Dastardly Bastard(22)

Donald closed the gap, his small legs burning. The walk had been arduous, and he would be glad to finally have a seat next to Tubby, even if it meant him sitting on the ground. He just had to get there.

The puppeteer pulled, making the final few feet easier. Now, if only the fish would go away, Donald thought.

“Look, Squirt.” Tubby pointed to the gap in the guard wire. “A bridge. That’s why it stops. They made an opening for the bridge.”

Donald turned to look out over the chasm.

“Don’t you wonder where it leads, Squirt?” Tubby asked from his throne.

The bridge looked like a relic from centuries past. Made of wooden slats that were cracked or completely missing in places, the thing looked as if it might crumble under the weight of a sparrow, let alone a person stepping onto it. Braided twine held the entire thing together.

At the opposite end of the bridge was another flat section. Set within the rock face across the chasm at the end of the bridge was an opening Donald guessed to be six feet tall and just as wide. The arched cave entrance reminded him of a hungry mouth, open and waiting for its meal.

It looks dangerous, Donald thought, the voice in his head sounding hollow, tinny.

Donald turned around to tell Tubby as much, but the fat man was gone, along with the throne of rock.

“Tubby?”

“Over here, Squirt!”

Donald pivoted slowly, a pressure making him feel as though he was underwater, and found Tubby standing in the middle of the bridge, waving.

“Bridge is fine, Squirt! See?” Tubby bounced up and down, his large stomach rolling like a sheet in the wind.

Donald wanted to laugh, but something didn’t seem right. Everything was off. He could feel it. “I don’t think it’ll hold,” he said, although he felt himself moving toward the bridge.

Timidly, he set a foot on the first plank. The wood looked fraught with dry rot, weathered horribly, yet it held his weight enough that he chanced another foot. Letting the plank hold him for a moment before moving on, wanting to make sure he could still jump back if the board splintered and broke, Donald watched as Tubby turned and began walking toward the second flat section.

Flat Rock, Donald’s mind said. This must be the area Jaleel told us about. Funny. He never mentioned a bridge.

One plank after another, judging each one’s strength before progressing further, Donald commenced his journey. The rope bridge appeared to be about half a football field in length. It would take him several minutes to cross at the rate he was going. He wasn’t willing to chance the quick steps Tubby was taking. No way.

As if in response to his thoughts, the puppeteer pulled him along quicker. Donald felt his heart sink. He was suddenly very aware that he was going to die.

The fish returned, swimming off with those silly little thoughts. He would be fine. Someone was looking over him. Everything was going to be A-Okay. He just needed to follow Tubby.

“Come on, Squirt! Plenty to see here. Sunne’s waiting!” Tubby called in a singsong voice. He joyfully bounced along, the bridge swaying with his weight.

Though Donald didn’t really mind ‘Squirt’—he loathed the word midget—the way Tubby sang the word made it sound far too mocking. Donald supposed it was leagues better than Little Person. He didn’t like being referred to as “little,” period. It was, well… belittling.

Wait. Did he say Sunne?

“Who’s waiting?” Donald asked, quickening his pace, or having his pace quickened by his puppeteer. He wasn’t certain which and didn’t really care.

“`Cross wreckage of bridge is where this man lives. Counting his spoils, his eye how it digs!” Tubby sang.

“Sunne! You said Sunne!” Donald began to run, the burning in his legs ignored. He was mission-oriented, on course, and could not be distracted.

Sunne. Tubby had said, “Sunne!”

“Almost there now, Squirt!”

“Would you stop calling me that!” Donald yelled as he pushed forward. The boards creaked under his small frame, threatening reminders that he should watch his step.

“Just a few more!” Tubby’s voice echoed, bouncing off the chasm’s rock face, exploding up into the sky.

“I’m coming, Sunne!” Donald called, noticing that his own voice did not echo.

Tubby vanished into the dark of the cave. His fat forearm trailed behind him, waving for Donald. “Just this way, Squirt!”

Donald laid one foot back on solid ground, then the other, before turning around to give the bridge one final look.

It was gone, the rotten planks, the aged bit of rope, all of it. Only Waverly Chasm lay before him.

A new voice growled from the cave’s archway, “‘Cross wreckage of bridge is where this man lives.”

Donald spun and came face to face with a living nightmare.

Darkness fell.





18


LYLE LAKE PLACED THE CELL to his ear. A voice he never thought he would hear again said, “Hey, Brody.”

Visions of summer days spent in Bay’s End flooded Lyle’s mind—throwing a baseball back and forth in Rifle Park as Charge, their black lab, ran maniacally between him and his father; Swimming lessons at Bachman High, his father’s hair slick against his forehead, Lyle wishing he’d grow up to be just as good looking as his dad; his head in a trashcan, Dad making slow revolutions with his hand on Lyle’s back after a trip on Space Mountain; a hospital bed, Dad’s face sunken in on itself, machines beeping; Dad whispering one final thing as he looked into Lyle’s eyes, “Hey, Brody.”