Free The Forgetting Place by John Burley Page B

air, and before I heard his body crunch against the ground behind me I was back on my feet and moving up the hill.
    â€œBut he was fast, so fast, and I felt him snag my ankle from behind, bringing me to the ground. I kicked out with my other foot, caught him in the face with the sole of my shoe, but that only seemed to anger him. The others were bullies and opportunists, but Billy Myers was crazy— and he will kill me, I thought as he clawed his way up my body, pinning me to the ground, his eyes wild, spittle flying off his lower lip.
    â€œâ€˜You’re gonna get what’s comin’ to ya, faggot,’ he hissed in my face, and he wasn’t talking about another beating this time, because he reached into the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out a black-handled thing that he dangled in front of my face, and with the flick of a spring-loaded switch, a six-inch blade shot out from one of its ends.
    â€œI was plenty scared then because—like I said—the look in Billy Myers’s eyes told me he had every intention of using that thing. I started bucking and thrashing beneath him, trying to throw him off me, but by then his reinforcements had arrived and they piled on top of me, too, holding down my arms and legs.
    â€œâ€˜ Hold him still, goddammit! ’ Billy instructed as he yanked up my shirt and placed the cold point of the blade against my stomach.
    â€œâ€˜Hey, Billy,’ Tim Maddox whispered, as if the rest of us couldn’t hear him, ‘you’re not gonna really cut him, right? You’re just messin’ with him.’ There was a pleading tremor in his voice, and I realized that he, too, was scared of Billy—of what he was, and what he was capable of doing.
    â€œâ€˜Just shut up and hold him,’ Billy said. He looked calm now—tranquil even—as if a thin curtain had fallen across his face, leaving him devoid of emotion. Only his eyes betrayed him, revealing the nastiness beneath, and I stopped wondering if he was going to cut me and braced myself for the silent punch of steel through the flesh of my abdomen.
    â€œâ€˜Excuse me,’ a female voice interjected, and I watched as all four of their faces looked up in unison. It was almost comical, the synchronized upswing of their heads, their jaws dropping open slightly. In the next second there was a whooshing noise as something cut through the air and connected with Billy’s forearm. I heard a resounding crack as the bat made contact. Billy screamed and rolled backward, clutching an arm that now hung at a grotesque angle from his elbow. The knife fell with a soft plop onto my stomach, and I looked down to see a single bead of blood welling up where the point had pressed against my skin. Billy’s arm had taken most of the bat’s force, but the follow-through of my sister’s swing caught Tim Maddox in the temple, sending him flying backward—ironic, since he’d been the one who’d brought the Louisville Slugger to the ambush in the first place but had tossed it onto the ground in order to get a better hold of me. If the bat hadn’t struck Billy first, if the bones in his arm hadn’tabsorbed a good portion of the force of that swing, I’m fairly certain the direct impact to Tim’s head would’ve killed him.
    â€œBret made a half lunge for the Slugger, but she brought it down in an ax chop onto his outstretched hand, and there was another crunch of bone and a howl of pain. She turned to Clayton next, who was scuttling away from her in a crab walk across the ground. She was three years older than all of us, but moved like an apparition, the bat rising above her head once more as she readied herself for the next swing. She’s going to kill them, I thought. She’s going to keep swinging that thing until they’re all stone quiet and dead . I called out her name, but she didn’t seem to hear me. She brought the bat down as hard as she could,