understand. The Wheelers were known to be fierce creatures. They had never been confronted like this. Unfazed, the second tossed his head back and squelched. This was usually enough to instill fear in their prey. But the Tinman did not move. Undeterred, one of the Wheelers began to giggle as he rolled toward him.
"yOu FReaK!" the Wheeler squealed. His voice sounded like tin foil. "bE gOnE, FooL! MEtAL mAn! LeaVE BeFORe wE TEaR yOU tO tINy, LitTlE BItS!" He picked up speed, rolling past the Tinman before circling around.
But the Tinman didn't budge, only turning his head to watch as the Wheeler began skating in a tight circle around him.
"DoN'T yOU kNoW tHe WHEelERs, frEaK?! BeLIEve yOuR MEtAL eYeS! wE aRe NoT tO Be tRiFLeD wITh! wE KiLL wItHOuT tHiNKinG! wE'vE CoME FroM tHe LaND oF eV tO SWaLLoW yOuR sOuL!"
"I know who you are," the Tinman whispered. "And now I know your secret."
"We HaVE nO SeCreTs!" The Wheeler's laugh grew until his deafening cackle drowned out the night. He was so caught up that he didn't notice the Tinman had raised the sledgehammer and was now gripping it tightly in both hands.
The Wheeler's friend squelched a warning, but it was too late. The Tinman swung the hammer just as he'd swung his axe so many times before. It caught the Wheeler with such force that it knocked the wind from his lungs. Breath escaped his lips like air rushing out of dying balloon.
Suddenly silent, the Wheeler struggled to right himself. He'd fallen, and though he was born with them, he often found his wheels difficult to manage – especially when under duress. The Tinman buried the massive hammer in his chest again, and this time, bones and skin were broken. Blood gushed from a wound where broken ribs had torn through the Wheeler's chest.
"Wes," Taylor cried. "We have to do something! He's gonna kill him!" Wesley didn't respond, his wide eyes fixed on the action outside.
Taylor pushed past him in a huff and moved for the door. She could sense the Tinman was about to go too far. She'd thought he went out to save the little boy. Instead, the Tinman was looking for revenge. Something about that didn't feel right. Those kids were playing tug-o-war again, her heart pounding like it would break through her chest. It actually hurt. And why wouldn't it? The fight between right and wrong is often a painful one.
The Wheeler rolled onto his back. "PlEaSe," he cowered. "DoN't hURt mE! wE WeRe oNLy FUNniNG!" He held his long arms into the air, but they would offer little help. Just as Taylor'd explained, he had no hands to fight the Tinman off, no feet to kick him away.
"How does it feel?" the Tinman asked. "Knowing there's nothing you can do? That helpless ache of despair?"
The Wheeler looked over at his friend. "HeLp mE, YoU DoLT!" The Wheeler watching from the town's square let his head hang then turned to skate away.
"nO! sToP!"
"Maybe you should call your monkey friends," the Tinman said coldly. "Maybe they can help you."
The Wheeler looked up at him. "PlEaSE," he cried. "TeLL mE wHaT yOu WaNt! i'LL dO aNyTHiNG!"
Taylor came out of the shop just in time to see the Tinman raise his sledgehammer into the air. "No! Don't! "
But the Tinman didn't listen. He brought the hammer down in one violent arc after another, each bloody blow bringing a cry of pain from the Wheeler until there was nothing left to scream.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
RANDY HAD SPENT most his life looking up to his father as sons often do. Douglas was his hero, his idol – the epitome of everything he wanted to be. But the shiny veneer was beginning to wear thin. Randy was finally seeing his father as others did. Douglas had done terrible things since stepping into the Astoria library, and while Randy could justify most of those, this was different. People in Astoria had often described Douglas Stanford as a villain. Randy had scoffed at the notion, but the evidence before him now was hard to deny. Douglas had taken an audience with the Wicked Witch of the
"yOu FReaK!" the Wheeler squealed. His voice sounded like tin foil. "bE gOnE, FooL! MEtAL mAn! LeaVE BeFORe wE TEaR yOU tO tINy, LitTlE BItS!" He picked up speed, rolling past the Tinman before circling around.
But the Tinman didn't budge, only turning his head to watch as the Wheeler began skating in a tight circle around him.
"DoN'T yOU kNoW tHe WHEelERs, frEaK?! BeLIEve yOuR MEtAL eYeS! wE aRe NoT tO Be tRiFLeD wITh! wE KiLL wItHOuT tHiNKinG! wE'vE CoME FroM tHe LaND oF eV tO SWaLLoW yOuR sOuL!"
"I know who you are," the Tinman whispered. "And now I know your secret."
"We HaVE nO SeCreTs!" The Wheeler's laugh grew until his deafening cackle drowned out the night. He was so caught up that he didn't notice the Tinman had raised the sledgehammer and was now gripping it tightly in both hands.
The Wheeler's friend squelched a warning, but it was too late. The Tinman swung the hammer just as he'd swung his axe so many times before. It caught the Wheeler with such force that it knocked the wind from his lungs. Breath escaped his lips like air rushing out of dying balloon.
Suddenly silent, the Wheeler struggled to right himself. He'd fallen, and though he was born with them, he often found his wheels difficult to manage – especially when under duress. The Tinman buried the massive hammer in his chest again, and this time, bones and skin were broken. Blood gushed from a wound where broken ribs had torn through the Wheeler's chest.
"Wes," Taylor cried. "We have to do something! He's gonna kill him!" Wesley didn't respond, his wide eyes fixed on the action outside.
Taylor pushed past him in a huff and moved for the door. She could sense the Tinman was about to go too far. She'd thought he went out to save the little boy. Instead, the Tinman was looking for revenge. Something about that didn't feel right. Those kids were playing tug-o-war again, her heart pounding like it would break through her chest. It actually hurt. And why wouldn't it? The fight between right and wrong is often a painful one.
The Wheeler rolled onto his back. "PlEaSe," he cowered. "DoN't hURt mE! wE WeRe oNLy FUNniNG!" He held his long arms into the air, but they would offer little help. Just as Taylor'd explained, he had no hands to fight the Tinman off, no feet to kick him away.
"How does it feel?" the Tinman asked. "Knowing there's nothing you can do? That helpless ache of despair?"
The Wheeler looked over at his friend. "HeLp mE, YoU DoLT!" The Wheeler watching from the town's square let his head hang then turned to skate away.
"nO! sToP!"
"Maybe you should call your monkey friends," the Tinman said coldly. "Maybe they can help you."
The Wheeler looked up at him. "PlEaSE," he cried. "TeLL mE wHaT yOu WaNt! i'LL dO aNyTHiNG!"
Taylor came out of the shop just in time to see the Tinman raise his sledgehammer into the air. "No! Don't! "
But the Tinman didn't listen. He brought the hammer down in one violent arc after another, each bloody blow bringing a cry of pain from the Wheeler until there was nothing left to scream.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
RANDY HAD SPENT most his life looking up to his father as sons often do. Douglas was his hero, his idol – the epitome of everything he wanted to be. But the shiny veneer was beginning to wear thin. Randy was finally seeing his father as others did. Douglas had done terrible things since stepping into the Astoria library, and while Randy could justify most of those, this was different. People in Astoria had often described Douglas Stanford as a villain. Randy had scoffed at the notion, but the evidence before him now was hard to deny. Douglas had taken an audience with the Wicked Witch of the
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