the bullet the kid had fired, pocketed the others. Sliding his new gun into his belt, Cardo opened the door and left.
Downstairs, a dead man stood before the bathroom door, tugging at the knob. A large piece of broken glass jutted from its throat. Smaller shards glistened like jewels across its forehead. Its cheeks hung in tatters revealing the musculature of its jaw. Cardo was past the dead thing before it realized he was even there.
His shoes crunched across broken glass. The acrid reek of blood and pine oil and bleach hung in the air. He nearly slipped on blood. It pooled on the tile, mingled with soft drinks and beer. Behind him, someone gasped—a raspy exhalation that could have come from either the living or the dead. Unseen feet shuffled across something that crinkled and crunched, and Cardo was certain—absolutely certain—that it was a bag of Lay’s potato chips.
There was life in the parking lot, actual living life. People rummaged through the products strewn across the ground. They stopped what they were doing long enough to give him a once-over and promptly got back to their work.
Not far from his cruiser, a dead woman lay near an overturned shopping cart. The cart, no doubt once brimming with looted goods, was empty. A plastic gallon jug lay empty in a puddle of milk mixed with the blood surrounding the woman’s diminished head.
“ You okay, Cardo?”
“ Not really,” Cardo said, looking back at the person addressing him. Jerry Smith, a long-haired stone-freak who’d never gotten the news that the Summer of Love had actually ended. They’d shared a few grades in high school, but nothing more. Sometimes it seemed like no one in Beistle was going anywhere. If this were so, then Jerry Smith was getting there a little faster than the rest of them. “You?”
“ Not really, man.” Smith had a case of beer under each arm. “I’m sorry about this,” he said, indicating the beer.
“ It’s no big deal,” Cardo said, walking over to his cruiser and cursing. The front left fender of the car was crumpled in. The headlight was smashed and half of the grille lay on the ground. The front wheel was both flat and twisted in such a way that told him the axle was screwed.
Good thing home was a ten-minute walk.
“ I saw that happen,” Smith said. He sounded proud, eager to talk.
“ Yeah?”
“ You wanna know who did it?”
“ Not really,” Cardo said, shrugging.
“ It was Carl Perkins, from over in Harlow?”
“ This is a damn mess. Could still use the radio.”
“ He got bit,” Smith said. “He was in bad shape.”
“ You see any more pork around?”
“ Pork?” Smith asked, and the confusion in his eyes cleared. He laughed, obviously surprised to hear Cardo using a word typically reserved for folks who didn’t like the police. He shook his head. “No. Oh, yeah, wait. Tasgal. He got into his car. I was still in there, but I saw him through the window. I think Clark was with him. Clark got shot.”
“ Oh,” Cardo said. “Damn it. Where did they go?”
“ Away,” Smith said.
“ Okay. How’s your mom?”
“ She died yesterday.”
“ I’m sorry to hear that,” Cardo said, sliding behind the wheel of his cruiser and checking the closed band radio. Dead air, distant voices muttering, and no more.
“ I got no place to go, really.”
“ I’m sorry to hear that.”
Smith opened his mouth to say something, but Cardo silenced him with an upheld hand.
“ Go home and drink your beer, Jerry,” he said, walking past the man and toward Main Street. “Try not to get eaten.”
Cardo walked toward his house. Before he got there, he’d have to pass through the heart of town. From the looks of it, that’s where all of the action was.
He walked, and in his mind he saw the kid’s head open up and deflate. Eyes open or closed, it didn’t matter: the kid was right there.
What else was he supposed to have done? Well, he didn’t want to think too hard on that. He could have
Downstairs, a dead man stood before the bathroom door, tugging at the knob. A large piece of broken glass jutted from its throat. Smaller shards glistened like jewels across its forehead. Its cheeks hung in tatters revealing the musculature of its jaw. Cardo was past the dead thing before it realized he was even there.
His shoes crunched across broken glass. The acrid reek of blood and pine oil and bleach hung in the air. He nearly slipped on blood. It pooled on the tile, mingled with soft drinks and beer. Behind him, someone gasped—a raspy exhalation that could have come from either the living or the dead. Unseen feet shuffled across something that crinkled and crunched, and Cardo was certain—absolutely certain—that it was a bag of Lay’s potato chips.
There was life in the parking lot, actual living life. People rummaged through the products strewn across the ground. They stopped what they were doing long enough to give him a once-over and promptly got back to their work.
Not far from his cruiser, a dead woman lay near an overturned shopping cart. The cart, no doubt once brimming with looted goods, was empty. A plastic gallon jug lay empty in a puddle of milk mixed with the blood surrounding the woman’s diminished head.
“ You okay, Cardo?”
“ Not really,” Cardo said, looking back at the person addressing him. Jerry Smith, a long-haired stone-freak who’d never gotten the news that the Summer of Love had actually ended. They’d shared a few grades in high school, but nothing more. Sometimes it seemed like no one in Beistle was going anywhere. If this were so, then Jerry Smith was getting there a little faster than the rest of them. “You?”
“ Not really, man.” Smith had a case of beer under each arm. “I’m sorry about this,” he said, indicating the beer.
“ It’s no big deal,” Cardo said, walking over to his cruiser and cursing. The front left fender of the car was crumpled in. The headlight was smashed and half of the grille lay on the ground. The front wheel was both flat and twisted in such a way that told him the axle was screwed.
Good thing home was a ten-minute walk.
“ I saw that happen,” Smith said. He sounded proud, eager to talk.
“ Yeah?”
“ You wanna know who did it?”
“ Not really,” Cardo said, shrugging.
“ It was Carl Perkins, from over in Harlow?”
“ This is a damn mess. Could still use the radio.”
“ He got bit,” Smith said. “He was in bad shape.”
“ You see any more pork around?”
“ Pork?” Smith asked, and the confusion in his eyes cleared. He laughed, obviously surprised to hear Cardo using a word typically reserved for folks who didn’t like the police. He shook his head. “No. Oh, yeah, wait. Tasgal. He got into his car. I was still in there, but I saw him through the window. I think Clark was with him. Clark got shot.”
“ Oh,” Cardo said. “Damn it. Where did they go?”
“ Away,” Smith said.
“ Okay. How’s your mom?”
“ She died yesterday.”
“ I’m sorry to hear that,” Cardo said, sliding behind the wheel of his cruiser and checking the closed band radio. Dead air, distant voices muttering, and no more.
“ I got no place to go, really.”
“ I’m sorry to hear that.”
Smith opened his mouth to say something, but Cardo silenced him with an upheld hand.
“ Go home and drink your beer, Jerry,” he said, walking past the man and toward Main Street. “Try not to get eaten.”
Cardo walked toward his house. Before he got there, he’d have to pass through the heart of town. From the looks of it, that’s where all of the action was.
He walked, and in his mind he saw the kid’s head open up and deflate. Eyes open or closed, it didn’t matter: the kid was right there.
What else was he supposed to have done? Well, he didn’t want to think too hard on that. He could have
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