consequences. And all at once, the thought of answering to his red-faced and no doubt extremely pissed-off father about a broken plate glass window didn’t seem the least bit attractive.
So Chuck said sure, no parents, let’s go pay the piper, and they headed back toward Mr. Huffman’s gashole, side by side, a boy on a bike flanked by a tall lean man in bush pants and a denim workshirt. Walking the last mile. And by the time they were standing inside the squatty little building, the reek of oil (and something worse) heavy in the air, the floor slick and gritty underfoot, the blond man was smiling understandably, of all things. As if he didn’t care about the window or didn’t remember or didn’t even know about it anymore.
“Are you a friend of Mr. Huffman’s?” Chuck asked.
“We’ve met,” the man said cheerfully. “He’s around here somewhere.”
Chuck dug his toe into the concrete floor, stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Is he mad about the window?”
“Him? Mad?Ho ho ho noooo.” He smiled wider, a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes but didn’t actually touch them. And as Chuck’s eyes grew more accustomed to the waning daylight, he could see that the smile held no warmth, only deceit.
Chuck wanted nothing better than to turn and run like hell. Something was wrong with this man before him, something strange and different, but not in a good way, the way Yoda and E.T. were strange and different. He wanted only to hotfoot out to his bike, pedal home as fast as he could, and face up to whatever wrath his parents would dish up whenever they found out. Because standing here was a thousand times worse than whatever they might do to him. With his folks, bless ’em, you knew what to expect.
But he couldn’t move. Not yet.
“I don’t mind telling you, that took some guts to plug that window the way you did. Real guts. You’re just about the gutsiest person I’ve seen in this town the past couple of days.”
The past couple of days? Oh boy oh boy oh boy. All at once Chuck knew this guy probably had something to do with the weird thing they’d found the day before.
Yesterday morning some guys had discovered an abandoned semi-truck just outside of town, huge and black and covered with dust and no sign whatsoever of a driver. Chuck had heard his parents talking about it, and they’d said the sheriff had found it to be stolen from someplace way out west several months ago, stolen and disappeared.
But that wasn’t the weird part.
The sheriff had opened up the trailer and found it empty…but only after the fleas had emerged. Fleas…thousands and millions and maybe even billions of them, they’d said, swarming out like a big living cloud.
And somehow, this blond guy was a part of that. Chuck knew it, would’ve bet his wrist rocket and a year of allowances on it.
“And because you’re so gutsy, and because I appreciate that in a person, believe it or not,” the man continued in his same cheerful tone, “I’m going to make you a very special person. Nobody will know your name, but kid, you’re going to make history.”
Chuck slowly shook his head, eyes ready to pop from their sockets. Whatever this guy was talking about, he didn’t want it.
The blond man also shook his head, in a manner that seemed reflective, even sad. “I thought it was going to be him, but I went overboard and ruined it. And now you come along.”
“Him?” Chuck whispered.
The man grinned and nodded and took a few steps over to a narrow closet door. Mr. Huffman had turned it into a regular bulletin board, covering it with pinned-up bills and receipts and notes to himself, and in the center hung a Snap-On Tools calendar. This month’s girl was a leggy brunette in a green bikini wrapping her fingers around a big ratchet.
The blond man rapped his knuckles on the door. “Horace? You decent?” he called. “You’ve got company!”
The guy swung the door open and Mr. Huffman spilled out and onto the
So Chuck said sure, no parents, let’s go pay the piper, and they headed back toward Mr. Huffman’s gashole, side by side, a boy on a bike flanked by a tall lean man in bush pants and a denim workshirt. Walking the last mile. And by the time they were standing inside the squatty little building, the reek of oil (and something worse) heavy in the air, the floor slick and gritty underfoot, the blond man was smiling understandably, of all things. As if he didn’t care about the window or didn’t remember or didn’t even know about it anymore.
“Are you a friend of Mr. Huffman’s?” Chuck asked.
“We’ve met,” the man said cheerfully. “He’s around here somewhere.”
Chuck dug his toe into the concrete floor, stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Is he mad about the window?”
“Him? Mad?Ho ho ho noooo.” He smiled wider, a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes but didn’t actually touch them. And as Chuck’s eyes grew more accustomed to the waning daylight, he could see that the smile held no warmth, only deceit.
Chuck wanted nothing better than to turn and run like hell. Something was wrong with this man before him, something strange and different, but not in a good way, the way Yoda and E.T. were strange and different. He wanted only to hotfoot out to his bike, pedal home as fast as he could, and face up to whatever wrath his parents would dish up whenever they found out. Because standing here was a thousand times worse than whatever they might do to him. With his folks, bless ’em, you knew what to expect.
But he couldn’t move. Not yet.
“I don’t mind telling you, that took some guts to plug that window the way you did. Real guts. You’re just about the gutsiest person I’ve seen in this town the past couple of days.”
The past couple of days? Oh boy oh boy oh boy. All at once Chuck knew this guy probably had something to do with the weird thing they’d found the day before.
Yesterday morning some guys had discovered an abandoned semi-truck just outside of town, huge and black and covered with dust and no sign whatsoever of a driver. Chuck had heard his parents talking about it, and they’d said the sheriff had found it to be stolen from someplace way out west several months ago, stolen and disappeared.
But that wasn’t the weird part.
The sheriff had opened up the trailer and found it empty…but only after the fleas had emerged. Fleas…thousands and millions and maybe even billions of them, they’d said, swarming out like a big living cloud.
And somehow, this blond guy was a part of that. Chuck knew it, would’ve bet his wrist rocket and a year of allowances on it.
“And because you’re so gutsy, and because I appreciate that in a person, believe it or not,” the man continued in his same cheerful tone, “I’m going to make you a very special person. Nobody will know your name, but kid, you’re going to make history.”
Chuck slowly shook his head, eyes ready to pop from their sockets. Whatever this guy was talking about, he didn’t want it.
The blond man also shook his head, in a manner that seemed reflective, even sad. “I thought it was going to be him, but I went overboard and ruined it. And now you come along.”
“Him?” Chuck whispered.
The man grinned and nodded and took a few steps over to a narrow closet door. Mr. Huffman had turned it into a regular bulletin board, covering it with pinned-up bills and receipts and notes to himself, and in the center hung a Snap-On Tools calendar. This month’s girl was a leggy brunette in a green bikini wrapping her fingers around a big ratchet.
The blond man rapped his knuckles on the door. “Horace? You decent?” he called. “You’ve got company!”
The guy swung the door open and Mr. Huffman spilled out and onto the
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