and nearly fell over.
The world swam and waves of nausea washed over me. I grabbed the truck to keep myself standing and took deep breaths until the urge to vomit passed.
An invisible weight in my head shifted left and I leaned way over. I held the truck until the weight shifted back to center and I could stand up straight.
"Ricky!"
Dad again. He stood on the other side of the truck with Chuck and Michelle.
I waved to them. The weight in my head shifted. I slapped my hand back to the truck to stay upright.
"What happened to our truck?" I said. Its rear wheel was shredded and the left side was crunched and dented like an empty Kirkman's can.
"Oh yeah. The accident."
"Ricky!" Dad took off running around the side of the truck.
The driver's side door of the silver minivan that hit us flung open and a very fat man in a too-tight dress shirt and puce tie wobbled out. His forehead shone with a sheen of sweat and his breathing came in ragged gasps.
"Ricky!" Dad came running toward me, his gun stretched in front of him.
"Don't shoot," I said.
He fired and my head lulled backward. But it wasn't a bullet, it was that pesky weight in my head shifting again.
Someone grabbed my ankle and I fell all the way back, landing on my butt.
Beside me was the woman in the business suit, a lawyer most likely. The fireman's axe was still wedged in her chest.
She growled, deep and guttural, and grabbed my thigh, her cold fingers stabbing into the tender flesh.
Then blood spurted just above her right temple and she collapsed.
The ringing in my ears grew louder than ever.
Dad stood over us aiming the gun at her in case she started moving again.
She didn't.
"Hey!" I exclaimed. "She stayed dead!"
Dad reached a hand toward me and at first I didn't understand. "Come on, son. We've got to go."
"That's a good idea." I took his hand and he pulled me to my feet.
"Are you okay?"
I grabbed the truck. "Peachy."
Dad looked doubtful, but he let go of me and bent to the dead woman he'd re-killed. He had to wiggle the handle, but he managed to pull the axe out of her.
"My lucky bat," I said, and stumbled to the truck cab like a zombie.
The fat man in the puce tie came around the side of the wreck. "I am so sorry! Were you hurt?"
"I'm good," I said, reaching into the truck.
"Do you like pizza? I'm the manager of Tony Sty's Pizza Pies."
"Let's go," Dad said, taking my arm with one hand and carrying the bloody fire axe in the other.
"Let me give you my card." The fat man pulled his wallet from his back pocket. "And dinner is on me tonight."
Dad led me around the side of the truck to Chuck and Michelle.
"Should we exchange insurance information?" the fat man called after us. "Oh, there's a police officer."
The fat man waddled off like a cartoon pig in the direction of a man in a policeman's uniform.
"Excuse me, officer?"
When the cop turned, we saw his eyes were all white. He opened his mouth unnaturally wide and moaned.
46
I FINALLY THREW UP. DAD held my arms to keep me from falling face first into it.
"I think I hit my hea—" Meaty chunks of vomit cut me off.
"Get it together, son," Dad whispered in my ear, squeezing my arms. "I know you're hurt, but we've got no time for it. You hear me? Get your head straight or we are all going to die right here."
"Feel better, Ricky," Chuck pleaded.
I wiped my mouth and nodded, which hurt.
In front of us, the manager of Tony Sty's Pizza Pies was still talking:
"There's so many people on the square today, like an impromptu festival or something."
Blood stained his white dress shirt around the rim of his enormous gut, just beneath the tip of his puce tie. He was smiling too wide, his eyes were too big, and behind them I think his mind was broken.
That's the only way I can think to explain what happened next:
"Officer, I'm sorry to bother you. I can see you have your hands full. But I'm afraid I've hit this man." He waved a chubby hand at us.
The cop lumbered toward the
The world swam and waves of nausea washed over me. I grabbed the truck to keep myself standing and took deep breaths until the urge to vomit passed.
An invisible weight in my head shifted left and I leaned way over. I held the truck until the weight shifted back to center and I could stand up straight.
"Ricky!"
Dad again. He stood on the other side of the truck with Chuck and Michelle.
I waved to them. The weight in my head shifted. I slapped my hand back to the truck to stay upright.
"What happened to our truck?" I said. Its rear wheel was shredded and the left side was crunched and dented like an empty Kirkman's can.
"Oh yeah. The accident."
"Ricky!" Dad took off running around the side of the truck.
The driver's side door of the silver minivan that hit us flung open and a very fat man in a too-tight dress shirt and puce tie wobbled out. His forehead shone with a sheen of sweat and his breathing came in ragged gasps.
"Ricky!" Dad came running toward me, his gun stretched in front of him.
"Don't shoot," I said.
He fired and my head lulled backward. But it wasn't a bullet, it was that pesky weight in my head shifting again.
Someone grabbed my ankle and I fell all the way back, landing on my butt.
Beside me was the woman in the business suit, a lawyer most likely. The fireman's axe was still wedged in her chest.
She growled, deep and guttural, and grabbed my thigh, her cold fingers stabbing into the tender flesh.
Then blood spurted just above her right temple and she collapsed.
The ringing in my ears grew louder than ever.
Dad stood over us aiming the gun at her in case she started moving again.
She didn't.
"Hey!" I exclaimed. "She stayed dead!"
Dad reached a hand toward me and at first I didn't understand. "Come on, son. We've got to go."
"That's a good idea." I took his hand and he pulled me to my feet.
"Are you okay?"
I grabbed the truck. "Peachy."
Dad looked doubtful, but he let go of me and bent to the dead woman he'd re-killed. He had to wiggle the handle, but he managed to pull the axe out of her.
"My lucky bat," I said, and stumbled to the truck cab like a zombie.
The fat man in the puce tie came around the side of the wreck. "I am so sorry! Were you hurt?"
"I'm good," I said, reaching into the truck.
"Do you like pizza? I'm the manager of Tony Sty's Pizza Pies."
"Let's go," Dad said, taking my arm with one hand and carrying the bloody fire axe in the other.
"Let me give you my card." The fat man pulled his wallet from his back pocket. "And dinner is on me tonight."
Dad led me around the side of the truck to Chuck and Michelle.
"Should we exchange insurance information?" the fat man called after us. "Oh, there's a police officer."
The fat man waddled off like a cartoon pig in the direction of a man in a policeman's uniform.
"Excuse me, officer?"
When the cop turned, we saw his eyes were all white. He opened his mouth unnaturally wide and moaned.
46
I FINALLY THREW UP. DAD held my arms to keep me from falling face first into it.
"I think I hit my hea—" Meaty chunks of vomit cut me off.
"Get it together, son," Dad whispered in my ear, squeezing my arms. "I know you're hurt, but we've got no time for it. You hear me? Get your head straight or we are all going to die right here."
"Feel better, Ricky," Chuck pleaded.
I wiped my mouth and nodded, which hurt.
In front of us, the manager of Tony Sty's Pizza Pies was still talking:
"There's so many people on the square today, like an impromptu festival or something."
Blood stained his white dress shirt around the rim of his enormous gut, just beneath the tip of his puce tie. He was smiling too wide, his eyes were too big, and behind them I think his mind was broken.
That's the only way I can think to explain what happened next:
"Officer, I'm sorry to bother you. I can see you have your hands full. But I'm afraid I've hit this man." He waved a chubby hand at us.
The cop lumbered toward the
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