Read The Howling III for Free Online Page B

it.
    “Sonofabitch,” the big man rumbled. “Steel teeth, double-spring. These mothers are illegal.”
    Malcolm winced as the big man’s hand touched his foot.
    “Easy, pardner. I know it hurts, but the first thing we’ve got to do is get this thing off you. It’s going to hurt even more in a minute when I pry it loose, but there’s no easy way to do it.” He turned his head and the kind brown eyes looked down into Malcolm’s. “How about it, can you stand a little more hurt right now?”
    Malcolm nodded.
    “Good boy. Close your eyes for a minute. Close “em real tight. Think about the happiest time you ever had.”
    Malcolm closed his eyes. He tried very hard to think of a happy time, as the big man had told him. But no thoughts would come. Only a blackness with fire and screams of the dying.
    There was a loud metallic crack, and another fiery shot of pain in his ankle. Malcolm’s eyes snapped open. The big man knelt beside him now holding the cruel steel trap in both hands.
    “This is what grabbed you, son,” he said. “Damned foul contraption.” Then, as the muscles in his arms and shoulders bulged, he twisted the trap like the jaws of a shark until the end of a spring popped loose with a loud twang. He tossed the broken trap into the brush and returned his attention to the boy.
    “You okay?”
    Malcolm nodded, blinking back the tears. He was afraid to trust his voice, not wanting to show weakness before the big man.
    “Ready to take a walk?”
    Malcolm looked down helplessly at the mangled ankle. It was free now of the steel jaws, but the torn flesh had turned a puffy blue-black shade. The foot pointed down and back at an impossible angle.
    The big man again shifted his body to cut off Malcolm’s view of the ruined ankle. “Oh, I’ll do the walking,” he said. “It’s going to jostle you a little bit, but we’ve got to get you out of here.” He slipped his powerful arms beneath the boy and scooped him up as easily as though he’d been stuffed with feathers. The big man rose effortlessly to his feet and started along the trail.
    “Feel like talking?” he said.
    Malcolm tried, but the best he could do was a small whimpering sound.
    “Don’t blame you,” said the man. “I’ll do the talking then. I’m accustomed to that. And you can listen. That’ll be a rare treat for me. Have to talk to myself most of the time.”
    The big man strode easily through the brush carrying Malcolm in such a way as to minimize movement of his ruined ankle. The rhythm of the man’s pace lulled the boy into a semi-doze. When he spoke, the big man’s rumbling voice was comforting.
    “My name is Jones,” he said. “There used to be more to it, but I figure that doesn’t matter, seeing as I’m the only one living out here, and not likely to be confused with anybody else. The folks in town know who Jones is. The crazy hermit, some say. The last of the hippies. Nature Boy. I couldn’t care less what they call me, just so long as they leave me alone.
    “And they do. I been living out here almost twenty years. Never have trouble with people. If you never see them, you can’t have trouble with them.”
    They continued for several minutes in silence before Jones spoke again. “Well, I do see a few people now and again. Hikers. Birdwatchers. Lost kids sometimes. Hunters I have nothing to do with. When the animals start shooting back, then maybe I’ll talk to hunters. Mostly I meet youngsters out backpacking. They remind me a little of myself back in the sixties. They’re not as serious about things as my generation, maybe. More interested in getting a good job than banning the bomb, but I guess you can’t blame them. It was a lot easier to get angry about a war if they were liable to draft you to go fight it.
    “But there’s nothing wrong with today’s kids. Different values, that’s all. Hell, most of the kids I went on protest marches with are working for IBM now, or somebody like that. Not Jones.