The Crossroads by Chris Grabenstein Page B

cup.”
    â€œZack? Can you and Zipper take Mr. Mandica some coffee?”
    Zack really didn’t want to traipse around in the evil trees looking for an old man napping like Rip van Winkle.
    But Judy gave him that smile. What else could he do? Tell her he was afraid?
    â€œSure,” he said.
    He took the coffee and headed into the woods. Zipper followed him.
    Â 
    Zack saw the old man sitting on a big rock staring at the jagged stump left when the oak toppled over. He had a chain saw sitting near his feet, but it wasn’t running.
    Zipper barked and the old man looked up.
    â€œI brought you some coffee, sir.”
    The old man’s eyes looked as milky as bug guts.
    â€œI tried to bring this tree down once before.” The old man pointed at a cluster of angry gashes scarring the bark. “See there? That’s where I took my ax to it. Took a saw to it, too. Bent my ax head. Chewed up my saw blade.”
    The old man didn’t look at Zack and wasn’t actually talking to him, either. He was saying stuff to the empty air and Zack just happened to be the only person close enough to hear it.
    â€œWhen they come to me, I told ’em I’d chop it down. But I couldn’t ’cause it’s a devil tree.”
    The old man wiped at his mouth with the sleeve of his flannel shirt. The temperature was way over eighty degrees, but he was wearing red-checked flannel.
    Because the old man is crazy.
    â€œThey wouldn’t let me be.
Chop it down, chop it down, chop it down.
Every night, they’d come at me in my dreams.
Chop it down, chop it down, chop it down.
”
    Zack placed the coffee cup on the ground.
    â€œI’ll leave your coffee….”
    The old man spun around. Glared at Zack.
    â€œIt’s a devil tree, boy! You hear me? The gateway to hell! That’s why you never see no snow around it come winter. Hell’s too hot. Melts the snow outside its back door!”
    â€œI think I hear my father calling.”
    â€œGod himself had to bring this tree down,” the old man ranted, “because no mortal man could!”
    â€œOkay. So long, sir.”
    Zack ran the hundred-yard dash back to his house as fast as he could. Zipper ran after him.
    Great. The oak tree wasn’t just evil; it was hell’s back door.
    Now Zack had something else not to tell anyone.

While the tree crew worked on the felled tree, Zack walked up Stonebriar Road with his father, who had decided this was the perfect Saturday to go see if any other kids were living in the neighborhood.
    They walked past several houses still under construction.
    â€œWhen I was a boy, a bunch of us hung out together all summer long. We gave each other nicknames: Cowboy, Moose, Stinky. He, you know, didn’t shower much.”
    â€œWhat’d they call you?”
    â€œRatfink.”
    â€œReally? Why?”
    â€œBecause my father was the sheriff. The other guys were afraid I’d rat them out if we ever did anything bad.”
    â€œDid you?”
    â€œNope. It’s against the guy code. A guy never rats out his buddies unless, you know, uh, one of their fathers needs to know something important. A guy always tells his dad everything important. That’s another part of the same code….”
    â€œBut your dad was the sheriff. So that part of the code sort of violates the first part.”
    â€œYeah.” Zack’s father was having trouble wiggling out of that one, so he changed the subject. “Hey, there’s a couple guys!”
    Zack saw four boys his age tossing a baseball around in an empty lot.
    â€œMaybe they’re getting up a game,” his dad said eagerly.
    A tough-looking boy stood in the center of the others. He pounded a ball into his mitt and glared at Zack. Toughie smirked, then snorted. Zack knew what that meant: Another bully already hated his geeky guts.
    â€œYou guys need another player?” Zack’s father asked.
    â€œNot