It hurt Frank’s pride to admit his companion was right. So he nodded and relaxed, making sure he kept a firm grip on their makeshift raft lest the wind carry it off.
Burnfingers seemed to travel below the surface as he slithered upslope toward the cage. Even though he knew where to look, Frank couldn’t see his friend against the weeds and rank grass.
Then he knew where Begay was because he saw Steven stiffen. A hand rose from the darkness in front of the boy’s face. He nodded slowly, glanced back toward his mother, and kept silent.
Good boy, Frank thought anxiously. That’s a smart kid.
Burnfingers worked his way around the side of the cage. Frank heard Alicia gasp softly as a mountainous shadow rose up before her. The guard heard, too, and managed to turn halfway around before the shadow enveloped him. Then both vanished. Frank thought he’d seen a knife flash once, decided he didn’t want to dwell on it.
The next time he saw the knife, it was sawing at the twine and wire that held the wooden bars together. This patient work continued interminably, until shapes emerged from the cage and ran toward him. Steven first, then Wendy. Alicia would require a wider gap to slip through.
His children stumbled into his arms. Wendy was moaning “Daddy, Daddy!” over and over despite his whispered attempts to shush her. When he was finally able to get their attention, he used his hands to indicate they were to lie flat against the raft.
“Help me back this off,” he whispered to them. They complied, making more noise with their kicking than he’d hoped. Now that they were free he was finding it difficult to restrain his own impulse to swim like mad for dry land.
Alicia was running to join them, Burnfingers leading her by the hand. With the children’s help the raft was off to a good start.
That was when Alicia slipped and fell.
It wasn’t much of a splash, but several of the island’s permanent inhabitants had larger ears than normal. Shouts began to dominate the conversation around the firepits.
“Dammit! Kick harder!”
“I am, Daddy, I am!” Steven flailed at the water with his stubby legs.
“Please don’t let them take us again, Daddy!” Wendy was sobbing. “Please don’t. They were going to—”
“Then kick, kick for your lives!” No reason for stealth now that their presence had been detected.
Burnfingers Begay half heaved Alicia onto the raft alongside her husband. There wasn’t even time enough for a welcoming kiss. The waterlogged mattresses dipped alarmingly under the family’s weight.
Light lit the water around their feet, reflected from an old coal-oil lantern. Louder shouts now, dominated by outraged shrieks. Then a deep, rolling boooom that echoed like thunder across the lake as Burnfingers got off a shot from his monstrous handgun. Confusion mixed with the initial outrage at their escape.
Alicia kicked wildly. “They took us. I tried to call out to you but there wasn’t time, there wasn’t any time at all. They took us away and brought us here.”
“They didn’t …?” He left the unnecessary unfinished.
She shook her head. “They didn’t have time. But they were going to. They touched us and grinned these awful grins.” She tried to see across the shallow black water. “Where’s Mouse?”
“Back in the motor home.”
“The motor home’s here?” Mere mention of their mobile refuge was enough to stifle Wendy’s crying.
Something landed in the water close by. Spear or club, Frank didn’t waste time on a look. It was solid but fell short, just bumping his right foot.
Alicia did look back. “Oh, God, Frank, they’re coming!”
“It’s all right,” he lied. “We got the jump on them. We’ll make it. Once we do we’ll be safe. There’s nothing here that can catch the motor home.”
“Have to reach it first,” Burnfingers said, adding a moment later, “I didn’t think they walked all the way into town.”
Now Frank spared a backward glance. Hunchbacked, broken shapes were paddling in furious pursuit on makeshift rafts of their own. Others pushed or pulled these crude crafts through the water while those on board waved their weapons at the escapees. The rafts were fashioned of wood and plastic, not sodden foam rubber. There was no way the fleeing family could hope to outpace even the slowest of their pursuers.
Standing in the bow of the nearest and largest raft was something seven feet tall. Barbaric symbols had been tattooed on its bloated, shiny belly and shaven dome. One massive fist clenched a length of one-inch steel pipe, the end of which had been drilled and fitted with nails.
“Prake,” Alicia informed them. “Their chief, or leader, or whatever.”
“The people in town told us.”
“Daddy, I’m tired,” Steven whined.
Frank started to curse the boy, stopped himself to smile grimly. “I’m tired, too, kiddo, but we’ve got to all keep kicking. We’ve got to.”
“Never make it.” Burnfingers had been wading alongside, keeping pace easily. Too easily. “Better make a run for it. It’s shallower here.”
The water was barely up to Frank’s knees, but it still slowed them, the children in particular. He wasn’t athlete enough to carry Steven more than a few yards. If he’d set a better example at the dinner table, maybe his son wouldn’t have turned out to be such a pudgy glutton himself.
“Get them to the motor home!” Burnfingers yelled. He stood there, outlined against the advancing lanterns and torches, as the family abandoned the raft. Frank saw him turn, raise both arms, and fire again. The Casull boomed through the darkness. A pursuing raft overturned, throwing its occupants thrashing into the lake.
“What about Burnfingers?” Alicia gasped as she tried to lift her knees to her belly. “Isn’t he coming?”
“He knows what he’s doing.” I hope, Frank told himself. “Just run!”
The pistol thundered a third time behind them. Then Burnfingers removed something from the big plastic sack in the middle of the sinking raft: a pop bottle with a rag sticking out of its mouth. A lighter flicked in the darkness, catching the rag alight. Burnfingers tossed it.
The Molotov cocktail, filled with unleaded from Hell, struck one of the rafts and exploded into flame. Screams filled the air as its crew abandoned it. Frank tried to watch and run at the same time. A second Molotov fell short, expending itself harmlessly in the water. Burnfingers turned to run.
They could hear the grotesque Prake bellowing commands to his gargoylish clan. The remaining rafts were much closer now, almost on top of Burnfingers. If they were caught there would be no one to save them this time, Frank knew. His lungs threatened to burst and the water clung like liquid glue to his ankles.
Burnfingers caught up with them, his long legs clearing three times the water Alicia could manage at her best. They could have fashioned additional Molotovs, Frank knew, but both he and Burnfingers had been reluctant to sacrifice any more of the motor home’s fuel supply.
“They’re going to catch us!” Wendy screamed.
“No, they are not, music-girl.” Burnfingers let them advance another ten yards before he raised the big pistol a fourth time, took careful aim, and fired. Not at any of their pursuers, but at the abandoned raft. At the big plastic sack that still bobbed in the center.
Frank knew what he was shooting at. “Get down!”
Alicia almost had time to ask “Why?” when the lake heaved beneath them.
As the tremendous explosion echoed away, Frank rose to his knees and turned. Burnfingers was climbing to his feet, the shock wave having knocked him onto his back. A few lingering screams came from the vicinity of the pursuing rafts. Not of outrage and anger this time, but of pain.
The plastic sack had been stuffed with flammable material: paper, napkins, Wendy’s rock magazines, anything burnable. Around this had been packed kitchen knives and forks, screws and nails from the motor home’s toolbox, and anything else small and sharp. In the center of this mass of kindling and killing, they’d tied the removable propane canister which fueled the motor home’s stove. The heavy-jacketed slug from the Casull had set off a homemade bomb of considerable size, square in the midst of their pursuers. Bits of the shredded canister added another level of lethality to the trap.
Bleeding, torn bodies floated on the dark water, drifting out into the lake. Those not dead or unconscious stood or sat in shock in the midst of total devastation.
“Wow!” Steven muttered as his father half dragged him through the water.
Burnfingers rejoined them moments later. “Didn’t get all of them. Did not get the one we needed to get.”
