Dark Advent by Brian Hodge

burgers and shooting off fireworks, but that was way far away. For now, they had only tonight.
    After another moment he was skidding to a momentary halt on the gas station’s lot, sliding into a 180-degree spin so he faced the same direction he’d come from. He extended his left arm toward the building, slipped the rock back in, drew back the taut rubber tubing, let it fly…
    Bull’s-eye! The crowd goes wild! The rock punched straight through the window with a brittle crack. Chuck allowed himself one split second of glory in gazing upon his handiwork, and then he was history, speeding away, skinny legs pumping furiously.
    Corry…he’d better be waiting up ahead, ready to roll. And tomorrow night Corry had better be willing to do something ballsy in return. Maybe stick a cherry bomb in someone’s mailbox, or flush it down a john. He had Corry by the short hairs, and was he going to take advantage of it? Do bears evacuate their bowels in the woods?
    “Corry?” Chuck called out, hoarse of voice with exertion. “Where are you?”
    He slowed his bike by the clump of evergreens they’d been stopped by, where they’d schemed, where Corry had been waiting. Emphasis on had been. Chuck glanced around, taking in the plain little houses and their small yards and the fact that Corry wasn’t around any of them.
    He’d split early, the little wuss. Now who was the chickenshit?
    Well, he sure didn’t have time to wait, to dork around and see if Corry would come creeping along. Right now, best to shag a little distance between himself and Huffman’s place. Find Corry later, maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow. But definitely rake him over the coals for turning tail like that.
    Chuck’s feet were just hitting the pedals again when he felt the tiniest shift in the air. As if a cold front were moving in from behind. A faint footstep, then another.
    Corry?
    He knew it wouldn’t be Corry even before he turned around. Corry couldn’t move that quietly if his life depended on it. And then the Chuckernaut—breaker of windows, merciless embarrasser of prepubescent girls, bane of countless birds and small animals—looked into the face of a stranger and very nearly crapped his drawers.
    As he was backlit by the setting sun, his face was next to invisible, but he was taller than Mr. Huffman would ever be, and a lot thinner, and his hair was so blond that if the sun caught it just right, it would look like the color the sun got when it reflected off the Arch up in St. Louis.
    I don’t know who he is and I don’t know if he knows who I am but I don’t think I wanna find out either one.
    The man was grinning, and his hand flicked up, empty, yes, empty, no weapon or anything like that that perverts would whip out on you…only then it wasn’t empty anymore, he’d pulled some sleight-of-hand trick and there was a rock between his fingers.
    “Lose something?” he asked.
    Chuck turned around again in his bike seat, ready to hunch over the handlebars and tuck in his head, just as he’d seen bike racers do. But a firm, firm hand dropped onto his shoulder, like the hand of nasty old Freddy Krueger himself, and those fingers curled in and held tight.
    “Vandalism’s against the law, son,” said the man, the Voice of Doom. “You better come with me.”
    Chuck pressed his feet to the pedals. Maybe, just maybe, cross his heart and hope to die, he could make a break for it and actually pull it off.
    “We might be able to settle this without calling your parents. How does that sound?”
    Chuck’s legs relaxed and he turned around again, looking up into that smiling face. No parents, huh? Of course his folks had, ever since he could remember, drilled into his little head that he should never ever under any circumstances go anywhere with a stranger. But lately they were also hounding him to show more responsibility, to take care of business. They expected the world of him.
    Childhood is a constant process of weighing alternatives. Actions and