Laymon, Richard - The Traveling Vampire Show

“What’re you doing?” Rusty asked.

“Nothing.”

“Want help?” he asked.

A laugh flew out of Slim, but then she groaned.

“You okay?” I asked her.

“Been better.” She grimaced slightly, then added, “Been worse, too.”

“Do you have any fond feelings for the dog?” I asked.

“You kidding?”

I shrugged. “I mean, you’re sort of an animal lover.”

“That has its limits,” she said.

“So ... you won’t be upset if something bad happens to this dog?”

“Like what?” she asked.

“Like something really bad?”

Looking me steadily in the eyes, she said, “I don’t think so.

As I, nodded, I saw Rusty giving me this very weird look. His eyebrows were rumpled in a frown, but his eyes looked frantic and his mouth seemed to be smiling.

“What?” I asked him.

“What’re you gonna do?”

I shrugged, then walked over to where the sign ended. Down below, the dog watched me and followed. When I stopped, it stopped.

“Get outa here!” I shouted at it.

It barked and leaped, slammed the wall and tried to scurry up. Then it dropped. As it landed on its side in the dust in front of the shack, I jumped.

My plan was to land on the dog with both feet.

Cave it in.

On my way down, I heard it make a quick, alarmed whine as if it knew what was coming.

I braced myself for the feel of my sneakers smashing through its ribcage—and maybe for the sound of a wet splot! as its guts erupted.

But it had just enough time to scoot out of my way.

Almost.

Instead of busting through the dog, one of my feet pounded nothing but ground and the other stomped the end of its tail.

The dog howled.

I stumbled forward and almost fell, but managed to stay on my feet. As I regained my balance, I glanced back. The dog was racing off, howling and yelping, butt low, tail curled between its hind legs as if to hide from more harm.

Rusty, at the edge of the roof, called down, “Got a piece of him!”

The dog sat down, curled around and studied its tail.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can!” I yelled.

My voice must’ve gotten the dog’s attention. It forgot its tail and turned its head and stared at me with its only eye.

I muttered, “Uh-oh.”

It came at me like a sprinter out of the blocks.

“Shit!” Rusty yelled. “Run! Go, man!”

I ran like hell.

Somewhere in the distance behind me, Rusty yelled, “Hey, you fuckin’ mangy piece of shit! Over here!”

I looked back.

The dog, gaining on me, turned its head for a glance toward the voice.

Rusty let fly with a sneaker.

The dog barked at him ... or at the airborn shoe.

The sneaker hit the ground a couple of yards behind it and tumbled, throwing up dust. Not even a near miss. But the dog wheeled around and barked.

Rusty threw a second sneaker.

The dog glanced over its shoulder at me, snarled, then dodged the second sneaker (which would’ve missed it anyway by about five feet) and raced forward to renew its seige of the snack stand.

Chapter Eight

Afraid the dog might change its mind and come after me again, I ran for all I was worth until I reached the edge of the woods. Then I stopped and turned around.

The dog was sitting in front of the shack, barking and wagging its tail as if it had treed a pair of squirrels.

Up on the roof, Rusty waved at me, swinging his arm overhead like a big, dopey kid.

I waved back at him the same way.

Then Slim, apparently on her knees, raised herself up behind the sign. Holding onto it with one hand, she waved at me with the other.

My throat went thick and tight.

I waved back furiously and yelled, “See ya later!”

And a voice in my head whispered, Oh , yeah?

But who pays attention to those voices? We get them all the time. I do, don’t you? When someone you love is leaving the house, doesn’t it occur to you, now and then, that you may never see him or her again? Flying places, don’t you sometimes think What if this one goes down? Driving, don’t you sometimes imagine an oncoming truck zipping across center lines and wiping out everyone in your car? Such thoughts give you a nasty sick feeling inside, but only for a few seconds. Then you tell yourself nothing’s going to happen. And, turns out, nothing does happen.

Usually.

I lowered my arm, stared at my friends for a couple of seconds longer, then turned and hurried down the dirt road.

I ran, but not all-out. Not the way you run with a dog on your tail, but the way you do it when you’ve got a long distance to cover. A pretty good clip, but not a sprint.

Every so often, I had an urge to turn back.

But I told myself they’d be fine. Up on the roof, they were safe from the dog. And if strangers should come along-like some punks or a wino or The Traveling Vampire Show—Rusty and Slim could lie down flat and nobody would even know they were there.

Besides, if I returned, we’d all be on the roof again a couple of miles from home and no way to get there without Slim bleeding all over the place.

Going for a car was the only sensible thing to do.

That’s what I told myself.

But the farther away from Janks Field I ran, the more I wished I’d stayed. A couple of times, I actually stopped, turned around and gazed up the dirt road to where it vanished in the woods.

And thought about running back.

Maybe I would’ve done it, too, except for the dog. I hated the idea of facing it again.

First, I felt sort of guilty about trying to kill it. Which made no sense. The damn thing had attacked Slim—it had hurt her and tried to rip her apart. For that, it deserved to die. Clearly. Without a doubt. But all that aside, I felt rotten about jumping off the roof to murder it. Part of me was glad it had scooted out of the way.

Second, the dog was sure to attack me if I returned to Janks Field on foot. It would try to maul me and I’d try to kill it again.

But I hope the dog wasn’t the reason I decided to keep going. I hope it wasn’t for anything selfish like that.

But you never know about these things.

The real whys.

And even if you could somehow sort out the whys and find the truth, maybe it’s better if you don’t.

Better to believe what you want to believe.

If you can.

Anyway, I didn’t go back. I kept on running up the gloomy dirt road, huffing, sweating so hard that my jeans were sticking to my legs.

I met no one else. The road, all the way from Janks Field to Route 3, was empty except for me.

When I came to the highway, I stopped running. I needed to catch my breath and rest a little, but I also didn’t want anyone driving by to get the wrong idea.

Or the right idea.

With Grandville only a couple of miles away, some of the people in cars going by were sure to recognize me. They might not pay much attention if I’m simply strolling along the roadside. But if they see me running, they’ll figure something is wrong. They’ll either stop to offer help or tell everyone what they saw.

Golly, Mavis, I was out on Route 3 this morning ’n who should I see but Frank and Lacy’s boy, Dwight, all by himself over near the Janks Field turnoff, running like he had the Devil itself chasing after him. Seemed real strange.

Spose he was up to some sorta mischief?

Can’t say, Mavis. He ain’t never been in much trouble. Always a first time, though.

I wonder if you oughta tell his folks how you saw him out there.

I better. If he was my boy, I’d wanta know.

And so it would go. In Grandville, not only does everyone know everyone, but they figure your business is their business. Nowdays, you hear talk that “It takes a village to raise a child.” You ask me, it takes a village to wreck a child for life.