Dust and Devils

“Pa said ya’ll put the boxes over there,” Jr. shouted at the bikers. Being small as Jr. was, he had to holler hard to get the adults to listen.

“We heard ya Jr.- stop screaming! We're just taking a wee break,” Gus, the largest and laziest of the Round Hook bikers, yelled back. After unloading half the truck, he and the other bikers placed a few crates in a circle and were using them as chairs.

Jr. peered out the warehouse window and watched as little, yellow, fuzzy dust balls danced in the faint flicker of the streetlight. “We gotsa’ hurry! This place is weird, and Pa said this the Tower’s turf. If one of their lookouts spots us, we’s done for!” he dashed over to Gus and shoved his back.

“Then why don’t you get to workin’, boy!” Gus grabbed Jr. by the child-sized leather jacket he wore and tossed him into the back of the truck. He crashed into a large crate. The box’s wooden frame busted open and buried him in an avalanche of packing peanuts, and a leather-bound book spilled free from the wreckage. The bikers laughed as Jr. coughed up bits of foam.

Jr. grabbed the book to toss at them just as the back door to the warehouse blew open. Jr. thought it sounded like a mouth full of pop rocks, yellow crystals showered into the rooms and shattered as they tore through Lyall and Mcguinny. The remaining bikers dove for cover before returning fire. A honey-yellow glow shone through the dust of the explosion. Jr. froze as a man in a black suit with a Tower symbol on his chest strode out from the smoke. In front of him glowed an orb-like yellow barrier, almost like a bubble that was cut in half. It shielded the man from Gus and the gang’s bullets. Each sizzled and turned into little wisps of smoke upon contact.

What appeared to be the same yellow dust balls from outside, bobbed around the invader. He snatched one from the air and crushed it in his palm. With a deep breath, he inhaled the dust, then doubled over coughing. Jr. watched Gus and the others use the pause in the action as an opening to try and flank behind the bubble. But the man quickly vomited out little yellow rods that slithered across the floor. One reached a busted-up crate and dove into the splintered wood before it burst into a bundle of yellow honeyed threads that flailed wildly, grabbing, and stitching the debris together. It formed the scraps into the body of a wooden lion. The glowing threads like veins throughout the sculptor pulled and maneuvered their creation like a puppet. The creature then tackled Jamal and ripped his throat out.

Another merged with a collapsed support beam. It transformed into a concrete eagle that swatted at Gus. But with the same power that he had thrown Jr., Gus slammed a crate over the bird’s head before he unloaded his gun into it. Like a broken string on a banjo, the construction made a twang sound as its threads snapped. The eagle dropped limp, but the suit from the Tower family wasn’t done yet. Standing up with one of the destructive yellow rods in hand, he took a stance like one of those professional pitchers in a baseball game. He expertly hurled it at Gus. Homerun. Mid-air it transformed into a sword and pinned Gus to the warehouse wall.

Heckle, the last standing of the Round Hook bikers, turned tail and ran. Jr. never much trusted Heckle- the man always wore a smile he’d drop the second he thought no one was watching, making faces, and mocking others behind their back. But Jr. still prayed that Heckle could run fast enough to make it to the bikes. The lion began its chase. Out of Jr.’s sight, he heard Heckle scream something awful. Jr. held his breath as he cried.

The man grabbed another glowing dust ball. Jr. tensed, unsure if he had given himself away. “Maybe he would show me mercy. I’m just a boy and all,” he reasoned to himself. The man from Tower smeared the dust ball onto the edges of a crate, which caused the sealed lid to pop open. Jr. watched as the man dug inside, his back to Jr. He pulled out jug after jug of bleach. Then the Jr. had the most terrifying thought of his life: this was his opportunity to run or die.

Jr. waited to move until the man shuffled through the packing peanuts. Each rustle gave Jr. inches toward freedom. When he reached the edge of the truck bed, the man tossed the crate aside. Fear burned cold through Jr. as he froze. The man turned and approached a different crate. If he looked up, just straight forward, he would see Jr. But the man was too preoccupied with the crates. Slowly, Jr. lowered himself down from the truck. He looked away from the man, towards the bikes. All still there, Heckle’s body a mangled mess inches from them. A clear path towards safety. “Wait,” Jr. thought. “Where’s the…” the no-longer-missing lion roared from behind him.

Jr. spun around. Poised to pounce, the beast watched him. The man from Tower didn’t look away from the crates as he spoke. “And who are you?” His voice sounded surprisingly kind, grandfatherly almost. Like what Jr. thought Santa would sound like. “It's okay. I haven’t decided to hurt you yet.” He stood up and approached the boy. He wasn’t looking at Jr., though. His eyes were squarely locked on the book that Jr. realized he, for some reason, still clutched in his hands. “Help me decide your value. What’s your name.”

His lip quivered and snot began to bubble as he said, “Arthur, Sir. But most people just call me Jr.”

The man leaned in close. Close enough that Jr. realized the blonde in the man’s dirty blonde beard was actually fragments of those dust balls caught in his hair. “Arthur,” he whispered. “You may call me Merlin,” he then stood up to his full, impressive height. Towering over the little boy, he said “I would like you to give me that book.” Jr. looked up at him, stunned. “Please,” he added. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Jr. thought he should just give up the book. It’s the only way he’ll get out of there alive. But he couldn’t. When he tried to outstretch his arms, he couldn’t. When he tried to loosen his grip, he couldn’t. He may have only been twelve, but he was still a Round Hook. And that meant something. Merlin’s expression darkened when he realized that the boy wasn’t going to give up the book. He stepped away, and the lion pounced.

Jr. screamed. But not in terror- a war cry. He held the book like a weapon. But before he had to use it, Gus tackled the lion from out of nowhere. He slammed it into the truck, despite the yellow sword still sticking through his chest. Gus grabbed and ripped at the threads in the lion’s wooden face. “Run!” Gus shouted. And Jr. did. He ran past the line of motorcycles to the last bike in line- his own. Smaller than the rest, but perfect for him. He looked back as the lion tried to pull itself towards him, but Gus kept it pinned. Jr. made a hasty retreat out of there.

The boy checked behind him again and again for the lion. Nothing. He sighed in relief and tried to calm his heart. It beat as loud as the thunder of his engine. The empty midnight street allowed him to go as fast as he could. But something didn’t sit right. It tickled at the back of his head. He looked behind himself again. Still nothing. “But why do I still feel eyes?” Jr. thought. Then, he looked back, then up. In the sky with concrete wings emerging from its back- the lion had merged with the eagle.

“You can’t do that!” Jr. screamed in frustration as the lion swooped down at him and swiped with its paw. The boy swerved to avoid its attack, a claw slicing his cheek and leaving behind a splinter large enough he could touch it with his tongue. Blood pooled in his mouth. Jr. had tasted blood before, mostly from whenever he busted his lip. But never this much.

And then Jr. saw an alleyway. It was so narrow the buildings on either side didn’t even bother fencing or mowing it. So thin, Gus sideways couldn’t fit. But then, Jr. had the new most terrifying thought of his life. “I could fit. Maybe.” In a split-second decision, Jr. turned towards it. He would have to be exact in his steering aim. One inch off and his body would be less recognizable than poor Heckle’s. The lion roared as it swiped again, this one meant for the boy’s head. But instead, nearly pulling him out of his seat, the claw had torn his jeans and leg open. The alleyway drew closer and closer as Jr. screamed. Warm blood poured out of his mouth, as his vision went dark.

Air. Jr. felt light as air as he flew through the sky. Was he dead? Did the eagle catch him? No, it was too dark, too wet, and cold to be heaven or hell. He wasn’t even in the sky, he realized. But laying in a bed of grass. Behind him, the wreckage of his bike burned. And before him, a pile of stone and wood had wedged itself into the alley’s entrance, finally inanimate. Jaw still open, the wooden face of the lion laid motionless, as if frozen mid-growl. Glowing yellow threads throughout its body flickered softly as they dimmed to dull brown. Jr. tried to stand up but instead slipped into an almost welcomed unconsciousness.