The man lay down beside Schroeder, patting the dead man’s arm with gratitude, then closed his eyes and breathed his last.
* * * *
Modern day
As he ran at a cluster of cowering killer-pumpkin toddlers, DeShaun’s mega-sparkler abruptly died.
The timing was perfect, as it turned out. The blinded baby demons ran almost comically into the walls and bleachers and under the gleefully stomping feet of yelling children.
Kerwin Stuyvesant, releasing pent-up frustration from two years of painful silence, might have scored the greatest number of squash-squashings, relentlessly going from one to another as if playing a life-or-death game of whack-a-mole.
McGlazer, his hands and legs still stinging, could only act as a spotter for the mayor. He knew every corner and cranny of the center as well as the back of his throbbing hand. He could reasonably predict what hiding places the blinded pumpkins might luck into.
The mayor made good use of her soccer-trained muscle memory, landing a good many full field-goal kicks.
When McGlazer heard the foosh of a propelled grenade and the flat rhythm of Hudson’s bullpup, he had to smile, despite his pain. The cavalry had arrived.
A green flash and a louder boom offered even greater reassurance. Devil’s Night had just become Witches’ Night.
* * * *
Deputy Astin careened into the Community Center’s parking lot, calling, “Hang on, boys!” sounding for all the world like Bo and/or Luke Duke.
Pedro already had a shot lined up with the grenade launcher on one of the horticultural horrors crawling at the edge of the roof. Though it was a gas grenade, the impact knocked the thing loose. It landed deftly on its four legs, but one of these splintered on impact.
Screeching, the thing began a lopsided charge at the cruiser. Hudson sprayed it with the bullpup, just as Deputy Astin drove up onto the fringe-tree island.
Three more slayer-squash crawled toward them, zigzagging deftly to avoid the bullets.
The nearest made a ridiculous leap, covering forty feet. Pedro tried to intercept it with a grenade, but the shell flew off harmlessly toward the ball fields.
The monster landed on the roof of the vehicle, its mouth open, ready to clamp onto Pedro’s head.
He held it off with every ounce of his significant strength, pushing against the edges of its mouth.
Hudson knew he couldn’t shoot. He and Deputy Astin leaped up onto the vehicle and started battering the thing with their weapons. Deputy Astin was smacked away, absorbing the full impact of the beast’s tree-trunk leg and sent sailing into the parking lot, where he slid several feet—before an elephantine foot at the end of a foot-thick vine leg descended, crushing the deputy’s torso.
It was Conal.
The devil rushed toward the struggle between Hudson and his follower, catching Hudson completely off guard. The Conal demon snatched Hudson and hoisted him high, relishing his helpless state as the bullpup clattered to the pavement.
A sound grew, a purposeful chanting, a multitude of female voices coming toward them from Main Street. The chant was accompanied by green lightning bolts, landing in near-straight lines upon Conal’s monstrous troops, blasting them to smoking bits.
Conal turned his hideous visage to see them, slowly lowering Hudson to within…
Pepper-spray range. “Hey!”
Conal turned and caught a decent stream in at least one eye. Roaring with fury, Conal flung Hudson toward the Community Center to smash him to pieces against the wall.
The high branches of the fringe tree stopped him, slowing his momentum before bouncing him back to the pavement.
The witches came around the corner of Ecard Street, all holding hands and chanting together.
Chapter 39
I Do Not Fit
Settlement era
Everett did not mind the pain so much, since it was for such a good cause. Besides, he still had his face, folded up neatly in his pocket. He could put it back on later, after Halloween.
Right now, there was a whole roomful of silly men having the stupidest Halloween party he had ever seen. No masks, no music, no scary decorations, just the same ol’ boring pilgrim costumes everybody around here wore. Pilgrims meant Thanksgiving, and it wasn’t Thanksgiving. It was Halloween, gosh dang it!
Everett knew there would be resistance. That’s just how grown-ups were about Halloween. But then, when he got them ready, they sat still and made for good decorations, with their blood and guts and stuff like that showing. Well, they were also dead, but that was just part of the fun.
Everett wanted to pet every one of the horses, but they all whinnied and got spooked and kicked and tried to run away, so he left them alone. It was kind of like his sister’s dog, Bravo. They just didn’t like him.
Oh, well. He didn’t need to be liked. He needed to have Halloween, and for everyone else in the world to have it too.
Everett could barely contain his excitement as he counted to thirty-one, long enough to build suspense, he figured, then charged the little wooden door and burst in, scythe held high like a real reaper!
“Boo!” he shouted, then “Happy Halloweeeeen!” and he swung his scythe in an arc wide enough to cut off five heads—maybe six!
But all the pilgrim guys had fallen asleep. No wonder, with this boring party. Everett knelt down and inspected the men. They weren’t breathing, let alone snoring, and they did not respond when he shook them or poked them with the scythe.
Everett was sad. He sniffed one of the jugs of punch or whatever, and it didn’t smell very fruity, just pungent and yucky.
With a sigh, Everett stood up and removed his hood. He was tired of this smelly town and its lack of Halloween. Plus, his face hurt now, and for nothing.
Everett wandered outside and waved goodbye to all the spooked horses. At least they were having fun.
He decided to walk and walk until he found a real place where people wore costumes and sang “This is Halloween” and put cardboard skeletons on their windows. Maybe he could even
