Lick Your Neighbor by Chris Genoa Page B

under his armpits and flapped at the car door with his elbows. “Maybe this is why we haven’t heard anything unusual from Mayflower Jenkins. The poor soul can’t even get to a phone!”
    Watching Randy flail in demonstration, Dale realized that his brother-in-law was right, at least about Mayflower. If the killing of Gus was somehow a response to the article, then Mayflower would have been targeted as well.
    “Fine, Randy. You win. Let’s go talk to Mayflower.”
    “Now you’re talkin’. Where can we find him?”
    “He’ll be at Duxbury Elementary by now. He always gives his Plymouth history lesson to the kids on the day before Thanksgiving.”
    “Perfect.” Randy started to untie Dale. “We’ll swing by the pub first and see what the word on the street is.”
    “Does finding out what the word on the street is have anything to do with talking to that Mr. Feathers guy?” Dale asked.
    “No, no, no, no, no.”
    “Good.”
    “Maybe.”
    “No goddamn way, Randy. We’re going to Duxbury Elementary and that’s it.”
    Randy stopped working on the knots around Dale’s wrists and stood up, turning his back to his captive brother-in-law.
    Dale sighed.
    “Fine. We’ll stop by the pub after we talk to Mayflower.”
    Randy spun around.
    “Deal.”
    Behind Randy, Dale thought he saw a black figure streak between two parked cars. Whatever it was, it was big and moved remarkably fast. Dale looked around the parking lot. There wasn’t another soul in sight, and what with the darkening sky and creaking trees swaying, Dale got a bit freaked out.
    “We should get out of here,” he said. “I got a bad feeling about this place.”
    Randy stood up and looked around. He sniffed the air. He licked his finger and held it up in the wind. It was quiet. A little too quiet.
    “This was the last place my dad was seen,” Randy said. “He came out of those doors and just disappeared. His car never made it out of the lot. Sometimes…I wonder if he ever made it out.”
    Randy and Dale quickly hopped into the wagon and headed to the parking lot exit. When they got there they found the black and white checkered gate closed, and the booth next to it empty.
    “That’s weird,” Dale said. “There’s supposed to be an attendant here twenty-four hours a day.”
    “He was here when I came in.”
    “What are we supposed to do? Sit here until he comes back?”
    Randy and Dale sat there and stared at the gate for awhile.
    Dale scratched his chin. “Hmmmmmm. This is a dilly of a pickle. Should I get out and, I don’t know, try to lift the gate?”
    “You might set off an alarm. The last thing we want to do is draw attention to us. Is there another way out?”
    “I don’t think so. Maybe you should honk your horn.”
    Randy honked twice. Nothing happened.
    “Is it one of those gates where you need to inch up to trigger a sensor?” Randy asked.
    “It never worked like that before.”
    “Maybe they put in a new one.”
    “Maybe.”
    “Huh.”
    “Hmmmmmmmmm.”
    “You know what, I just remembered something.”
    “What?”
    “This is exactly where they found my dad’s car,” Randy said, “idling in front of the gate with no one at the wheel.”
    Randy and Dale stared at each other for a moment. They both shivered.
    “We have to get out of here,” Dale said. “Now.”
    Randy looked around for another exit. Glancing out the back window, he gave a little jump and whipped his head back around. He stared straight ahead, eyes wide.
    “What’s wrong?” Dale asked.
    “We have a problem.”
    “I know. This gate thing is making my brain hurt.”
    “Not that problem. Big problem.”
    “What could be worse than the gate?”
    “You’ll see.”
    There was a sudden sickeningly wet crunch at the back windshield. Dale spun around in alarm. “What the hell was that?”
    A hailstorm of eggs came raining down on the car. Covering the windows in a mess of shells, yolks, and goo in a matter of seconds.
    Dale whipped his head