floor like a Hefty Bag stuffed full of rotting garbage. He hit with a wet thud, sprawled half on his back and half on his left side. Even in the dim light, Chuck could see that Mr. Huffman was more than just dead, he was a bloated horror, patches of his skin dark with foul blisters.
“I think he looks better like that, don’t you?” said the blond man.
Chuck slapped both hands to his cheeks, furrowing his skin with hooked fingertips, and he worked his mouth mutely, trying for a scream that couldn’t squeeze past his locked throat. He stared at the thing in the floor, trying to relate it to the surly old fart that owned this place. Quite a reach of the imagination.
And when he managed to tear his eyes away and look back to the blond man—for answers, maybe? Now there’s a laugh, ha haha—he saw that his companion held a glass test tube in one hand and was pitching a rubber stopper away with the other. The man slugged from the tube as if he were a wino hitting the tastiest bottle of whiskey on skid row.
The man took a step toward him slowly, deliberately, as if stalking him like a vampire in a horror picture he and Corry might have watched. Closer, closer, and still Chuck’s stupid stupid stupid feet wouldn’t move. So he stood there and watched the man bear down on him, as he reached out and seized Chuck by the shoulders and lifted him up in a manner anything but friendly. That once-grinning face was all business now, and would you look at this, he was turning out to be a pervert after all…
Because he leaned in, pressing his face to Chuck’s as the kid squirmed and hollered and kicked in vain. Pressed his face right up against Chuck’s face, his mouth against Chuck’s mouth, and then those terrible wet lips parted as if to kiss him and that even more terrible tongue pushed its way into Chuck’s mouth…
And all at once the man turned into a bellows, blowing an enormous gust of air into Chuck’s lungs, filling him like a balloon. Chuck drew his head back, coughing and choking, with threads of the man’s spit stringing down his chin. The air forced into him conjured up thoughts of the stench of decay, of death, like an animal dead in the humid air and sun for days.
That smell worked its way all through his chest and lungs, feeling like a warm moist fist jammed inside him. And when the man lowered him to the floor, Chuck stumbled and staggered and clutched his flip-flopping stomach, convinced he was going to double over and lose it all over his Reeboks. He lurched toward the door, and finally, finally, he could move. Never mind his bike, his slingshot, he didn’t think he could ride or carry anything, but screw it, he’d tell his parents that a bigger kid had knocked him off the Predator and taken both things. Because…
Surely they’d never ever believe the truth.
“RUN HOME TO YOUR MOTHER, KID!” the man bellowed, then shrieked with laughter.
Chuck didn’t need to be told twice. The last floodgates of his mind collapsed and nothing could hold back the tide. He ran screaming into the night, his shoes a fading slap-slap-slap down the street.
Typhoid Chuck.
7
The dream was incredibly vivid.
Erika saw herself stumbling through streets lit by a bright noonday sun, and knew that behind her, men were pursuing her, men in white. Sterile, like operating room technicians. Give them half a chance, and they’d put her away for good.
“No!” she screamed back at them. “I’m fine! FINE!”
She stooped to pluck up a rock, held it, found its sharp edges. She hacked at herself until the blood flowed freely from at least a dozen places, down her arms, her legs, her neck. “Look at this!” she cried. “I’m healthy! I’m alive!”
But they wouldn’t give up the chase. She ran blindly on, ducking into a mall or something similar. She found a restroom. Looked at herself in the mirror.
Recoiled at the vision she saw reflected back…a haggard witch of a girl with purplish blotches massing on her
“I think he looks better like that, don’t you?” said the blond man.
Chuck slapped both hands to his cheeks, furrowing his skin with hooked fingertips, and he worked his mouth mutely, trying for a scream that couldn’t squeeze past his locked throat. He stared at the thing in the floor, trying to relate it to the surly old fart that owned this place. Quite a reach of the imagination.
And when he managed to tear his eyes away and look back to the blond man—for answers, maybe? Now there’s a laugh, ha haha—he saw that his companion held a glass test tube in one hand and was pitching a rubber stopper away with the other. The man slugged from the tube as if he were a wino hitting the tastiest bottle of whiskey on skid row.
The man took a step toward him slowly, deliberately, as if stalking him like a vampire in a horror picture he and Corry might have watched. Closer, closer, and still Chuck’s stupid stupid stupid feet wouldn’t move. So he stood there and watched the man bear down on him, as he reached out and seized Chuck by the shoulders and lifted him up in a manner anything but friendly. That once-grinning face was all business now, and would you look at this, he was turning out to be a pervert after all…
Because he leaned in, pressing his face to Chuck’s as the kid squirmed and hollered and kicked in vain. Pressed his face right up against Chuck’s face, his mouth against Chuck’s mouth, and then those terrible wet lips parted as if to kiss him and that even more terrible tongue pushed its way into Chuck’s mouth…
And all at once the man turned into a bellows, blowing an enormous gust of air into Chuck’s lungs, filling him like a balloon. Chuck drew his head back, coughing and choking, with threads of the man’s spit stringing down his chin. The air forced into him conjured up thoughts of the stench of decay, of death, like an animal dead in the humid air and sun for days.
That smell worked its way all through his chest and lungs, feeling like a warm moist fist jammed inside him. And when the man lowered him to the floor, Chuck stumbled and staggered and clutched his flip-flopping stomach, convinced he was going to double over and lose it all over his Reeboks. He lurched toward the door, and finally, finally, he could move. Never mind his bike, his slingshot, he didn’t think he could ride or carry anything, but screw it, he’d tell his parents that a bigger kid had knocked him off the Predator and taken both things. Because…
Surely they’d never ever believe the truth.
“RUN HOME TO YOUR MOTHER, KID!” the man bellowed, then shrieked with laughter.
Chuck didn’t need to be told twice. The last floodgates of his mind collapsed and nothing could hold back the tide. He ran screaming into the night, his shoes a fading slap-slap-slap down the street.
Typhoid Chuck.
7
The dream was incredibly vivid.
Erika saw herself stumbling through streets lit by a bright noonday sun, and knew that behind her, men were pursuing her, men in white. Sterile, like operating room technicians. Give them half a chance, and they’d put her away for good.
“No!” she screamed back at them. “I’m fine! FINE!”
She stooped to pluck up a rock, held it, found its sharp edges. She hacked at herself until the blood flowed freely from at least a dozen places, down her arms, her legs, her neck. “Look at this!” she cried. “I’m healthy! I’m alive!”
But they wouldn’t give up the chase. She ran blindly on, ducking into a mall or something similar. She found a restroom. Looked at herself in the mirror.
Recoiled at the vision she saw reflected back…a haggard witch of a girl with purplish blotches massing on her
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