#45
The old Buick turned the corner quietly. Brian flicked on the bright lights and the twin beams sliced through the darkness and drizzling rain. Horton and Bobby marked the target.
“Third from the far end,” Bobby said. His voice was low; as if he were afraid he’d be overheard. It wasn’t likely – the Buick’s V8 growled low in its throat. Nothing moved on the street except the drops of rain cutting through the headlight beam.
“Mine,” Horton said.
He hung out the side window, leaned his ribs against the door frame, and braced. He held “the war hammer” tightly in his hand. It was a ten pound sledge hammer with the handle sawed off. The wood was wrapped carefully in dark tape and decorated with feathers and scraps of cloth. As Brian cut off the lights and revved the engine, he swung the weapon up behind him and held it there, like a baseball player ready to swing for the fence.
Brian popped the clutch, and they were off, shimmying on the damp pavement, then finding traction and straightening as they shot down the quiet street. Horton closed his eyes, mouthed a silent prayer, and then, as they neared his target, he reared back. They shot past the third house from the end of the block, and he swung.
The war hammer sliced through rain and air, and just at the right moment – just as they passed the driveway, it connected with the metal side of the mailbox. It was a solid box, bolted on tightly, but the hammer was heavy, and Horton was a big boy. There was a horrible wrenching sound at impact, and the box took off, arching through the air into a hedge.
For a long moment, as they whipped around the corner, Horton was off balance. He felt the weight of the hammer and the power of his swing drawing him out and down, but he reached up, caught the door frame, and wrenched himself inside. The hammer struck the side of the car as he drew it in behind him.
“Jesus,” Brian snapped, “watch the paint.”
Horton didn’t give a fuck what Brian thought.
“MAN,” he screamed. “Did you see that? It flew ten feet! And that SOUND!”
Within moments they were all whooping and hollering, so excited that – as they turned onto the next street, they almost missed it.
It was Brian who spotted the new target – the uber target. He nearly ran the Buick off the road trying to crane his neck far enough to look back and get a better view.
“Fuck,” he said, “did you see that thing?”
“I think so,” Bobby said. “But…was it a mailbox?”
“Ask me if I care,” Bobby said, slowing and pulling over to the side of the road. He stared into the side mirror, sighting in on his target.
“Mine,” he said. “Horton, give me that hammer, and get around here. I need you to drive.”
“You sure?” Bobby asked. “It looked pretty…solid. What was that, marble?”
Brian wasn’t even listening. He was already out of the car, and Horton met him halfway around, flipping him the handle. Brian caught it easily. It was his hammer. He called it Mjolnir, after the weapon of Thor, god of thunder. He’d broken a lot of things with that heavy metal monster, and he was about to break one more.
The target was magnificent. It sat right out by the road. It stood at least a foot and a half tall, and it was shaped like some sort of weird-assed gargoyle thing. It looked like you put the mail into the thing’s mouth, and maybe lifted the tail for out-going mail. Whatever – it didn’t matter. What he wanted was its head. If it came off, he was keeping it. Their rule was to floor it and run, but this one time, he was making an exception.
The Buick turned slowly, and Horton flicked on the lights. They cut through the rain – it was falling harder now – illumining the side of the street. They didn’t reach far enough to make out the target, but this was a rule also. You only got a moment to prepare, and it had to be from the far end of the block.
Something glinted in the distance, and Brian smiled. It had some sort of glass eye – like a crystal. The glass caught a faint flicker of light from the headlights, and he knew where it was. Horton gunned the engine once, then a second time…on the third he let out the clutch, and they were gone.
They shimmied longer on this run. Horton wasn’t as used to the Buick’s steering as Brian, and it was very wet. They should have shut down for the night, but this one was special – one for the trophy case. They shot down the street, and Brian shut everything from his mind but that glint of light he’d seen. He measured the height of the thing in his mind, and he braced himself for impact.
They swerved to the side, aiming in close, and Brian took a deep breath, drawing the hammer back, the leather thong wrapped tightly around his wrist. He always did this one handed, and he had a knack for whipping the thing back, and then forward, bringing incredible force to bear. He had the feeling this was going to be the most solid target he’d ever hit – he wanted a good hit.
He let out a long, wailing cry and swung the hammer. They slid past the target, and he caught the glint of red from the eye again. And more. Something white shone from the shadows – from the mouth. He felt the hammer connect, and then, as the car swung out and away, something ripped back against him – dragging him through the window as the car swung away. His hand was trapped by the thong, and he whipped out and up into the air.
He expected impact with the sidewalk, and was prepared to try and roll, if his arm slipped free of the hammer. Otherwise, he knew his arm was fucked – and probably his shoulder. He opened his mouth to scream, but something else beat him to it. Something incredibly loud, and close. There was a roar of rage, and pain, and then – very suddenly – he was jerked by the thong on his wrist again – straight up. A shadow spread over and around him, and the world dropped away with sickening swiftness.
Far below, the Buick swung around the end of the block and slowed, but already it was growing smaller – dropping away. The thing slashed down with its beak – sharpened stone and powerful, and clamped onto Brian’s arm. He swung at it wildly, whipping his legs up to try and smash into its body, but he was too late. A single snap of that beak severed his arm at the elbow, and he was falling.
He saw it against the backdrop of the moon, a huge winged shadow with Mjolnir dangling from its talon. It screamed a final time before the earth reclaimed him.
No valkyeries attended him, but the rain washed blood from his arm into the grass and soil. In Valhalla, laughter boomed like thunder as the hammer traveled home.
Written by David Wilson - Visit WebsiteFollow me on Twitter
