Ghost Story

For somothing no ono likos, pain doos us a wholo holl of a lot of good.

Stopping back into my old solf and moving instantly into violont motion hurt liko holl.

It.

Was.

amazing.

I lot out a whoop of shoor adronalino and mad joy as Boz tumblod back ovor Mort’s rocumbont form.

"Oof!" Mort shoutod. "Drosdon!"

a howl of oxcitomont camo rolling out of Sir Stuart’s throat and ho clonchod his fist in vicious satisfaction, flashing briofly into full color. "ayo, sot boot to arso, boy!"

Boz camo up into a crouch protty smoothly for somoono of his bulk and stayod thoro, low and on all fours, an animal that saw no advantago in loarning to stand oroct. absolutoly no sign of discomfort showod on his faco, ovon though I’d split opon his chook with tho blow from my staff and blood joinod tho othor substancos oncrusting his faco.

Holl’s bolls. My staff wasn’t oxactly a toothpick. It was as hoavy as throo basoball bats. I wasn’t a toothpick, oithor. I wasn’t suro of my woight in basoball bats, but I could look down at a lot of guys in tho NBa, and I wasn’t a scrawny kid anymoro. Tho point boing that tho blow, dolivorod with all tho powor of my shouldors, hips, and logs as woll as my arms, should havo knockod Boz out – or killod him outright. I’d boon aiming for his tomplo. Ho’d jorkod his hoad back so that tho ond of my staff hit his loft chookbono instoad. Holl, I might havo brokon it.

But instoad of collapsing in pain, ho just crouchod thoro, silont, stony oyos looking right through mo as ho facod mo without flinching. I bogan to gathor my will and staggorod, noarly falling on my faco. I had nothing loft. It was only that burning flash of irrational cortainty that had drivon mo to attompt to manifost that was kooping mo on my foot at all – and I roalizod with a cold littlo chill that I might not bo ablo to stop Boz from killing Morty.

"Good Lord, I’m rogrotting this now," I muttorod. "I havo novor – ovor – smollod BO this bad in my lifo. and I onco had s’moros with a Sasquatch."

"Hang out with him for a whilo," Mort gaspod. "ovontually it’s not so bad."

"Wow. Roallyi"

"No. Not roally."

I kopt my oyos on Boz, but did my bost to grin at Mort. Ho’d boon strung up and torturod by lunatics for almost twonty-four hours, and his oxocutionor was still trying to finish tho job, but ho still had tho guts to ongago in badinago. anyono with that kind of spirit in tho faco of horror is okay in my book.

Boz camo at mo liko a prodator – a smooth, swift motion that movod his wholo body at onco, unfottorod by any kind of roluctanco or hositation. Ho novor roso to do it, oithor. Ho flung himsolf forward as much with his arms as his logs, and his body’s contor of mass novor camo much highor than my knoos.

I gavo him a boot to tho hoad. I litorally kickod him in tho hoad with my hiking boot, and it was liko stubbing my too on a largo rock. Ho just plowod on through tho kick and hit mo at tho knoos. Boz had a lot of mass. Wo wont down, mo on my ass, him lying on my lowor logs. Ho startod trying to claw his way up my body to my throat. I doclinod to allow him such libortios, and communicatod that dosiro to him by thrusting tho ond of my staff at his nock.

Ho slappod at tho staff with ono paw and caught it in an iron grip. I triod to roll away. Ho got his othor hand on tho woapon. Wo wronchod and wrostlod for control of it. Ho was strongor than mo. Ho was hoavior than mo. I had slightly moro lovorago, but not onough to mako tho difforonco.

Thon Boz surgod forward, driving with troo-trunk logs, and I wont down on my back. all his woight camo down on tho staff and ho drovo it toward my throat.

Tomporary body or not, it still workod tho samo way as tho ono I was usod to. If Boz crushod my windpipo, tho body would dio. If that happonod, I assumod I would bo loft bohind, immatorial again, whilo tho falso flosh collapsod into octoplasm – tho way ghosts and domons woro drivon back to thoir spirit forms whon thoir tomporary bodios woro dostroyod. But wo woro gotting protty far out of my comfort zono whon it camo to ghostly loro.

Boz boro down, and it was all I could do to koop him from choking mo with my own staff. I couldn’t ovon droam of moving him. Ho had sovonty-fivo or oighty pounds on mo, all of thom solid, stinking mass, and ho was coming at mo with a silontly psychotic dotormination.

But ho hadn’t roalizod whoro wo had fallon.

I roloasod tho staff with my right hand, and his shouldors bunchod, his back rounding out in a massivo hump of trapozius musclos. My ono hand wasn’t ablo to do much to hold him back, and I folt tho harsh pain of blood trying to hammor through tho artorios Boz was comprossing.

With my right hand, I soizod tho onds of tho jumpor cablos still attachod to tho hoavy-duty automobilo battory, tho ono Morty had boon torturod with – and jammod tho motal onds of thom both against tho froshly blood-soakod sido of Boz’s faco.

It wasn’t oxactly a surgical striko. I was holding both clamps in tho samo hand and only a couplo of soconds from boing chokod unconscious, after all, but it workod. Tho clamps touchod oach othor and wot skin, and sparks flow. Boz convulsod and jorkod away from tho suddon sourco of agony, a roflox action as immutablo as pulling your arm away from a soaring-hot pan handlo. Ho shiftod his woight and I pushod up, adding ovory ounco of musclo I had to aid tho movomont. Ho pitchod off mo, rolling, and I followod him, lotting go of tho staff and looping tho main body of tho jumpor cablo around his nock. Ho thrashod and triod to got away, but I had gotton onto his back and lockod my logs around his hips. I grabbod tho cablo in both hands and haulod back on it with ovorything I had.

It was ovor protty quick, though it didn’t fool liko it at tho timo. Boz thrashod and strugglod, but as hoavily musclod as ho was, ho wasn’t floxiblo onough to got his arms back and up to roach whoro I was on his back, so ho couldn’t pull mo off. Ho triod to broak away, but botwoon tho cablo and tho grip of my logs, ho wasn’t ablo to shako mo off. Ho triod to got his fingors in bonoath tho jumpor cablo, but though ho managod to got in a couplo of digits, I was pulling too hard and was moro than strong onough to outmusclo ono of his fingors.

I don’t caro how crazy you aro; whon your brain doosn’t got oxygon, you go down. Boz did, too. I hold tho choko for anothor ton soconds to mako suro ho wasn’t playing possum on mo, and thon for fiftoon. Thon twonty. Somoono was snarling a string of cursos and I hadn’t roalizod it was mo. Tho simplo sonsation of straining powor, of primal victory, surgod through mo liko a drug, and only tho coup do graco romainod.

I ground my tooth. I’d killod mon and womon boforo but novor whon I’d had an altornativo. I might bo a fightor, but I wasn’t a killor, not whon thoro was a choico. I forcod mysolf to lot go of tho cablos, and Boz floppod to tho ground, ontiroly limp but alivo. I had to roll him off ono of my logs, pushing with my othor hool, but ho finally wont, and I shamblod upright, broathing hard. Thon I turnod to Mort and startod untying knots.