Free The Dead Path by Stephen M. Irwin Page B

accidental or joking about it. The bird was murdered, and its corpse twisted and changed into a thing that felt …  evil .
    Tristram was staring at the dead bird. His jaw was slack and his eyes were wide. A smile curled his lips. “It’s beautiful,” he whispered. Without hesitation, he knelt and gingerly took hold of the woven head. It was still securely spiked to the body and he lifted the tiny carcass out. As he did, white fluid began to drip from the bird. No, not fluid, but pale, wriggling pupae. Maggots.
    “Wow …” The delighted smile grew wider on Tristram’s face.
    Nicholas felt his stomach roll sickly, the way it did when he had the runs, weak and afraid. “You shouldn’t touch it, Tris. Tris!”
    He bumped Tristram’s arm and Tristram dropped the desecrated creature on the path. The swollen body popped open with a bright whiff of rot and maggots started worming out from their nest.
    Tristram stared at the infested thing, suddenly horrified. “Oh, yuck.”
    Despite the drop, the round woven head was still attached to the tiny corpse, as if determined to see a job through.
    “I can’t believe you picked it up,” said Nicholas.
    As he rocked back on his feet, movement across Carmichael Road caught his eye. The driver’s door of the green car opened. A man was alighting: a large man in a dark suit. In the harsh overhead sun, his face was cast into binary tones of sharp light and dense shadow, yet it seemed he was looking at the boys.
    He is looking at us, thought Nicholas. I can feel it.
    “Tris. We should go home.”
    Tristram was wiping his hands on his shorts, staring at the dead bird. “I thought it was—”
    “Let’s go,” hissed Nicholas. Tristram looked up.
    The man strode across the road toward them, straight at them through the grass. He was even bigger than Nicholas had thought: solid as a rugby player, but older, in his forties. Somehow, middle age made him even scarier. The man turned his head left then right with deliberate slowness, calibrating the surrounds. He wasn’t looking for other adults to join him in chastising these boys for throwing stones and carrying toy guns.
    He’s checking for witnesses.
    There were none, and the man hastened his pace.
    Nicholas and Tristram looked at each other. They couldn’t run to the road. If they tried to dart left or right up the path, the stranger could cut them off without even trying. There was only one way to flee.
    They ran into the woods.
      I n his ten years, Nicholas had been afraid many times. But this was his first taste of terror. Adrenaline on his tongue was bitter. Low branches and tough shrubs tore at his face and bare legs. Beside him, Tristram’s eyes were wide and his fair hair flew out behind. They ran like men in snow, having to take exhausting, high-kneed steps to clear the thick, ancient knots of vine and undergrowth. From behind them came the steady crach-crunch crach-crunch of heavier footsteps. Nicholas dared a look back. The suited man was a rhino between the trees, his heavy strides smashing through the stems that would trip the boys.
    He was gaining.
    Nicholas could see the fear on his friend’s face. Neither of them needed to ask why a strange man was chasing them. They both knew— everyone knew—that there were men who took children.
    “Which way?” he whispered. His cheeks were wet; he realized he was crying.
    “We should …” gasped Tristram, “…  split up.”
    The thought of being alone with the man after him sent a shock of new terror through Nicholas. “No way!”
    “That way … he can’t … get us both.”
    The woods were becoming denser and darker as all but the tiniest chips of sky remained visible overhead. Wide trunks and buttressed roots grew closer together, forming a shadowed and slippery maze. Flinty rocks peeked sharply from under wet brows of rotten leaves.
    The boys scrambled up a steep slope, grazing knees and palms on spiny vines and hidden shale. The man was just a