The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction JanuaryFebruary 2015 (The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction Book 128) by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Spilogale, Inc.
Published: 2015-02-27T23:00:00+00:00

"And I'm here,

A long way from my home.

But you can hear me comin'

By the slappin' on my black cat bone."

He blew and blew, taking chorus after chorus as the crowd of the dead danced closer and closer to the stage, until finally he just stepped off the edge into their waiting arms. They bore him around the room, still playing, and finally out the door into the night they went, Jake's cornet echoing across the swamp and their glow chasing the darkness.

We followed them into the night, Homer now blowing hot on his harp, a mad procession that danced and throbbed down the street to the water's edge.

There were shadows in the grass near the water, and when those shadows stood up I could see they were the things that Twohy's Grandmother had warned us about. They were under four feet tall, on the average, but they were wiry and strong like monkeys. I saw what must have been hundreds of them, hooting and grunting, some with sticks, a few with blades.

However strong they might have been, though, they never had a chance next to the host gathered against them that night. I still don't know Who or What they worshipped, but It must never have heard of helping those who helped themselves because we cut through them like green corn goes through the new maid.

I don't mean to say it was all that easy; they were hard and desperate fighters. I caught more than one bite myself (I still bear the scars), and saw half a dozen townsfolk go down under twice as many of them. We lost more than a few people that night, either to the frogs or to the swamp, but at the end the ground was littered with dead bodies.

The fight went on, I suppose, for the better part of an hour, and the music never stopped, never even slowed. The frogs were an army in numbers only; there was no order to them. They fought with no heed for their fellows and without leaders, except for one who was missing an eye. He was the biggest and at least looked to be trying to give orders, kicking and shoving the others and yelling gutturally.

All over, the townsfolk held their own. I neither saw nor heard any guns, which in retrospect makes all kind of sense—wild shots could have hit any of us—but if it was heavy or sharp I saw somebody swinging it. The frogs fought with their hands, and occasionally picked up a dropped hoe or axe handle, but they didn't look to be too good at going one to one. Mostly, they would gang up on one or two people and just bear them down by weight.

I saw LeBlanc's wife rear back and kick a frog off the pier and into the bracken with a high-pitched cry that was as much revulsion as triumph. LeBlanc himself was laying about with a ball bat, knocking devil-frogs left and right, staving in heads and breaking backs with almost every strike.

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