LAST TIME…
Prairie fires sweep the midwest, driving all manner of beast before the blaze. Most fierce among these crazed creatures in THE DEVIL, a feral hog of monstrous proportions and demonic intellect. In his wake: his hungry herd. CHICAGO RED, heavyweight boxer, and his dog, SAVAGE, rescue ELOISE PITCHER from a maruading pig, stoking THE DEVIL’S ire. They retreate to a nearby church, holing up with FATHER STEPHEN. Outside, a hoard of wild boars lay siege. But THE DEVIL is cunning and finds a way through. Forced to ascend higher, CHICAGO RED and SAVAGE prepare to face the hogs head-on…
THE DEVIL’S HERD: Part 2
by Bruce Arthurs
THE DEVIL THREW himself against the door again. Wood cracked and splintered. Once more, and the door flew open, askew on its hinges.
Behind the Devil, smaller hogs rampaged through the church nave. Hooves tore at the carpet, and they left their marks with urine and feces. They tore at bench cushions, yanked the altar cloth from the altar.
The Devil left them to their vandalism. He crossed the
threshold of the door and entered the room, following the scent of the man and dog he hunted.
The room was empty, but the scent led to a staircase on the far side. Faint light from its upper end showed a short wall of some kind, and beyond that a tangle of wooden branches and slabs blocking the path up.
It would not stop the Devil. He would tear the wall down
with hooves and tusks. In the wild, he had pushed and bulled his way through thickets of overgrown scrub with branches as thick as the human-made tangle above.
He charged up the stairs, the scent strong.
*****
WATCHING THE STAIRWAY, Chicago could see the top edge of
the bench barricading the stairs several steps down from the
top. He heard the monster hog charging up the stairs, and the
loud crash as the barricade was struck. The visible edge of the
bench shook and trembled. A porcine cry of frustrated rage rang
through the air. Chicago moved a step closer.
The huge black hog rose up into sight, and its front hooves
came down against the bench edge. It leaned there and turned its
head. Scarlet eyes stared at Chicago and Savage, and the hog’s
fetid breath huffed out.
Chicago tightened his grip on his makeshift weapon and
shield and ran forward. He thrust the sharp end of the chair
dowel between railing posts, toward the monster’s head. Blind
it, he thought. Hurt it. Even the odds. Savage stood beside him,
snarling and barking, fur up.
The beast jerked back, and the spear thrust fell short. The
hog snapped at the dowel as Chicago thrust again and again.
Several times, the sharp point struck the hog’s hide, but the thick skin deflected most of its force. Only a few of the spear
thrusts went deeply enough to draw blood, but the minor wounds
did nothing to distract or repel the beast. It pawed at the
bench blocking its way, and the bench, little by little, shifted
towards a point where it could easily be clawed aside.
Chicago thrust again. This time, the huge hog twisted its
head and snapped at the chair-piece. Its jaws clamped down on
the wood and yanked, dragging the dowel through Chicago’s hand.
A long splinter came loose and stabbed thru Chicago’s palm.
Chicago gasped and drew back.
The splinter was about an eight of an inch wide and three
or four inches long. The ends stuck out from both sides where it
had entered and exited the flesh. Like a goddamned pincushion,
Chicago thought. It burned like fire.
The hog spat Chicago’s weapon from its mouth and pawed
again at the bench blocking the stairs. The bench shifted, and a
gap formed at one side between bench and railing. The monster
forced his snout into the gap and heaved. The bench twisted
aside, legs twisting. The hog clawed at the loosened bench,
flipped it over and sent it tumbling down until it came to rest
at the bottom of the stairs.
Chicago cursed. He grabbed one end of the long splinter,
gritted his teeth, and pulled. He cried out at the bolt of pain
as the splinter exited his flesh. Blood trickled down his hand
from the wound.
The black hog drove itself up the stairs and into the
logjam of tumbled chairs. Its head vanished behind seats and
legs and backs. The logjam trembled and shook, then lurched
upwards. One chair at the top of the pile shifted and came
loose, rolling over the hog’s back and down to join the bench.
One of the smaller hogs had entered the choir room and was
nosing at the bench; the falling chair struck the hog, who
squealed and backed away.
The monster hog drove itself forward again against the
piled chairs. The pile lifted as a single mass and shifted back.
Chicago stared in dismay. He picked up an arm of the chair
he’d shattered; it would serve as a club.
Savage had traded barking for a continuous low growl, lips
back to show his fangs, legs solid and braced, fur raised in a
stiff ridge along his spine.
The logjam came to an abrupt halt as one of the chairs
caught against the stairway’s newel post. Chicago felt a measure
of hope, but it was only momentary. With an angry roar, the black hog forced itself forward. Loud cracks came from the pile
of chairs as wooden legs and backs were twisted out of place.
Another chair fell out of place, then suddenly everything began
to separate and loosen. The logjam began to fall apart, separate
pieces again, or pieces of pieces.
Chicago braced himself, getting ready. Man and dog, he and
Savage waited for the inevitable.
The black hog bulled forward, shaking off pieces draped
over it, pushing chairs to the left and right as it reached the
balcony floor. It turned toward Chicago and Savage, and charged.
Its eyes seemed to glow with a Satanic joy as it came.
Savage moved, powerful hind legs launching him at the hog.
His jaws closed and clamped onto the monster’s snout and jowls,
teeth grinding into and through the thick hide, jaws working to
ravage and tear further.
The black hog nearly cartwheeled in reaction, its scream of
anger and pain muffled by the restraint of Savage’s jaws. Savage
was lifted off his feet as the hog shook his head and
forequarters violently. A hundred pounds of dog whipped in the
air like a dishrag, but Savage’s grip remained fast on the
beast’s head.
Chicago tried to club the hog, but the animals’ wild
gyrations made it impossible to get in a blow. The hog whipped
its head again. Chicago’s side was struck by Savage’s weight.
Chicago staggered and fell to the balcony floor, the makeshift
club falling from his hand.
The hog twisted, trying to dislodge Savage. A last wild
turn slammed Savage against the balcony’s railing. Wood cracked
at the impact, and Savage’s jaws finally loosened. The big dog
fell to the base of the railing and lay unmoving.
The black hog turned towards Chicago. Its snout and jowls
were torn and bleeding, and the anger in its eyes was the anger
of madness. It charged.
Chicago scrambled backwards. He had to get to his feet;
caught on the floor made it impossible to move or fight
effectively, to use his powerful arms and fists against an
opponent. But there was no time, and the hog’s tusks were coming
swiftly for Chicago.
Something, a dark blue at the edge of Chicago’s vision,
moved and struck hard against the hog’s head.
Father Stephen held the wooden Jesus statue with a two-
handed grip. He swung it again. The statue’s head broke off as it struck the monster hog, the broken piece bouncing off to the
balcony’s corner.
The black hog staggered at the blow against its already
wounded head, and at the effrontery. It turned to face its new
attacker.
Chicago saw his chance. The hog was between Chicago and
balcony railing, its flank now facing Chicago. Chicago drew his
knees up and kicked out with all his strength as the hog took a
step toward Father Stephen. He felt the jolt of impact from feet
to hip.
But the great hog, squealing, tipped and fell against the
railing. Already damaged by Savage’s impact, the wooden posts
cracked and broke completely. With a roar louder than any
before, the black hog pitched over the edge and vanished from
sight. There was a loud crash from the floor below, followed by
alarmed squeals from the smaller hogs roaming the lower floor.
Chicago went to Savage. The mastiff lay still, eyes shut,
but he was breathing. The dog had struck hard, and Chicago was
uncertain if there might be bones broken. He ran his hands,
quickly but gently, over the dog’s body. Nothing obvious, and
Savage did not twitch when hands were pressed against him.
Knocked out, it looks like. Chicago hoped for the best. He
looked up as Father Stephen came beside him.
“Good timing, Father. Thank you.”
The priest looked down at the headless Jesus in his hands.
“I… I feel like I’ve done something blasphemous.”
“A good kind of blasphemy, in my view. You shouldn’t have
come back for me.”
Heloise emerged from the door into the bell tower. “The
hatch to the belfry is jammed. We didn’t have the strength. We
needed you.” She strode quickly across the balcony and began
picking up scattered chairs, tossing them back onto the stairs
to recreate the logjam. “A little help, gentlemen? There are
still vicious animals below. They’ll try coming up again,
eventually.”
“But that devil hog is dead, at least.” Chicago rose to his
feet and went to assist Heloise. “I thought nothing was going to
stop him.”
Father Stephens was looking over the broken balcony at the
damage being inflicted by the roving hogs. “My poor church.” He
lowered his gaze to the floor directly below the balcony. “Oh,
Lord in Heaven,” he gasped, and crossed himself.
“What? What is it, Father?” Chicago placed the last chair
onto the logjam and went to see.
Below, the black hog’s feet were twitching. A loud snort
came from his bloodied snout. The hog’s body lurched, rolled,
and stood. It wobbled, unsteady on its feet, stumbling and
almost falling as it took a tentative step. It was very much
alive.
Chicago felt disheartened, for a moment. But he’d fought
tough opponents, in the ring and without, men who stood up to
punishing blows that would send most to the floor. Chicago was
such a man himself. You kept fighting until you won or you lost.
There was no middle ground. For a moment, he felt kinship and a
measure of respect for the deadly animal below.
“All right. We’re not done yet, Father, Miss Pitcher. Back
to the plan. I’ll see about opening the belfry hatch, and then–
-” He looked down at Savage. “—I’ll come back to guard the
rear.”
“Mister Dayton.” Father Stephen’s voice was gentle. “He’s a
splendid dog, but he is just a dog–”
Chicago cut him off with a raised palm. “We’ve had each
other’s backs for years, Father. I can’t abandon him.”
“I may have a solution.” Heloise spoke from behind them.
The two men turned toward her. “While Savage remains
unconscious, we might rig a sling by which to lift him up the
bell tower shaft.”
“Savage weighs a good hundred pounds and then some, Miss
Pitcher,” Chicago answered. “We’d need a large swath of strong
fabric for such a sling, and ropes of some kind. I could
manhandle him up, but we don’t have what we need.”
“The bell ropes,” Father Stephen interjected. “Could those
be used?”
“Hmm. Maybe. Damn, though. If we’d thought of this before,
we might have grabbed some of those choir robes downstairs.” The
noise of several hogs wandering through the choir room could be
heard from the stairway. “Too late for that now.”
Heloise took a deep breath. “My mother,” she began, slowly.
“always believed in the value of stout linen.” She raised her
hands to the upper buttons of her dress. “Gentlemen, if you
would turn your backs, please?”
*****
THE DEVIL WAS in a deep dark place.
Memory flickered in his mind, grew stronger. The herd. The
range fire. The Man and his animal. The hunt. Fighting with the
Man’s animal. The unexpected crash and hard fall.
It woke, and felt pain. The Man had stabbed it with a
stick. The dog had mauled its head and face; the Devil tasted
its own blood. The fall had left it stunned and battered. There
was a lot of pain.
But pain made it angry, and anger was fuel. The Devil rose
to its feet, staggered. The world pitched and yawed around it,
and an entire side ached deep in muscle and bone where it had
slammed into the hard floor.
The Devil wobbled. It’s mind was fuzzy, but one clear
thought stood out, growing stronger as wits and strength began
to return: Kill the Man and his beast.
*****
AT THE TOP of the bell tower shaft, Chicago pressed hard
against the hatch above his head. His other hand gripped the
ladder rung tightly. A handkerchief wrapped the splinter wound
in his palm and made the pain bearable.
The hatch was indeed stuck. Rarely visited, the belfry’s
exposure to cold, heat and moisture had probably warped the wood. Chicago adjusted his position on the ladder to gain better leverage, tucking his head down to bring his arm and shoulder up as high as possible. The hatch creaked. Chicago pushed again, and the hatch sprung loose from its frame.
Chicago climbed through into the belfry. It was a square
cupola with louvered sides. Enough moonlight filtered in through
the slats to let Chicago see the bell and its support frame at
the belfry’s center. The bell’s ropes came up through a small
hole near the center, attaching to a rocker arm from which the
bell hung. A narrow space ran between louvers and bell to stand
on, about two feet wide. The belfry’s ceiling was low; Chicago
had to crouch slightly to avoid striking his head.
He turned back to the open hatch. “I’m in. Is Savage
ready?”
“Yes,” Father Stephen answered from below. “Haul away. And
hurry, please.”
Chicago didn’t waste words on a reply. He knelt and fished
around in the hatch until he caught the ropes in his fist. He
squatted over the open hatch, a foot on either side, and tugged
until he felt resistance. He began to pull.
He had to lift over a hundred pounds of dead weight straight up nearly twenty feet. Chicago’s back and arms strained. Even for his strength, it was hard work. His injured hand didn’t help, either. He grunted with each pull on the
dangling weight; sweat broke out on his skin.
The bundle reached the top of the shaft. Chicago could just
barely make out Savage’s head poking out from Heloise’s dress
where it had been wrapped around the dog and secured with the
lower length of the bell ropes.
Savage stirred and whimpered. Chicago froze. If Savage came
to and struggled against his bindings, everything might come
undone and Savage fall the entire length of the shaft.
“Easy, boy,” Chicago whispered. “Hold still, boy. One more
minute, Savage. Just one more minute.” He tightened his grip and
pulled. Savage came higher, half his body out of the hatch.
Chicago gave one last heave and let himself fall backwards
against the narrow walkway. Savage’s weight fell against his
chest, and Chicago grunted.
He shifted the mastiff’s weight off him and shouted down
the shaft. “Come up!” He turned to Savage and began untying the
dog from his wrappings. Savage stirred again, opened his eyes,
and licked Chicago’s face.
A moment later, Heloise climbed into the tower. Her white camisole and pantaloons were faint but visible in the belfry’s dim light. The undergarments left an immodest amount of skin showing; arms, a generous stretch of skin between neck and breasts, and nicely shaped calves. No corset, unlike most women.
The lack of a corset’s restrictions had probably been what
enabled Heloise to run fast enough to reach safety, if short-
lived safety, in the church, Chicago mused. He kept his
expression neutral; the woman’s scandalous defiance of
conventionality had saved Savage. But it was an enticing sight,
even in these circumstances.
Father Stephen came next. “A smaller hog was trying to come
up the stairs, but the jumble of chairs seemed to flummox it. I
looked into the nave. The black hog was moving into the
vestibule. It may try coming upstairs again.”
“Let him. It can’t get up here.” Chicago finished
unwrapping Savage and handed the dress back to Heloise. “Many
thanks, Miss Pitcher. My apologies for any odor of dog.”
Heloise took the dress with a nod. “How is your loyal
companion?”
Savage was awake, but still unsteady on his feet and moving
stiffly. With three people and a large dog, the belfry was
crowded. Chicago closed the hatch to avoid any accidental
misstep into it. He went to the belfry’s side and tried to look
out between the louvers.
“Can’t see much at all. Think an alarm has been raised by
now?”
“Surely we’re not the only people who sighted the hogs
tonight. Someone must have spread the word. A hunting party is
being organized, I’m sure.”
“Father Stephen, I recognize your reluctance to imperil
others, but it’s time to ring the church bell. Hearing it at
this time of night, someone will want to investigate.”
The priest wrung his hands. “I’d like to be sure it would
summon men aware of what they’d encounter. Can you see
anything?”
Chicago tried again. “Just some very narrow strips, and
that mostly sky.” He took a small step back. “Forgive me,
Father, but I know what I’m doing.” He raised one leg and kicked
out. Louvered slats snapped, pieces flying out into the night
air, others remaining as jagged remnants at the edges of the
opening.
Father Stephen’s voice was strained. “My poor church,” he
said again, but did not try to stop Chicago as more slats were
kicked out on all sides of the belfry. The openings allowed a
smoke-scented breeze to waft through the belfry’s space. He looked out the east side of the belfry. “Oh, my poor turnips, as
well.”
Chicago looked himself. Behind the church, past a grassy
stretch with a worn path across it stood a small cottage.
Firewood was stacked along one side of the rectory, and a garden
planted a short way out to one side. Several hogs were rooting
through the garden.
Chicago turned and moved to the west-facing side of the
belfry, then pointed. “Looks like the train tracks kept that
range fire from spreading into town.”
Orange-glowing spots were still visible in the darkness
beyond the city’s limits, but lines of advancing flames were no
longer visible. Daylight would surely show a wide swath of
blackened destruction, but the fire’s back had been broken.
“I hear something to the north.” Heloise pointed out the
shattered side of the belfry. “Some lantern lights, too, I
think.”
“I see them as well.” Father Stephen cupped a hand to an
ear. “Horses.”
“If they’re on horseback, they can outride the hogs if need
be,” Chicago said. “But they need to know where the hogs are at.
Ring the bell, Father.”
“Yes, you’re right.” Father Stephen turned to face the bell
assembly and pondered it for a moment. The ropes were meant to
be pulled from below. Instead, he lifted a leg, put his foot on
one end of the rocker arm, and pushed. The bell rocked slightly,
them more with each additional push. “This will be quite loud,
I’m afraid.”
Father Stephen’s warning proved correct as the clapper
struck the inside curve of the bell. The bell wasn’t large, as
church bells went, but it was well-cast and rang out sharp and
clear, and very loud.
Father Stephen winced, but continued his efforts. Heloise
put her hands over her ears even as she continued to watch the
distant lights.
Chicago began to reach for his own ears, then saw Savage’s
reaction to the peals. The mastiff was flinching and shaking at
each ring, his sensitive ears buffeted worse than human ears.
Savage’s head twisted back and forth in search of any way to
retreat.
Chicago put his hands over Chicago’s ears and spoke
calmingly. The big dog calmed somewhat, but was still obviously
nervous.
“The lights are moving closer!” Heloise exclaimed. “They’re
coming our way!”
“Good.” Father Stephen ceased his bell ringing and shook
his head, and rubbed at his ears.
Chicago’s ears rang as well, but worth it if it brought
help. He lifted his hands from Savage’s head. “Better, Savage?”
But Savage still trembled, and looked at Chicago with wide
eyes. He barked, then whined.
“What is it, Savage? What—” The Chicago realized what
Savage was reacting to.
The scent of smoke in the air had changed. The smoke odor
wasn’t just that of the dying brush-fire in the distance, but of
something closer. Much closer. At that same moment, Chicago
realized the muffled sounds of the hogs inside the church had
grown louder, become squeals and screams of panic and terror.
“Oh, my God,” Heloise gasped. She was leaning slightly out
the belfry, head turned to look down at the side of the church.
Chicago rushed to her side and looked himself. The stained
glass on the side of the church was dancing with a flickering
light. Not the steady pale illumination of the candles that had
been burning inside, but something brighter. Something larger.
The church was on fire.
*****
THE DEVIL RE-ENTERED the choir room, breathing hard. Blood
dripped from its jowls. Its own blood. That was unnatural,
unprecedented. An entire side of its body ached and hurt.
But the pain focused its rage. The Man and his animal had
done this to him. That could not be allowed to stand.
A smaller hog was on the stairs, snorting and probing at
the renewed tangle of furniture blocking the upper steps, but
making no headway.
The Devil had no patience for the smaller hog’s efforts. It
snapped at the hog’s hindquarters, drawing blood.
The smaller hog screamed and gyrated wildly. It made a
near-somersault and scrambled, terror-eyed, past the Devil’s
bulk and down the stairs. The Devil snapped again but missed as
the frightened hog dashed by, then turned its attention back to
climbing the stairs.
Behind him, the smaller hog ran out of the choir room in
blind panic. It crashed into the wooden votive stand at one side
of the vestibule. The stand jerked violently, jarring several
lit votives from the rack and sending them to the floor. One
remained lit despite the impact.
The hogs’ destructive swath through the church had ripped
and shred pew cushions, torn hymnals apart, and the altar cloth
pulled off and dragged through the aisles.
The falling votive landed on a handful of cotton wadding
scattered from a shredded pew cushion. The burning candle was
knocked loose and onto the wadding. The wadding began to burn.
The fire spread.
The Devil heard the cries and screams of the other hogs
outside the choir room. It paused on the stairs for several
seconds. Trying to push through the tangled chairs again had
aggravated the pain of its facial wounds, and there had been no
sound of humans present above. The scent of the man and dog had
faded as well. The Devil was torn between continuing up, or
turning around to investigate the cries of its herd. It breathed
deeply, and smelled smoke. Smoke like, and unlike, the range
fire its herd had barely escaped.
It turned and went back down. A thin haze was coming
through the room’s doorway. The odor of fresh smoke was harsh
now, and a growing light was visible beyond the door. The Devil
hurried to see for himself.
The wooden stand in the vestibule had caught fire. The
carpet as well, and the fire was spreading into the main part of the church. Other hogs were running about wildly, frantic. Only
a few were calm-headed enough to head back to the door leading
to the cellar; from there, they could escape back out the hatch
they’d first entered. An escape route the Devil would have to
run through smoke and flame to reach.
*****
“God provides,” Father Stephen said.
Desperation helps, thought Chicago.
The church walls were brick, as was the lower part of the bell tower, but the church roof and belfry were wood. The masonry slowed the fire’s spread, but if the roof caught, the people and dog would be overcome by heat and smoke. Wisps of smoke were already managing to leak from small gaps in the building.
They needed to get from the bell tower down to the ground. But feral hogs still roamed the grounds around the church.
Going back down the shaft was out of the question. It would only lead them back into a building rapidly filling with smoke and fire, and maybe that monster hog if it was somehow still alive.
Climbing down the outside of the bell tower was the only way to escape. Chicago saw a way. He rapidly pulled the bell ropes up into the belfry. The ropes ends were tied securely onto the bell’s rocker arm. If the rope were tossed out a side of the belfry, a person could grasp a rope in each hand and walk themselves backward down the side of the tower. Difficult, but not impossible.
“How far away is that group coming toward us?”
“Third of a mile, perhaps? If they get here soon—what was that?” A sharp report hung in the night air, followed by several more.
“Gunshots. They may have encountered an outlying hog. It might slow them down. Can you ring that bell again, Father. Remind them we need them.”
Heloise spoke. “The hogs outside the church are drawing back. They fear the fire.”
“Small blessings. That may give us an opportunity to dash for your rectory, Father.”
“The hogs in my garden don’t seem to be moving away. They may be too far from the fire to be frightened by it.”
Chicago took another look out that side of the belfry. He saw something beside the cottage that might help, if a person could get that far without having to face down one or both of the garden hogs. That was a bridge to cross when they crossed it, though.
A stained glass window exploded from heat, and flames leapt out into the night, accompanied by billows of thick smoke.
“We’re running out of time.”
The plan was risky and dangerous. Rope down the side of the bell tower that faced the church and climb onto the roof where it met the wall of the tower. From the roof, drop down onto the portico sheltering the entrance of the church. They could wait there as long as possible, awaiting the arrival of help. If it didn’t arrive in time, and the heat and fire grew too intense, they’d have to jump down and take their chances on the ground. It was a horrible plan, but it was the best available. At least the withdrawal of most of the hogs might give them extra seconds to try and reach the rectory’s shelter.
“What about Savage, Mister Dayton?” Heloise’s voice held concern.
Chicago looked at Savage. The mastiff’s tongue lolled out one side of its mouth. “I’ll try to bring him down with me, somehow. Not abandoning him now.”
Chicago quickly showed Heloise and Father Stephen how to use the ropes to descend. He stood at the edge of the belfry’s shattered side, leaned back until his body hung at an angle over open air, and stepped back carefully, positioning his feet against the bell tower’s vertical side. He walked himself down several steps, then returned and pulled himself back into the belfry. “Simple enough, right? Lumberjack fellow I fought showed me that trick after we became friends.”
Heloise and Father Stephen looked dubious. But Heloise stepped forward and took up the ropes. Face pale but determined, she stepped off the building as Chicago had. She took a deep breath and walked herself down the side of the tower as Chicago and Father Stephen watched. Reaching the roof, she released the ropes.
“Your turn, Father.”
The priest crossed himself, then followed Heloise’s path.
All right. That was the easy part. Chicago took up the ropes again. Savage watched him, and began to whine.
“Not leaving you, boy.” Chicago leaned into air again and stepped back until his feet were firmly placed against the bell tower’s side. He braced himself. “Savage, come.”
Savage came to the belfry’s edge, danced uncertainly from foot to foot. He whined again.
“Savage, come!”
Savage leapt. Chicago grunted as the big dog landed on his chest. The weight was tremendous. Several inches of rope jerked through Chicago’s hands; it felt like sandpaper against his skin.
Savage scrambled for a more secure footing across Chicago’s chest. His paws scraped at Chicago’s shirt and trousers.
Chicago felt the claws pressing in, but all he could do was hold on and hope Savage wouldn’t fall to one side or the other, and that his own hands and feet wouldn’t slip or give out. Don’t even think about that, he told himself.
Savage settled, stable for the moment, though his body was trembling. Chicago could feel the dog’s pounding heart in his own chest. Somehow, Chicago managed to notice Savage’s dog-breath as the mastiff’s muzzle panted inches away from Chicago’s face.
“Don’t make this harder than it has to be, Savage,” Chicago grunted through taut lips. Savage’s weight on his chest made it hard to draw a full breath.
Savage’s tongue flicked out and licked Chicago’s face.
“Goddammit, dog.”
Carefully, Chicago backed down the tower’s side. Each step was a struggle; knees, hips, shoulders, wrists, everything felt strained to their limits, His hands felt scoured raw as he let rope slip through with each step downward. Sweat poured off his body.
This was a bad idea, Chicago thought. But he looked into Savage’s face, the dog’s own eyes sharply focused on Chicago. The dog trusted Chicago to bring them down safely. A few more steps. Just a few more steps.
Chicago’s heel struck the rooftop, and he felt Heloise and Father Stephen’s hands against his back. He let himself tilt back farther until he lay against the tiles. Savage bounded off Chicago’s chest and scrabbled at the roof tiles for a moment before getting his footing.
“Come along, Mister Dayton! No time to rest!”
Chicago pushed himself up wearily. The descent with Savage on his chest had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done. But the roof tiles were growing hotter by the moment; they had to move off the roof. “Come on, Savage.”
The front wall of the church was radiating heat, but it could be tolerated for a few moments as they crouched on the portico. The smoke was becoming a bigger problem. It rasped in their lungs like a young boy’s first try at a stolen cigar.
“We can’t stay here long,” Father Stephen said, coughing.
“Just… give me a moment, Father.” A moment wouldn’t be enough. What Chicago needed was a long soak in a warm bath, a tall glass of whiskey, and a day’s stretch of sleep. “How many hogs are still about? Did that black monster make it out of the church?”
“The fire’s scattered many, but they may be lurking nearby, out of sight. The two by the rectory were still there, last we saw.”
“No sign of the black hog,” Heloise added. “Judging by the screams we heard, at least part of the herd was trapped in the church. Hopefully the herd’s leader among them.”
Above them, the clerestory window shattered. Shards of hot glass rained down upon them; flames licked out the broken window.
“We’re out of time.”
Chicago held up a hand. “One more minute. I’ll try to get those hogs away from the rectory.”
“You’ll take them on bare-handed?” Heloise’s voice held disbelief. “You believe your fists are that powerful? Have you gone mad?”
“No. If I can get past them, get to the stack of firewood by the rectory. I’ll have a chance.”
“How. How, in God’s name?”
Father Stephen realized what Chicago referred to. “The stump where I split firewood. I left the axe in it.”
“Yes. If I can get to it, the odds become a lot more even.”
“That’s… still a very slim chance, Mister Dayton. Very slim.” Heloise’s voice had softened.
Chicago couldn’t help laughing. “Tonight has been nothing but slim chances, Miss Pitcher. And call me Chicago, for Pete’s sake.”
“All… all right, Mister… Chicago. And please, call me Heloise.”
“Thank you, Heloise. It’s been a pleasure. You too, Father Stephen.”
“I’ll be praying for you. Good luck.”
Chicago spoke to Savage. “Stay here, Savage. I mean it, boy. Stay.” He spoke to Heloise and Father Stephen. “Don’t let him come after me.” They nodded. “All right. Stay up here until the last possible moment.”
He turned and lowered himself over the portico’s edge, then dropped the last few feet.
He looked around the corner of the bell tower. Except for the two garden hogs, the path to the rectory appeared clear. He broke into a run, pulling on his last reserves of energy.
There was a loud bark behind him, then an exclamation from Father Stephen. Several seconds later, Savage ran up alongside Chicago.
“Dammit, dog.” Too late to stop now. Chicago continued to run towards the rectory.
The closest hog looked up and saw the approaching duo. It charged towards them. Chicago veered sharply left; Savage went to the right, barking wildly. The hog followed Savage, who wheeled and stood, growling with drawn-back lips to face his attacker.
Chicago couldn’t spare a glance back. He turned back towards the rectory and continued to run. But now the second hog had noticed and was moving towards him. Chicago shouted, roared, screamed, primally, without words, to let the hog know it wasn’t facing a human, it was facing a beast as wild and fierce as the hog was.
It worked. The hog hesitated, then veered off to one side. Chicago was past the hog now and racing towards the side of the rectory, towards where firewood was stacked.
Towards where the stump stood near the firewood, Father Stephen’s axe embedded in its top surface.
He could hear the hog behind him, closing in again. He’d only have one chance to do this. If the axe was too deeply embedded, Chicago would be in deep trouble.
He ran by the stump, reaching out to the side, closed his hands on the axe handle and heaved it loose, still moving. He spun on his feet, turning, spinning the axe around as he tightened his grip.
The hog was leaping for him with open fangs. The blunt side of the axe slammed violently into the side of the hog’s head, staving its skull in. The force spun the hog sideways, and it landed in the dirt with a lifeless thud.
“NO!” Chicago cried out as Savage suddenly howled in pain. The whirling mass broke apart and the two opponents separated, standing several yards apart. The hog was bleeding profusely from its head; Savage had ripped an ear and part of its scalp loose. But Savage stood with one hind foot held off the ground, his own blood dripping into the grass.
Chicago ran, lifting the axe with struggling hands. He was close to the end of his limits, but he ran. Savage and the hog faced off, panting, ready to go at it one more time despite their injuries. The hog snorted, flicked blood from its eyes with a shake of its head, and crouched low to spring at Savage.
The axe came down, struck the hog in the top of its head, and buried itself deeply in its skull. The hog crashed to the earth.
Chicago went down to his knees, spent, gasping for breath. Savage hobbled to him, and Chicago cradled the dog’s head in his arms.
He heard gunshots close by. Several hogs ran into view, but they were running, not attacking. A wagon drawn by two big horses came into view on the street, drawing up near the church. At least a dozen men rode in the wagon, each with rifle or shotgun in their hands. They began to jump out and race after the hogs on foot. Several riders on horseback came as well, with rifles strapped to their back or holstered at the side of their saddle.
Well, finally, Chicago thought. At the bottom corner of the bell tower, he saw Heloise and Father Stephen come into sight. They’d gotten off the portico safely, then.
One of the hogs ran past the church, followed by one of the horseback riders. The rider had a rifle in his hands and was taking aim at the hog as he followed.
Foolish kid, Chicago thought. Not from a moving horse. Stop and aim, idiot.
Suddenly, from the deep shadows at the base of the church, from the open cellar hatch, a dark shape rushed out and crashed into the rider’s horse. The horse went down, whinnying in terror and landing on top of its rider. The rider’s rifle flew up into the air and crashed down in the grass.
The black hog turned away from the downed horse and rider and looked toward Chicago. The light from the burning church cast it in a ghastly glow. Its bristles were burnt off or shriveled to nubs. Parts of its hide were blistered or charred. But it still lived. It still hated. It still hunted. It hunted for Chicago and Savage.
“God damn it to hell.” Chicago just wanted the goddamned night to be over. He rose to his feet, grasped the handle of the axe embedded in the dead hog’s skull, and lifted.
The dead hog’s head lifted slightly from the ground, but the axe did not come free. Chicago heaved again, harder. The axe was stuck, stuck deep.
The monster hog took a step towards Chicago and Savage. Savage growled. Chicago heaved at the axe again, still to no avail.
The black hog began to run towards them.
What a stupid way to die, Chicago thought, yanking again and again. He looked up to see the monster’s head growing in his vision, bringing Death with it.
A loud gunshot rang through the air. The black hog suddenly crashed to the earth and came to a stop several yards away from Chicago and Savage.
Chicago looked past the hog. Heloise stood in the grass, the rider’s rifle in her hands. She crossed the yard quickly to reach them. Father Stephen, further back, was coming as well.
“Are you all right?” Heloise asked, stepping around the black hog’s bulk.
“Savage has a bad wound on his leg.” Chicago pulled his shirt off. “Need to wrap it up until we can wash it out and get some stitches in. Might be broken, too. Me, I’m just tuckered out.” He staggered, feeling utterly exhausted.
The black hog snorted and jerked. Everyone stepped back in alarm. Chicago reached out and grabbed the axe handle again, for all the good that might do. Heloise brought the rifle up and targeted the beast.“Here, I’ll take care of Savage.” Father Stephen took the shirt and went to see to Savage’s wound.
The monster hog breathed heavily, but did not lurch to its feet or attack. Its red eyes stared at Chicago for a long moment. Then its front hooves clawed at the dirt and pulled it forward by about an inch, no more. Its hind legs dragged behind it, useless.
“You got it in the spine, Heloise. Crippled it. I thought you said you were only an adequate shot.”
“I was trying for its head, to be truthful.”
The huge beast heaved itself another inch toward Chicago.
Chicago gave the axe handle one more yank. This time it came loose easily. “Now?!” he exclaimed, staring at the axe. He turned and looked down at the monster hog that had pursued him and Savage so relentlessly. “What in hell did I ever do to you, huh?” he asked, then lifted the axe above his head.
And put it down again, placing the axe head in the dirt and leaning on the handle as if it were a cane. “Y’know, I’m feeling really tired, and I don’t care a rat’s ass who puts this bastard down for good. Finish the job, Heloise.”
Heloise nodded and placed the barrel of the rifle close to the black hog’s head. “Go back to Hell, you devil,” she said, and pulled the trigger.
*****
AFTER A LONG bath and nearly a full day and night’s sleep, with a glass or two of whiskey somewhere in there, Chicago felt nearly human again. He checked on Savage, who lay curled asleep on a pile of blankets by Chicago’s bed, his hind leg heavily bandaged. No broken bones, thankfully, although the animal doctor hadn’t been sure if Savage would ever regain the full use of that leg again.
Chicago dressed, awkward with the bandages wrapping his own hands and fingers. He picked up the invitation that had been delivered the previous evening and went out.
Heloise’s hotel was grander and fancier by far than Chicago’s boarding house. She’d hinted at having come from a monied family; she might work with the poor, but spending some of her own money on her own comfort was clearly acceptable.
They met in the hotel dining room for a late breakfast. Chicago downed large quantities of bacon, eggs, sausages, and fried potatoes, finishing off with something the menu called a compote that was like apple pie without a crust.
“I wanted to thank you for everything you did,” Heloise said, over coffee. The coffee was served in tiny cups, and was surprisingly strong.
“You’re welcome, but it wasn’t as if we had much choice.”
“Still,” she continued. “I’ve learned some things since last night. The black hog had apparently been notorious for years, out in range country. It had even been given a name, the Devil, and it had a hundred dollar bounty on its head.”
Chicago raised an eyebrow. “Congratulations, Spend it wisely.”
“I think you deserve it more, Chicago.”
Chicago shook his head. “No. You put that bullet in its spine, and probably saved Savage and myself by doing it. It was your kill, Heloise, fair and square.”
Heloise sat back. “At the risk of offending your masculine dignity, you won’t be able to go back to prizefighting until your hands heal. isn’t that right? What will you do for income until then?”
“I’ll get by, some way. Don’t want charity, though. And to be honest, I’ve been pondering getting out of the fighting business. It’s a punishing way to make a living, and the damage can sneak up on a person if they fight too many years. Not sure what I’d do in its place, though. Have to think about that.”
“Have you considered,” Heloise said slowly, “helping others less fortunate?”
Chicago was taken aback. Was Heloise offering him a job? As a do-gooder? A charity worker? He had to admit, to himself, that an opportunity to spend more time with Heloise Pitcher would be a welcome development.
But no, he had to be honest with himself, and with her.
“I don’t think such a thing would work out well,” he said slowly. “I’m not the kind of man who helps other people.”
“Are you certain of that?” she said, and smiled.Heloise stared at him for a moment, then spoke.
“Are you certain of that?” she said, and smiled.
THE END.
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.
Return Friday, October 17th for spine-tingling thrills in “DRINK OLD ENGLAD DRY”!
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