22

Corey couldn’t see a thing. His head was tucked to his chest, his arms pulled tight around his face. But the boots landed hard on his back, his arms, his torso, his legs. He couldn’t tell how many people had surrounded them but it felt like a hundred. He heard Quinn grunting, yelling.

Corey rolled away, lashing out with his arm. He fingers closed on someone’s leg. The guy jumped away, but Corey clung to the pants and pulled as hard as he could.

“Yeeeaaagghh!” The attacker fell backward, windmilling his arms, and crashed into the guy who was pummeling Quinn.

Both guys lost their balance, falling onto a pile of sharp rocks. As they cried out in pain, Corey sprang toward Quinn and lifted him to his feet. His cowboy hat had fallen off and he quickly rammed it back down on his head.

“Let’s get out of here!” Corey shouted.

The two fallen guys were crawling away, trailing blood. Quinn looked at them with disbelief. “You knock my hat off, you pay,” he grunted. “Cowards.”

The men were struggling to their feet. But Corey’s eyes were drawn to a movement beyond him, in the shadows of the buildings.

Three other men stepped out. They didn’t look much older than Quinn. Two of them had their hands behind their backs. They all wore ragged clothing and matching wool caps perched at the same slant. “Nobody does that to an ooga-ooga boy,” said one of them, flashing a grin that revealed a set of teeth like piano keys.

“And no one calls us cowards,” another said.

“The who?” Quinn howled with laughter. “That’s the name of your gang—ooga-ooga? I take it back. You ain’t cowards. You sound more like a species of monkey. And you look like it, too!”

The guy balled up his fists. As he lunged for Quinn, the two other guys stepped toward Corey. They were pulling their hands from behind their backs. One guy was an enormous seven footer holding a crowbar, the other a skinny rat-faced boy holding a broken wood plank.

Corey stepped backward, tripping over on a jagged rock. He nearly lost his balance, teetering at the edge of the trench.

“Jump!” shouted some drunk below, with a cackling laugh.

“Come home to daddy,” another one growled.

“YAHHH!” One of the ooga-ooga boys ran for Corey with the crowbar held high. He took a wild swing.

Corey felt the whoosh of air as he jumped away, keeping the trench behind him. He scooped up a fistful of gravel and rocks, tossing it into the guy’s face. The attacker flinched and turned away, hacking. Corey glanced quickly over to Quinn. He was spinning on his feet, landing a kick to the jaw of his assailant.

“Psst, kid, take this,” a croaky voice called up from the trench.

Corey glanced down. In the darkness, a guy with a floppy, ripped cap and a scraggly beard was creeping up the ladder, reaching to Corey with an empty glass bottle. Corey had to fall to his belly to grab it.

The bottle smelled foul and was sticky to the touch. But it would have to do.

“Corey, watch out!” Quinn shouted.

Corey leaped to his feet, just in time to see the skinny ooga-ooga boy stepping toward him, drawing back with the plank.

He leaped away, scooped a rock from the ground with his free hand, and threw it. As the guy swung, the plank struck the rock with a loud thock, and the rock sailed over the trench and through the window of a building across the street. “Hey, grand slam!” Corey said. “Let’s celebrate.”

The weight of the plank had turned the guy’s body around. Before he could recover, Corey jumped toward him and swung the bottle into the side of his face. It smashed to pieces, leaving Corey with a jagged stump in his hand. “I don’t believe I just did that. . . .”

“Yee-HAH!” Quinn yelled, running toward him. “Nice work, Cor—”

The word caught in his throat. He stopped at Corey’s side. The ooga-ooga boys were facing them in a line now, shoulder to shoulder—the crowbar guy, the plank guy with blood streaming down the right half of his face, and the guys who had fallen on the rocks. “Should we scrub ’em, Satch,” growled the crowbar guy, “or just take their money?”

“Money first,” said the guy who had started the attacks. “Then, boys, we have us some fun.”

Corey’s hands were shaking. He held up the broken bottle. He could see a flicker of fear across their faces. Or maybe it was just his imagination.

“You’re shaking, nelly boy,” said the plank guy. “Maybe I need to make a line drive single out of your head.”

Quinn stepped forward. Corey heard a soft shhhhink sound as he pulled the bowie knife from its holster. It glinted dully in the reflection of the gas lamp on the corner of Morton Street. “Not before I make a dugout in yours,” he said.

“Quinn, be careful!” Corey hissed.

With a bloodthirsty yell, Satch grabbed the crowbar and swung it at Quinn. It connected with a thud to Quinn’s wrist. His arm jerked backward and he cried out in pain.

“No-o-o-o!” Corey jumped at Satch, swinging the broken bottle. He felt it slice the guy’s arm. Satch jumped back.

Quinn shifted the knife to his other hand, grimacing with pain. But as he looked toward Corey, his eyes grew as wide as softballs. “Duck!”

Corey squatted fast. He was aware of one of the ooga-ooga boys swinging something. And of Quinn lunging forward. And of a sickening groan.

Then everything fell silent.

“Quinn?” Corey said, still huddled in a crouch. “What just happened?”

Corey felt a drop of warm liquid land on the back of his neck. Quinn was backing away, still holding the knife, his arms at his sides. In the distance, a low, droning siren sounded.

“It’s the police,” one of the gang boys muttered.

Satch glowered at Quinn. “We don’t forget,” he growled, as the gang began slipping away into the shadows. Corey counted four of them.

The fifth was the plank guy. He was sprawled on the rocks, facedown in a pool of blood.

Quinn was standing over him, looking down at his inert body. Even in the darkness, Corey could see Quinn’s face slowly going pale with shock over what he had just done.