rusted metal pipe and went sprawling along the gravel path, arms stretched out like Superman. The flapping behind him had become deafening. Whoomp! Whoomp! Whoomp!

But he didn’t dare look back, especially when he saw the expression on Buck’s face up ahead as he glanced over his shoulder. The old man’s face had gone the color of sour milk. Tommy scrambled to his feet and it was about then that he felt the intense rush of air and the claws grasping for purchase. Something closed around his shoulder like a vice and lifted him up off the ground. Eddies of powerful wind ripped holes into the gravel path. Tommy threw back his head and when he saw the thing up close, the pain in his shoulder seemed to evaporate. Above him was a great coat of matted grey fur, whipping around in the wind, stinking something awful. Twigs and dried leaves covered its underbelly as though it had been scouring the forest floor when it smelled them coming. When it craned its head down, perhaps to see what prize it had won, its blood red slits found Tommy, and it fixed him with a glare that felt to Tommy like he had just met the devil himself. Then came the explosion of pain and with it the realization that if he let this thing carry him off, he was a goner. He reached for his shoulder and grasped one of the leathery talons buried into his flesh and bent it back until he heard the unmistakable sound of snapping bone. The creature’s grip loosened at once and Tommy fell nearly fifteen feet, arms and legs reeling madly. He landed with a thud on a patch of soft ground beside the path, the tumble enough to rattle every bone in his body. He rolled a handful of times before scrambling to his feet.

Buck was the next to fall. He had been looking over his shoulder, watching as the creature with the wispy grey fur and the pointed claws had swooped down and plucked Tommy up like an empty beer can. A big part of him had wanted to stop and help Tommy, but whatever aspect of his brain was now in control had pulled an emergency shutdown and refused to take orders. Tommy was five feet in the air when Buck went face first into the gravel. There was a searing bout of pain as his bloody hand was raked over the sharp stones. The hanky had been torn off on impact and now his wound was caked with bits of dirt and rubble.

The object that had snagged Buck’s foot hadn’t been some rusted pipe or open toilet seat. It had been a human leg, sticking out from the bushes. The body was badly mangled, almost unrecognizable. Almost. But Buck knew right away who it was. Fast Eddy Fick. The hermit who lived in the woods over by Fay’s Crossing. Buck couldn’t tell from the face, of course, since that was little more than a bloody pulp, but he knew by the tan shredded winter coat and the billy boots. The same clothes Fast Eddy had probably worn everyday for the last fifteen years. The body lay face down, arms up over his head as though he had died trying to protect his face.

Buck scrambled to his feet. Ahead of him was Tommy, free now from the creature’s grip, his legs pumping for the car like it was the all state finals. The right shoulder of his checkered shirt was torn and bloody.

Buck looked skyward and saw the thing push off with its giant leathery wings. It rose into the air sharply and then barrel rolled like a WWI fighter plane; it was circling back for another go at them. Even from this distance, he could make out those two red eyes, the size of footballs, glaring down at him.

Tommy was at the car when he turned around and saw it diving for Buck. There was forty yards between Buck and the car. And he could tell by the old man’s glistening face, he wasn’t going to make it. Tommy slid into the driver’s seat and fumbled in his pockets for the keys, only dimly aware of the pain in his shoulder. “Come on you whore! Where are you?” Left pocket… his trembling hand slipped in and found nothing. Right pocket… this time Tommy’s fingers hit a familiar piece of serrated metal. He pulled out the key and shoved it into the ignition, turning until his ears registered what had to be the most beautiful sound he had ever heard; the Firebird coughing to life. He leaned over to prop the passenger side door open and punched the accelerator.

That female sounding shriek pierced the air again. Louder this time. It sounded pissed.

Tommy looked up. It was nearly on Buck. There was panic on the old man’s face. That knowing feeling that something is closing fast and you can’t look back, can’t look back or it’s over.

Just then, Buck did perhaps the only intelligent thing he could under the circumstances. He skidded to a stop, spun around, and started running in the opposite direction. The angle was too steep for the creature and it disengaged, whipping back up into the sky. Tommy pulled alongside and Buck jumped in. Tommy jerked the wheel and the car spun around to face the outbound road. Tommy punched the Firebird’s accelerator and a stream of gravel kicked up as the car accelerated. A single thought was ringing through Tommy’s head:

This is mission control, we have lift-off!

Buck was in the passenger seat, wheezing and coughing up yellow gobs of phlegm. He looked over at Tommy’s shoulder.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, pulling off his own shirt and tearing off a strip to use as a tourniquet.

Buck peered out the rear window. He had hoped to see it circling over the steel works and for a panicked moment it was nowhere to be found.

Maybe it was over the car.

And then he spotted it over Keisel’s, little more than a grayish form. It swooped down and landed on the roof by one of the smoke stacks and ambled into a hole and out of sight.

Like a fucking bird heading back to its nest
, Buck thought to himself.

Tommy angled his wounded shoulder out of his checkered shirt and surveyed the damage. There were two puncture holes the size of silver dollars. One beside his pectoral muscle and the other behind his shoulder blade. Buck wrapped his torn shirt over the wound and under Tommy’s arm and then tied a sailors knot to keep it from coming undone.

“There’s no way in Sam Hill that was the one you killed, Buck, no fucking way.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Buck snapped, fighting to examine his handiwork in the bucking car. “Compared to that bitch, what I got seemed more like… a baby.”

Tommy shot him a wide-eyed glance.

What Buck said next came out more smoothly than he had meant it to. “I think we just met Mama.”

The implication took a moment to sink in.

“So there could be dozens of those things flying around? What if they get someone else…?” Buck looked away. “What? What is it Buck? What is it that you know?”

“Fast Eddy Fick. At least what was left of him, half sticking out of the bushes.”

“Oh Christ! We gotta call the sheriff.”

“And tell him a giant bird ate Fast Eddy’s face off and then took you for a joy ride? Come on, Tommy! By the time those chowder heads get their act together, who knows how many others are—”

“Then what? We can’t just pretend none of this happened.” There was a touch of desperation in Tommy’s voice. “You said yourself that when mother nature goofs-”

“I know what I said,” Buck cut in. His wound was still bleeding. “A five-legged deer, that’s a goof, no question. But that thing up there is no run of the mill goof; it’s a bloody monstrosity and it needs to be wiped off the face of the earth… before it gets hungry for something other than stringy old hermits.” He paused. “Before it moves into town.”

Tommy looked pensive. A bead of sweat rolled down his face and onto his jeans, forming a dark blue dot. He looked over at Buck. “We’re gonna need some help. And guns, lots of guns.”

Bird of Prey
. Available on Kindle, Nook, Kobo and others.

Also by Griffin Hayes

Novels

Malice

Novellas

Bird of Prey

Short Stories

The Second Coming

The Grip

And Coming Soon

Nocturnal, a novel

To contact Griffin Hayes or to read samples of his other work, visit his blog: