As Good as Dead

by O. J. Anderson

Chapter 1

Wilbur J. Abercrombie Middle School
Room 206
Mrs. Walters’ class, 1973

Jack Creed found his role as a protector at an early age. As a boy he instinctively grasped the necessities: planning, teamwork, equipment, firepower... and cool resolution in facing the monsters of the Forces of Darkness that enslave and threaten to devour humanity.

From the precocious child in the front row: “My daddy said he was assassinated by the CIA. Is that true?” Penelope Davenport, all glasses and frizzy red curls.

Mrs. Walters was hearing none of it. Her face turned like she’d just had a swallow of soy sauce. That seemed to be the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard, her face betraying her longstanding classroom credo: “There are no stupid questions.” Maybe one though, by the looks of it.

After a moment, Mrs. Walters took a breath, smiled. She put one hand in front of her, like she was indicating her class to stop. “Listen,” she began, as though this were the definitive answer, “President Kennedy was killed by Lee Harvey Oswald. That’s it. End of story. Okay?”

Penelope shrugged. Didn’t care that much anyway. Most of the other students weren’t even paying attention. No one spoke as Mrs. Walters made her way back behind her desk. The period was almost over. Five minutes until recess.

As she sat down, there came a scream from the hallway. A woman. High and ghastly. Terror. Then the sound of shoes running through the hallway. More commotion followed. A stampede. Men shouting. People in panic mode.

The children all upright in their little desks now, staring at the door. Mrs Walters shot up from behind her desk. A thousand thoughts racing through her mind. She twitched, blinked a few times rapidly, then decided on a course of action. Clapping her hands, she shouted, “Under your desks! Everyone get under your desk! Hurry up now.” So as to set a good example, the teacher also crouched down to take cover under her desk.

Following her lead, the students ducked their heads and disappeared under their desks — all except for one in the back.

A second later a man burst into the classroom. Mr. Benson, a balding science teacher with a short tie. Red-faced, he screamed, “It’s real! The Dogaz is real! Run for your life. Everyone run!” Mr. Benson then disappeared back into the hallway and ran away.

But none from Room 206 moved. Too scared to; frozen by fear: tiny ice sculptures of huddled children. Some began to cry. Whimpers and sniffles from the floor.

The Dogaz. A legend going back a hundred years, maybe more. Its origin wasn’t clear anymore, but its modus operandi sure was. The Dogaz, a large canine-like beast with three heads, appeared exactly thirteen days after the autumnal equinox to feed. They said it came from hell to satisfy its craving for flesh and blood. A bloodthirsty killer from the dark abyss of fire. On earth once a year to sink its teeth into human muscle and bone.

Back in the day, several hunting parties went out into the woods to kill the Dogaz on that thirteenth day. Most came back empty handed. Some never returned at all. Most folks boarded up the house and hunkered down in the basement with a shotgun just trying to survive the night. If it didn’t find any food there maybe it would go looking someplace else.

But the legend of the Dogaz was largely ignored in modern times. No one had time for ridiculous campfire scary tales. Any disappearances on that thirteenth day were written of as runaways, unfortunate accidents, or some other totally rational reason. The local police had even issued a statement saying that some criminals were using that date as a cover for their crimes. That sealed the issue for most people. “Oh, so that’s what was happening,” they’d said.

Mrs. Walters had personally guaranteed the students that the Dogaz was beyond absurd — and then she went on to explain what absurd meant. “There’s no such thing,” she’d said, shaking her head. “It’s preposterous!”

Somewhere in the third row, Sally O’Mally’s suppressed weeping turned into outright bawling.

That’s when the boy from the back row stood. Hair cut short, military style. Jeans, boots, T-shirt. An average student; smart, polite, never a troublemaker, but average grades. Always seemed uninterested in his studies. His mind somewhere else. And though she hated the idea of “giving up” on any one of her students, Mrs. Walters had started to accept the fact that he would make it through high school well enough, then go on to some menial labor job. Couldn’t expect much more from him. So much potential though. What a shame.

The boy walked past her desk and headed for the door.

“Jack,” she whispered. “Jack! What are you doing?”

The boy stopped in the hallway, looked back into the classroom. Said, “I’m gonna handle this.”

Mrs. Walters would have laughed if she weren’t so scared. “The Dogaz?”

“Right.”

The boy made his way toward the cafeteria, taking the roll of string and the lighter from his pocket as he walked — he always carried a lighter and a twenty-five foot roll of string in his pocket, among other things.

He turned left at the T intersection. White and light blue walls. History projects taped outside of classrooms. Lockers. A weird smell — something used to clean the place. The floor shiny; late night buffer zig-zags clearly visible in the translucent wax. And the cafeteria straight ahead, through the double doors at the end of the hall.

Jack opened the door slowly and quietly. He ducked, and hurried over to the lunch counter. He could hear the growling. The Dogaz was tearing into something — hopefully today’s pork shoulder and not Mr. Heddly, the school cook.

He hit the front wall of the kitchen. Squatting, facing the cafeteria. There were two ways inside: one door one either side of the stainless steel serving counter. Jack went to the right.

He eased the knob open. Gently pulled the door ajar enough for him to slide through into the kitchen. The stoves were directly ahead of him; the beast across the kitchen, behind the island, still ripping apart the mystery meat. Enough cover to maneuver. Jack crawled to the stove. Reached behind it. And ever so quietly bent the copper propane feed line to and fro until it snapped.

The severed line began to hiss. Jack held his breath. Then rigged the lighter to a table leg adjacent to the stove. He tied an end of the string off to a striker mechanism of his own making. The device took only a minute to set. Then, duckwalking back the way he came, Jack ran the string back out to the cafeteria and tied it to the doorknob.

Time to go.

He quickly moved back through the double doors. Turned and took a dime from his pocket. The gas had built up enough by then. He tossed the dime toward the kitchen stove.

The coin pinged and rattled off several heavy steel appliances.

The Dogaz stopped eating. It’s three heads whipped toward the noise. Kill. It leaped over the kitchen island and rammed through the half-open door.

The lighter flared. Ignited the kitchen. A roaring flame. The kitchen burst into fire, then went looking for an escape. An arm of bright red flames reached out and consumed the Dogaz in its grasp, like a giant ocean wave sucking in a really bad surfer into its deep current of death. Never to be seen again.

Jack Creed braced himself behind the double doors. The cafeteria filled with fire. He felt the building heat on his back through the metal doors. Did his best to hold them shut waiting for the propane tanks to blow. Five seconds later:

An explosion. The reinforced glass blew out over the boy’s head. Skittered down the hallway.

They’d be brown-bagging it for a while. But it was better than being devoured by a three-headed hound of Hades.

* * *

Proceed to Chapter 2...