THE DEVIL’S HERD: Part 1

EDITOR’S NOTE

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The following story marks CLIFFHANGER! Magazine’s first foray into publishing longer works in two parts. When THE DEVIL’S HERD crossed my table, I devoured it. It’s a wonderful piece of vintage-inspired fiction with a unique premise and memorable characters. Pulp Magazines have a long history of publishing serials, longer pieces of fiction, in multiple parts. Readers would anxiously await the next issue of ADVENTURE or BLUE BOOK to see what happens next. I hope to maintain that tradtion here.

One of my favortie Pulp archetypes is the Boxer. My first encounter with this character concept was actually in Louis L’Amour’s LANDO, in which the lead, Orlando Sackett, favors his fists far more than a gun. Also of note is Robert E. Howard’s lesser known character, sailor Steve Costigan. The main character in THE DEVIL’S HERD, a man by the name of Chicago Red, could easily stand toe-to-tow in the ring with either of these Pulp heroes. In-fact, Boxing tales were so popular at the time that a handful of publications were dedicated to the niche, much like aviation and Mountie tales.

Bruce Arthurs’ tale revolves around a particularly nasty feral hog and his pack, a theme reminescent of killer animal movies like WHITE BUFFALO (1977) and expecially RAZORBACK (1984). Despite the fictional nature of the plot, feral pigs are legitimate concern through the contemporary midwest and Texas, among myriad other locations. Famously, there are few restrictions on the hunting and trapping of these animals as they are widely acknowledged to be a severe ecological threat and often destructive “vermin”.

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THE DEVIL’S HERD: Part 1

by Bruce Arthurs

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THE DEVIL AND his demons fled from the flames of Hell.

The Devil led his herd away from the ever-advancing lines
of burning scrub and prairie. High winds made it a race. Not all
in the herd were strong or fast enough, and several had been
overtaken already. Their screams spurred the Devil and the rest
to even greater effort. Even the Devil was tiring, though, and
there’d been no time to rest, to drink, to eat for many hours.

They drove on, past sunset and deep into night, hooves
throwing up divots of grass and dirt behind them. There was no
other choice.

An embankment rose ahead of them, a long shallow hill
reaching out to left and right. The Devil drove himself up the
slope… and stopped.

This was Man-territory. Twin metal rails stretched away in
both directions along the top of the embankment. A vast cluster
of sharp-cornered Man-dens lay in the distance past the rails.
Between the embankment and the city’s buildings and streets were
other rails, some with the rolling box-things parked and
standing motionless among them.

The Devil turned his snout and looked with small red eyes
at the clouds of smoke rising in the night sky behind him, lit
by the line of orange and red fire making a new horizon line, a
line that grew ever closer. No refuge there.
He turned back toward the rail-yard. The Devil’s kind,
strong as they were, cunning as they were, could still be killed
by Man.

But there was no other way to go.

So the Devil and his brethren would have to kill first.

The Devil squealed, and led his surviving herd, the other
males, sows and children, forward.

The Devil rounded a boxcar’s corner, and saw a Man.
The Man saw the Devil as well. His jaw dropped, then he
whirled and fled, running desperately, his striped cap
dislodging and falling to the ground behind him. The Devil’s
hooves trampled the cap as he thundered after the Man.

The Man glanced behind him. The sound of Man-fear from his
lips was sweet in the Devil’s ears.

A moment later, the first taste of Man-meat was just as
sweet.

*****

CHICAGO RED, IN spite of his size and bulk, moved like a
cat. He twisted his head and broad shoulders quickly aside as
the Frenchman’s haymaker rose toward Chicago’s chin. His
opponent’s rope-wrapped fist flashed by Chicago’s face, close
enough to set one end of Chicago’s ginger-red handlebar mustache
askew.

Chicago grinned, white teeth shining in a sweat-shined
face. The Frenchman had seen an opportunity to capture the lead
in a hard fight, and taken it. Just as Chicago had expected;
just as Chicago had planned.

The Frenchman’s move might have worked, if it had
connected. But it’s failure meant the Frenchman’s own side was
exposed for a brief second. Chicago’s mighty left arm whipped
forward and drove into the Frenchman’s chest. The crack of a
breaking rib was audible even over the excited shouts and cries
from the crowded bleachers surrounding the old warehouse’s
fighting ring.

The Frenchman cried out and staggered back, opening more
opportunities for Chicago’s fists. It was over in seconds, the
Frenchman crumpled and groaning on the sawdust-covered floor.

Chicago turned in place, arms raised in triumph as the
crowd went wild. Money exchanged hands between those with
smiling faces and those whose features reflected gloom.

“Anyone else?” Chicago shouted. “Anyone who thinks they’re
tough enough to beat Chicago Red? Anyone?” Sweat gleamed on his
bare chest in the yellowish light from gas lamps burning high on
the warehouse walls.

But there were no other challengers, which was just as
well. Three fights this night, and Chicago Red was finally
starting to weary.

*****

LATER, THE NIGHT watchman, just starting his first check of
the warehouse, found Chicago Red still in his dressing room.

“Mister Dayton,” the watchman said. “Afraid it’s time to
lock the building up. I saw your dog waiting in the alleyway.”

Chicago opened his eyes and lifted his hands from the
basins of ice water. “Sure, Joe.” He stood up from the chair,
shook excess water from his hands, dried them on a cloth and
flexed them several times.

The ropes fighters wrapped around their fists and shins
prevented most of the crippling injuries that could end a
fighting career, but after several bouts even Chicago’s hands
ached. They didn’t recover as fast as when he’d first started
fighting for money, either. I’m thirty-one, he thought. Pretty
old for this game. But it was the only game he knew, the only
game he excelled at.

The warehouse’s space echoed, now that almost everyone was
gone. Joe let Chicago out the alley door.

The air smelled of smoke. Chicago had heard news of the
brush-fire laying waste to the prairie and scrub forest that lay
west of Grand City. He wondered how close it had come. Chicago
looked up into the strip of sky between the warehouse and the
neighboring building. He couldn’t see stars. With luck, storm
clouds were forming, and it wasn’t just smoke from the
wildfires.

He looked down again, saw a dark shape in the alley’s
shadows. He raised two fingers to his mouth and whistled. The
shape rose and approached, tail wagging and tongue lolling.

Chicago scratched behind the big bull-mastiff’s ears. The
dog’s brindle coat was so dark it was almost black. “Good boy,
Savage. Did you keep busy?”

The mastiff’s answering woof was surprisingly soft for his
size. Chicago glanced toward the street outside the alley; the
limp bodies of several large rats lay near the alley’s entrance,
sprawled across the pavement.

“Yes, you did. Good dog.”

The big man and big dog left the alley. Chicago glanced up
and down the street before starting the long walk to his
boarding house. The warehouse was in the roughest part of Grand
City, chockablock with other warehouses, factories, bars and
tenements. Chicago wasn’t worried; if his size and fists didn’t
discourage anyone of ill intent, he had Savage, and he had a
short dagger hidden in each boot.

The streets were empty, though, this late in the night.
Chicago walked past a church that sat incongruously clean and
well-maintained among the other, dirty and worn, buildings. A
portico roof sheltered the church’s front entrance. Faint light
glowed behind stained glass windows on the side of the church.
Someone being extra sanctimonious tonight, he thought. Chicago
hadn’t been in a church since he was a boy, and didn’t feel a
need for it. If he ever faced Judgment, he’d just knock Saint
Peter ass over teakettle and fight his way through the Pearly
Gates.

The usual smells of the city lay under the smoky smell of
the approaching brush-fire; coal smoke, the ubiquitous
outhouses, and an old ingrained scent of laborers’ sweat and
poverty’s despair. Chicago idly wondered if the prairie fire
posed any danger to Grand City itself. The long stretches of
railroad embankment that bordered the city’s western edge
provided a lucky firebreak, but if winds or bad fortune pushed
the fire past the rails…

Well, I’ll just deal with whatever happens.

Savage snuffled the air and growled softly.

“You smell it too, Savage? Time to head out, maybe? Find a
new city, new fights?”

Savage’s growl grew louder. The fur along his back began to
rise.

Chicago grew more alert. Something was wrong.

That’s when he heard the gunshots.

A second later came a loud shout from around the corner of
the street. “OH, HELLFIRE AND VINEGAR!” It was a woman’s voice.

A woman dashed around the corner and into view, skirt
billowing as her legs pumped frantically. She held something in
one hand. She ran towards Chicago.

Chicago hesitated. A woman alone on the streets, this late
at night? She was probably a prostitute. Chicago wasn’t a
preacher or copper, just a fighter. Best to mind his own
business.

“Run!” the woman screamed as she dashed past Chicago and
Savage. Chicago caught a glimpse of the tiny pistol in her hand
as she passed by.

Then the thing chasing the woman came around the corner.
Savage burst forward, snarling, and ran toward it.

Chicago cursed, bent his knees, quickly snatched up the
short daggers hidden in his boots, and ran after his fool of a
dog.

The hog was as large as most farm pigs, but leaner. As the
distance between them shortened, Chicago saw the hog had thick
clusters of bristles and an upright line of the same running
along its back. And short tusks rose from the sides of its jaw.
Tusks? A wild boar? In the city? How…?

Savage and the hog skidded to a mutual halt only feet
apart, both snarling, saliva dripping from their jaws. Then they
charged again.

Chicago had only a few seconds to act. The two animals were
snapping at each other, trying to bite, trying to not be bitten.
They danced around each other wildly.

Chicago pounded forward. Using his daggers at this instant
was as likely to stab Savage as the boar.

The animals shifted sideways, circling each other. The
boar’s side turned towards Chicago and he saw an opportunity as
he covered the last few yards to the fighting beasts.

Chicago jumped, twisting in the air as he drew his knees
up, and delivered a flying kick to the side of the boar’s head.
He felt the impact all the way up to his hips.

Chicago crashed to the ground beside the hog. If the
creature was still able to turn its attention towards Chicago,
he was likely due for a world of hurt in the next few seconds.

But Chicago’s kick had driven the boar’s head up and to the
side. Savage saw his own opportunity at last and lunged forward.
His powerful jaws closed on the boar’s throat, choking and
crushing.

The boar screamed, high and horrible. It struggled and fell
on its side. Chicago scrabbled away from the thrashing hooves.

Chicago had seen Savage crack large beef bones, treats from
friendly butchers, between his jaws. He knew once Savage latched onto prey, he wouldn’t let go. But the boar was less than quick
to die, and Savage was being jerked around as the boar thrashed,
and those hooves could open him right up if he fell into their
path.

Chicago had dropped one of his daggers in the flying kick,
but the other was still in his right hand. He scrambled to his
feet, searching for another opening.

The boar twisted again, bringing its back into view. It was
the opening Chicago needed.

Chicago jumped again, clutching the remaining dagger
tightly in both hands, and came down squarely on the boar’s
back, driving the blade deeply into the creature’s neck. He
heard the muffled crack of bone fracturing, and twisted the
dagger to one side. He felt the dagger’s handle loosen in his
grasp as the blade broke off inside the boar.

But the blade had done its work. The boar dropped, its
spine severed. Savage continued to worry at its throat, but the
boar heaved out a final blood-spattered breath and lay still,
small eyes unseeing.

Chicago and Savage both rose slowly, panting. Then Chicago
reached out and cuffed Savage on the side of his head. “Stupid
piece of shit! We could have both been torn up! Killed, even!”

He felt exhausted, and put his hands on his knees for a few
seconds rest.

Savage whined and backed up, contrite.

Down the street, back the way Chicago had come, the woman
had climbed the church steps and was pounding on the tall heavy
doors. Chicago saw a white-haired man in ecclesiastical garb
step out. Well, good. The hooker will be safe.

But now that he had a chance to look more closely, he
wasn’t sure the woman was a prostitute after all. Her clothing
was rather drab and high-collared, and her hair was up in a bun.

The woman grabbed the priest’s arm and turned him towards
Chicago and Savage and the dead hog, pointing. Suddenly she
dropped the priest’s arm and raised both hands to her face. Even
at a distance, Chicago could tell her eyes had gone wide.

The priest jerked and stood straighter, shock written on
his face as well.

Savage began to growl, and slowly backed up a step. Then
another.

Chicago lifted hands from knees, stood straight, and turned
slowly to face back towards the corner.

At the corner was another boar. A much larger boar, with
much larger tusks. A huge boar, easily double or triple the size of the one Chicago and Savage had killed. It was dark, almost
black with bristles, its tusks standing out bone-white against
it’s body and the night. And its eyes… its eyes seemed to glow
red with an inner fire. A fire of purest hatred.

*****

THE DEVIL LOOKED, and saw, and craved blood and death. His
herd-mate, one of the many children he had made with his sows,
lay dead on the Man-road. He could see and smell his child’s
blood on the Man and his dog.

Both of them would die. But first he would taste their
blood and eat their flesh.

*****

THE MONSTER HOG stared at Chicago and Savage for a long
second, then raised its head and squealed in a high piercing
note.

From the shadows behind the monster advanced more hogs. Not
just a few. A herd of at least several dozen, similar in size
and appearance to the dead hog.

Suddenly Chicago no longer felt exhausted. Not at all, not
a bit. He whirled and ran toward the church. Savage bounded
along with him. The dumb mastiff wasn’t that big of a fool.

Hooves clattered on the pavement behind Chicago, rising
into a crescendo like a heavy downpour of hail.

”Come on!” the woman screamed. The priest grabbed her arm
and tugged her toward the open door. She resisted. He pulled
harder and got her inside.

Chicago saw the priest lay his hand on the inner handle of
the door and cast a frightened look in Chicago’s direction.

Don’t close it. Don’t close it! Chicago’s feet pounded, but
the staccato of hooves behind him was growing closer.

The priest crossed himself, his lips moving, then pushed
the church door open wider, making room for Chicago and Savage.

Man and dog both jumped over the several steps to the
church porch and threw themselves past the priest, diving into
the church.

The priest heaved the door shut, pulling with both hands as
he stepped back into the church. The latch clicked, and an
instant later the door boomed and shook as something massive
slammed into it from outside. The monster hog’s cry of
frustration was more scream than squeal.

Chicago looked up from the floor where he’d come to rest.
The woman was standing several feet away. She’d grabbed a tall
empty candle-stand from the floor and held it like a baseballer’s bat, the thick base hovering behind one shoulder.

Her face was frightened but resolute.

The church door shook a second time as the monster outside
slammed into it again. The priest was leaning his weight back
against it.

“Is that going to hold?”

“I’m honestly not sure,” the priest replied. He was middle-
aged and portly, hair gone mostly white.

Chicago rose to his feet, looked around the church. “The
pews. We can move some of them against the door.” The priest
looked hesitant. “Your leaning against that door won’t help if
those animals bash it enough. We need to barricade it, quickly.”

The priest, with a nervous look, came to help Chicago. The
woman set down the candle-stand and joined him at one end of a
heavy wooden pew. Chicago took the other end. Their combined
efforts shifted the pew into the church vestibule. It scraped
loudly against the floor as it slid.

The shaking of the door had continued, along with loud
grunts and roars at each impact. The three humans pushed the pew
hard against the door. The grunts and impacts ceased for a
moment as the pew created its own loud knock, then resumed.

“More,” Chicago said. He matched word to deed, swinging one
end of another pew around until it was perpendicular to the
door. The three slid it up to the first pew’s edge, then
Chicago squatted next to it, got a good hold, and, grunting with
effort, lifted the heavy end, moved it forward, and set it down
on the bench of the first pew. The process was repeated twice
more, until three diagonal braces helped immobilize the first
pew.

The impacts against the door from outside slowed, but did
not quite stop. It looked like the door would hold. The three
people in the church finally had a moment to look at each other.

“Are you injured, sir?” the priest asked. “There is blood
on your shirt.”

Chicago looked. There were smears on the fabric he hadn’t
noticed until now. On his hands as well. “Not mine. The hog I
stabbed outside.” He indicated Savage, standing alert at one
side, whose muzzle was even more bedaubed. “Savage, too, from
mauling the creature’s throat.”

“That’s the dog’s name, is it? And yours, sir?”

“Dayton. Chicago Red Dayton.”

“The fighter? I’d thought that a stage name.”

“Haven’t used anything else since my first paid fight.”
Another savage impact pounded against the door. “Damn that thing
to Hell,” he muttered.

“Language, Mr. Dayton. There’s a lady present.” The priest
indicated the woman. “This is Miss Heloise Pitcher, and I am
Father Stephen.”

Chicago turned his attention to the woman, finally getting
a decent look at her. His initial guess had been wrong. She was
disheveled, and flushed with excitement and fear, but her dress
was modest, nicely made, and fit her well. No slattern or whore,
then. A bit on the thin side, he thought. But a nice enough
face. “You two know each other then?”

“I work with the Relief Society for the Poor, Mister..
Dayton, was it? Father Stephen and I have worked together on
occasion. Thank you for coming to my aid.”

Chicago shrugged. He didn’t want to admit his attacking the
hog had been more for Savage’s sake than for Miss Pitcher’s.
“Just Chicago will be fine. Chicago Red, if you want to be more
formal.”

“I’ve heard of you as well.” She paused, an uncomfortable
look on her face. “I’ve been told you are a brutal fighter.”

“I would prefer to say strong, and coarse, and cunning. You
disapprove of the manly art, Miss Pitcher?”

“I consider the fighting foolish, but men will be men. The
gambling that accompanies it, however, is one of the many vices
that worsen the plight of the poor.”

Chicago sighed inwardly. Another skirt-wearing do-gooder,
he thought. At least she was easy on his eyes, not a steel-
haired harpy with a battle-axe face. He liked the way she’d held
that candle-stand, though, ready to defend herself. She had
spirit.

Another boom, and the sound of scraping hooves, came from
the door, drawing their attention back.

“Do you have any firearms here, Father? And are there other
entrances to this church?”

“No guns here. This is the Lord’s house, not an armory.
There’s another entrance behind the pulpit–” He waved toward
the other end of the church; Chicago’s eyes followed. A large
crucifix dominated the center of the back wall, with the pulpit
off to one side. A short wall ran behind the pulpit; the other
door had to be behind it, in an anteroom. A matching wall at the
other side of the room probably led to another anteroom. “–but
the door is strong and sturdy, with a stout bar across it.”

“I had this,” Miss Pitcher said, holding something out in
her hand. “Not that it did much good.”

Chicago looked. It was the tiny pistol, a two-barreled
Remington Derringer if he was any judge.

“I only saw the one creature at first. When it charged me,
I shot at it, but it barely slowed down.”

“A pocket pistol like that has a small bullet and a small
load,” Chicago replied. “Not much good from more than a few
yards away, if you want to kill something. Best when you’re
almost close enough to touch. Did you fire both barrels?”

“I did. The first went wide, but I think the second hit the
beast. It kept coming, and I ran.”

“Do you have more rounds for it?”

She sighed. “I’m afraid not.”

Chicago stifled a curse and turned back toward Father
Stephen. “Is there anyplace else they might get in? I saw
basement windows along one side.”

Father Stephen shook his head. “Too small, I’m sure, with
iron bars as well.” He paused. “We’ve had thieves,” he added in
explanation.

“All right. We should be safe for now. Just a matter of
waiting until they move on, or the alarm is raised and an armed group is organized to shoot them down. Where in Hell—sorry,
Father—did they come from, anyway? I’ve always pictured wild
boars as something from old Europe’s forests, tusks against men
with pikes and crossbows and the like.”

“They’re not European boars, Mr. Dayton,” Father Stephen
said. “I grew up in open range country. When domesticated pigs
and hogs escape into the wild, they revert to their wild form
after a few generations, growing their natural bristles and
tusks back.”

“Beat me with a stick, I didn’t know that, Father. Comes
from being city-raised, I guess. When I’ve seen pork, it’s been
either in a pen or on a plate.”

“Feral hogs are a long-time problem for ranchers and other
country dwellers. They’re vicious, mean and smart. They usually
try to avoid men, thank the Lord. This herd may have been driven
into the city by the fires burning to the west. But I’ve never
seen a feral hog as large as that black beast.”

“We may be safe here,” Heloise interjected, “but that herd
is still out on the streets. Anyone who ventures out in
ignorance will be in danger. Is there any way to raise an alarm
and let people know to stay inside until the beasts are dealt
with?”

“Better to tell people to load rifles and shotguns to hunt
those things down.”

“You’re both right,” Father Stephen said. “Unfortunately,
I’d ordinarily send someone out with a message. We can’t do that
while these swine still surround the church.”

“No new-fangled telephone here, then?”

Father Stephen shook his head.

Chicago looked around the church again, then remembered
there had been a tower on the front corner of the structure. On
previous occasions, passing by the church in daylight, he’d
heard bells ringing in the tower.

“What if we set the church bells ringing? This late at
night, someone would want to find out why.”

The priest’s face paled, and he crossed himself. “Lord, no.
If someone unprepared, unarmed, came, their life might be
endangered. Not unless it was a last resort. Surely the herd has
been seen by others as it roamed the streets. A hunting party
may be starting out as we speak. For now, it’s best we stay
within these walls until the herd leaves or assistance comes,
and pray that women and children elsewhere in the city stay safe
until hunters have removed the threat.”

“I’ve fired shotguns before, Father, trap shooting on my
family’s estate. A woman experienced with firearms could assist
with any hunt. Think of Miss Oakley’s inestimable skill.”

“Pardon me, Miss Pitcher.” Chicago felt obligated to
interrupt. “This trap shooting-–that’s the thing with clay discs
tossed into the air?–how good were you at it?”

Heloise turned to him, a slight frown on her fine features.

“I was… adequate, I confess.”

“Well….” Chicago shrugged. “It’s moot anyway. We can’t get
away to take up guns or warn anyone while these hogs are still
about.” He moved closer to the barricaded door and cocked his
head to listen. “Not bashing at it right now, but I still hear
them moving outside. Don’t seem to be moving on. Almost like
there’s a personal grudge.”

*****

THE DEVIL LEFT the church entrance; several smaller members
of his herd remained on the porch, snuffling and scraping at the
door. Others milled about the yard and along the sides of the
church. They poked at the cellar windows, but iron bars blocked
any entrance there.

The Devil trotted around the building. At the rear, several
steps led up to another door; the Devil ascended the steps and leaned his weight against the door, but it was as unyielding as
the first entrance.

But there was something else at the back of the building. A
slanted hatch, another set of double doors, more plainly built
and not as thick as the entrance doors, was set against the
ground line there.

Snuffling at the crack between the hatch doors, the Devil
caught the same earthy, musty scent he’s smelled at one of the
cellar windows.

The Devil grabbed the door-handle of one side in his jaws
and tugged. There was a tiny movement before the door stopped
short. Something inside was keeping these doors from opening.
The Devil tugged again. Again he felt the slight movement, then
the abrupt stop.

The Devil could reason that if something moved a little, it
should be able to move more. It only needed sufficient strength
and determination. The Devil had strength, and he had the will.

The Devil positioned himself on one of the slanted doors
and took the handle of the other, unimpeded side between his
jaws again. He tensed his neck and shoulders, braced his
forelegs. He heaved upwards. He did it again. And again.

Small cracking sounds began to rise from the wooden hatch.
At another jerk of the evil’s head, the sounds grew louder; the
hatch door moved a fraction more than it had before. Another
jerk, and another gain in movement.

The Devil gave one more mighty heave. The wood beneath the
door handle shrieked and threw up shards and splinters as the
hatch was pulled upwards several inches. Part of an iron latch
and bolt was revealed, twisted ends of screws pointing up, no
longer attached to the wood of the door.

Smaller hogs, catching the cellar’s scent in the open gap,
approached and worked their heads under the partially open
hatch, holding it open. The Devil released his mouth-grip on the
door-handle, worked his tusks under the open edge of the door,
and heaved the hatch back on its hinges. It flew back with a
loud bang.

*****

“WHAT WAS THAT noise?”

The three people looked around the church interior, trying
to find the source of the loud boom for a second.
Father Stephen gasped. His face paled in dawning horror.

“The outside hatch to the cellar. I’d forgotten–”

“What? Are there stairs from here into the cellar? Where?”
Chicago was alert, listening. Then he heard it, faintly through
the floor, the sound of something–something–moving in the
cellar below.

Father Stephen pointed to the right side of the pulpit’s
stage, where another short wall hid the corner.

“The cellar door.” There was a new sound, sharper, closer,
the sound of hooves against wooden steps. “It isn’t very–”

The screech of tearing wood, and another loud bang, from
the corner the priest had pointed to.

The Devil came into the Lord’s house. It turned and looked
toward the humans and dog at the other end of the large space.
It snorted, eyes red in the light of scattered candles. More
hogs, smaller members of the herd, came from behind the wall and
gathered behind their monarch.

Chicago looked around quickly for anywhere they might find
shelter or escape. Somewhere he could at least put his back to a
corner and put up a good fight before he went down.

The church entrance doors were blocked by the pews jammed
against them. Useless now, and there had to be more hogs still
outside. The front corners of the church had closed rooms –
offices? — at each side of the vestibule. Directly above the vestibule and offices ran a second story balcony, but Chicago saw no stairway leading up to it.

Savage growled, his fur up. The Pitcher woman had reached
out and grasped the candlestand’s shaft again.

“The choir room. At the side of the vestibule,” Father
Stephen whispered. “It has stairs up to the balcony.”

“Back up slowly, Father,” answered Heloise. “Show us which
side it’s on.”

Chicago lowered his hand to grasp Savage’s heavy leather
collar. “No,” he said quietly. “Not yet.”

Chicago had never feared any fight with a single man, in
the fighting ring or not. And he’d held his own against two, or
even three, on occasion. The few times he’d had to face down
more than that had been resolved with either a blade or bluster.
He missed his lost and broken daggers. But this… this looked
like a situation he might not walk away from.

Savage quivered under Chicago’s hand. The mastiff
recognized they were cornered and outnumbered, but still wanted
to fight, to sink his teeth into at least one more hog throat.
He was a stupid dog, but a brave one.

The monster hog charged, bounding down the center aisle of
the nave.

“In here! Now!”

Chicago turned, dragging Savage with him. A door on the
south wall of the vestibule stood open, Father Stephen beside
it. Heloise released the candlestand and dashed through. The
priest followed quickly.

“Savage, in!” Chicago shouted, releasing the mastiff’s
collar as he pushed it towards the doorway. The mastiff gave one
great growl and loud bark, but preceded Chicago’s sprint into
the room.

Father Stephen was holding the edge of the open door. He
slammed it shut as Chicago and Savage rushed past him.

“Upstairs!” he shouted.

A steep set of stairs ran up the far side of the choir
room; robes hung on hooks in the alcove beneath the stairway.
Heloise was already halfway up the stairs, moving quickly.

Chicago ran possibilities through his head as he moved. If…
when… the monster hog broke through the room’s door, the stairs
would be the best spot to defend. He saw a way it might be done.

A stout wooden bench sat close to the robes’ alcove.
Chicago snatched it up. “You first, Father!” He gave the priest
a shove between the older man’s shoulders. Father Stephen
followed Heloise up, with Savage close behind.

Chicago brought up the rear, carrying the bench. The room’s
door rang and cracked with the first impact from the huge black
hog’s bulk.

Chicago turned near the top of the stairs. He wedged one
set of bench-legs through the stairway’s balusters, then pulled
the furniture piece around until the thick benchtop was wedged
into a far corner of a step. The staircase was now blocked by a
wooden wall a forearm high. Chicago wasn’t sure how long it
might keep the feral hogs from ascending to the balcony; if the
hogs were smart enough to pull at the obstacle, instead of
pushing at it, not long.

But the barricade should gain them at least a few minutes.
Chicago turned and took the last several steps up to join the
others on the balcony.

Heloise was at the balcony railing, staring down at the
ground floor. Chicago took a quick glance; nearly a dozen hogs
were moving about the pews and aisles. Chicago’s hands itched
for a rifle; the hogs would have been easy shooting from the
balcony.

No help for that, though. Chicago turned again, surveying
the balcony space. A round clerestory window was on the exterior
wall, above a line of straight-back chairs; a quick look through

the window showed more hogs moving about the ground in front of
the church.

The chairs could be of use. Moving fast, he picked up
chairs, tossing a dozen into the stairwell above the bench’s
blockade. The tangled heap of furniture would be a further
obstacle to any hogs trying to come up the stairs.

At the opposite end of the balcony, Father Stephen was
moving a chest away from the north wall; a carved wooden figure
of Jesus on the chest trembled as the chest’s legs scraped
against the floor. The outline of a short door, about chest-high
for Chicago, was visible on the wall, and the chest’s movement
revealed a doorknob as well.

“What is that, Father?”

“An extra access door to the bell tower on the corner of
the church. The shaft leads to the belfry on the roof. Unless
those hogs are able to climb ladders, we should be safe up
there.” Father Stephen tugged at the door’s knob, but the door
failed to open.

“Let me try.” The door probably hadn’t been used in years.
Chicago grasped the knob tightly, turned it, and pulled back.
With a squeal of scraping wood, the door popped open. Chicago
stooped to look through the short door. He could dimly see ropes hanging in the dark shaft, and several rungs of a ladder on one
side of the shaft. The priest was right; the roof would be the
safest place to wait for the hogs to leave or aid to arrive.

But then Chicago looked at Savage and realized there was no
way the big dog could climb the shaft.

Could he carry Savage up? He didn’t see how. The shaft was
barely wide enough for Chicago’s own broad shoulders; trying to
carry more than a hundred pounds of dog, and climb one-handed?
Unlikely, to say the least.

And that was assuming Savage would be willing. The mastiff
was on alert, eyes focused on the staircase landing, body
tensed. He was ready to fight, not run.

“Miss Pitcher, Father Stephen,” Chicago announced. “Start
climbing. Savage and I will protect the rear.” He stepped toward
one of the two chairs remaining against the wall.

“What are you doing, Mister Dayton?” Heloise’s expression
mixed concern and confusion with fear.

For me?, Chicago wondered. That wasn’t something he was
sued to receiving from other people. He jerked his head toward
the shaft’s door. “Go.” When Heloise hesitated, he added, “Just
go, woman!”

“Please, Miss Pitcher.” The priest’s face was grave. “Every
second counts.” From below came another boom of hog dashing
itself against the choir room’s door. Father Stephen pulled
gently on Heloise’s arm.

Heloise seemed about to speak, but then she turned and went
to the open doorway. She ducked her head, felt inside to grasp
the ladder rungs, and disappeared through the short door.

“There’s a trapdoor at the top. You’ll need to open the
latch and push it open.” The priest followed several seconds
later.

Chicago lifted the chair over his head and smashed it
against the floor. A second blow, and the chair broke apart. The
chair-back was made with thick wooden dowels. Chicago kicked at
them to free the ends. One split diagonally, leaving a sharp
pointed end. Chicago worked the dowel free from the rest of the
chair and hefted it in one hand. The makeshift spear was only as
long as his forearm, but at least he had some kind of weapon
now.

Father Stephen’s voice came from the shaft. “Mister Dayton,
come up!”

Chicago ignored him. He gripped his short spear tightly in
one hand, then picked up the last chair with the other hand and
held it ready before him.

“Ready for some lion-taming, Savage?

END OF PART I.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Bruce Arthurs has been writing occasional stories since 1975, with about a bit over two dozen appearing in various publications over the years, mostly SF/Fantasy or Crime/Mystery. Latest story was “The Kansas Kid and the Wizard of Doge” in BLACK CAT WEEKLY #199. Full bibliography here: https://undulantfever.blogspot.com/p/bruce-arthurs-bibliography.html  I also wrote a 1991 episode of STAR TREK: THE NEXT GENERATION.

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Return October 10th for the bone-crushing second installment of “THE DEVIL’S HERD”…