Last Full Measure - Michael A. Martin [52]
Looking back, he saw a rake leaning against the side of the cottage, near its front door. Placing his bag on the ground as quietly as he could, he crept back and grabbed the implement. Grasping it cleanly between his hands, upended like a cricket bat, he dashed back toward the rear of the cottage.
“Let him go!” he yelled, even as he came around the building.
On the ground lay Victor Renslow, a rather simpleminded boy who was in the next form down from Malcolm. His school uniform was torn and soiled, and his face was muddy and streaked with tears. Leslie was squatting on him, straddling the prone boy’s chest and holding a wriggling and dirty worm in his muddy hand. Terrance Bishop was holding Victor’s struggling hands above his head, while Gerald stood nearby, grinning sadistically and obviously greatly enjoying the show.
The three older boys looked up as Malcolm screamed at them. “Get off of him!” Malcolm shouted, trying to remain calmer than he knew he must have sounded. He was aware that his words had rushed out of him in a quick, torrential burst that must have sounded more like “Getoffofhim!”
“Get out of here, fish-boy,” Leslie said, his tone contemptuous. “Before we make you sorry you turned up here.”
Morris’s nickname for Reed the last two years had been “fish-boy,” apparently because Reed’s family had a nautical background. Malcolm tolerated the name mainly because it was almost nonsensical; he wasn’t on a ship, and he didn’t particularly enjoy fish, and couldn’t even swim particularly well. Now, the words coming out of the sneering, pubescent torturer’s lips seemed beyond stupid. But Malcolm perceived them to be every bit as malicious as the simpleton who had delivered them must have intended.
“No, you get out of here,” Reed said. He swung the rake in an arc, its pointed metal tines slicing through the air with a whoosh.
Malcolm’s quick scything motion actually caused Terrance to back away from Victor, and the teenage tormentor dropped the smaller boy’s flailing hands in the process.
Emboldened by Terrance’s retreat, Malcolm stepped forward and swung again, aiming a little closer to Leslie’s face. “Move off.”
A third swing, and Leslie Morris also scampered backward, dismounting from Victor. “You’ve just made a big mistake, fish-boy,” Leslie said, sneering. He seemed to be taking care to keep his distance from the rake, however.
“I don’t care, Leslie,” Malcolm said, and at that moment, he truly didn’t care what repercussions might result from what he’d just done. A swell of pride ballooned within him at his act of heroism. Still holding the rake aloft like a weapon, he glanced down as Victor flipped over onto his back and moved to sit up. The crying boy wiped a filthy sleeve across his mouth, spitting out mud and gravel.
“Are you all right, Victor?” Malcolm asked, even as he saw Gerald Balinsweel throw something toward him.
An instant later he felt the something hit his head, striking hard and sharp against his left temple. He shouted in pain, and closed his eyes, his equilibrium swimming and a kaleidoscope of colors bursting behind his eyelids. He tried to swing the rake again, but being aware that he might inadvertently hit Victor, he aimed to the side.
He heard the other boys shouting, and he felt them pile onto him in a rush, their fists pummeling, their feet kicking. Pain flared, and Malcolm tasted dirt and blood, even as he curled protectively into a fetal position, trying to protect his most vulnerable parts.
The beating continued for an interminable time, and then Malcolm felt them picking him up from the front, his limp body dragging behind him. They were bearing him away, but in his pain-addled confusion, he couldn’t even begin to gather why or where.
As if from a great distance, he heard Leslie Morris shout at him, but recognized nothing other than several occurrences of the term “fish-boy” before a sharp sensation of cold enveloped his battered head.
The shock of the chill water all around him