man who'd shot him ended up getting into a truck with some other people. There was a female driving the truck backward.
Grodge entered commands to follow the truck and the man and woman with the dead son, then marked the shooter and the driver as clean, and the others in the truck as dirty. He marked the two left alive on the road clean as well, hoping it would play out well and the evil man would get his chance at revenge.
He also re-enabled one car down the road, just long enough for it to stop and pick up the woman and the father.
"My son is hurt, can we get a ride to the hospital?" the man asked the driver—a young Asian man with an impeccable three-piece suit.
"Sure, yes, put him in the back seat there. Let me help. Oh my ... is that blood? What happ—" He never finished. The man clubbed him over the head with the tire iron.
"Let's at least put him off the road," said the father. "And see if we can find something to cover him."
"This guy's expensive jacket will do fine," said the fat woman. She took the tire iron from the man's hand and bashed the guy in the head again, finishing him. She dropped it and then removed his jacket. The two pulled him to the side and covered his upper body. "We'll be back for him if we can," she said.
"Yes," he agreed. "But first we need to get to a hospital."
Grodge chuckled with glee. Yes, do it! he thought. He was getting really good at setting this stuff up!
He tapped a key to queue up a commercial for Fruity Sweet Stim Sticks, then turned back to watch the progress of the two killers and their race to intercept the truck at the hospital.
Chapter 4
—————
Erin
The first block to the marina was anti-climactic after the … experience … at home. I struggled with the awkward backpack-bag combination, shifting the bag around a couple of times until it wasn't flopping around. I kept my baton in my right hand.
Passing the first block, I came across an actual policeman, standing in the road as though to direct traffic.
No traffic, dingus. Move along.
I tried to skirt around behind him.
Didn't work.
"Miss, stop please," he called out, then started walking toward me. I pretended not to hear him. Maybe I could pretend not to speak English?
Probably not—I wasn't tan enough.
"Miss, I need you to stop and tell me where you're going."
I stopped. I doubted I could get away with a hairy knuckles comment and just walk off like I did at the school.
"Yes, officer?" I said in my best Valley Girl ditzy voice. The cop looked at me askance. I don't think my act fooled him, since very few Valley Girls walked around with batons in their hands and machetes on a tool belt.
Unless they were Buffy.
I put the baton in my belt and kept my hands slightly up so he could see I was unarmed.
What a stupid word, "unarmed." It was the one-armed man, claimed Dr. Kimble!
He stopped an arms' length from me, his hand on top of his gun. That was a bit scary, but I think it was at least still clipped.
"You look decked out for a riot, or a camping trip in Sarajevo," he said. "Why are you sporting a baton and a machete, and where are you going?"
Should I tell him the truth? That I was attacked in my home by a zombie mom, and in my yard by Bubba Lecter? Probably not. I'd spend a night or two in a psych ward.
Think fast.
"I'm on my way home, officer, from school. My last period was a drama class, but when the power went out, we were told we could go home. I tried to call my mom, but the phone didn't work and the buses aren't running. I live near the marina, so it's only a few blocks. I figured I could walk it."
Geez, what a lame story. Even Mr. Airhead wouldn't believe that one.
"Alright, Miss, just keep those props on your belt and take care, I've seen a few crazy-looking people walking around, so watch yourself."
Holy smokes! I can't believe
Grodge entered commands to follow the truck and the man and woman with the dead son, then marked the shooter and the driver as clean, and the others in the truck as dirty. He marked the two left alive on the road clean as well, hoping it would play out well and the evil man would get his chance at revenge.
He also re-enabled one car down the road, just long enough for it to stop and pick up the woman and the father.
"My son is hurt, can we get a ride to the hospital?" the man asked the driver—a young Asian man with an impeccable three-piece suit.
"Sure, yes, put him in the back seat there. Let me help. Oh my ... is that blood? What happ—" He never finished. The man clubbed him over the head with the tire iron.
"Let's at least put him off the road," said the father. "And see if we can find something to cover him."
"This guy's expensive jacket will do fine," said the fat woman. She took the tire iron from the man's hand and bashed the guy in the head again, finishing him. She dropped it and then removed his jacket. The two pulled him to the side and covered his upper body. "We'll be back for him if we can," she said.
"Yes," he agreed. "But first we need to get to a hospital."
Grodge chuckled with glee. Yes, do it! he thought. He was getting really good at setting this stuff up!
He tapped a key to queue up a commercial for Fruity Sweet Stim Sticks, then turned back to watch the progress of the two killers and their race to intercept the truck at the hospital.
Chapter 4
—————
Erin
The first block to the marina was anti-climactic after the … experience … at home. I struggled with the awkward backpack-bag combination, shifting the bag around a couple of times until it wasn't flopping around. I kept my baton in my right hand.
Passing the first block, I came across an actual policeman, standing in the road as though to direct traffic.
No traffic, dingus. Move along.
I tried to skirt around behind him.
Didn't work.
"Miss, stop please," he called out, then started walking toward me. I pretended not to hear him. Maybe I could pretend not to speak English?
Probably not—I wasn't tan enough.
"Miss, I need you to stop and tell me where you're going."
I stopped. I doubted I could get away with a hairy knuckles comment and just walk off like I did at the school.
"Yes, officer?" I said in my best Valley Girl ditzy voice. The cop looked at me askance. I don't think my act fooled him, since very few Valley Girls walked around with batons in their hands and machetes on a tool belt.
Unless they were Buffy.
I put the baton in my belt and kept my hands slightly up so he could see I was unarmed.
What a stupid word, "unarmed." It was the one-armed man, claimed Dr. Kimble!
He stopped an arms' length from me, his hand on top of his gun. That was a bit scary, but I think it was at least still clipped.
"You look decked out for a riot, or a camping trip in Sarajevo," he said. "Why are you sporting a baton and a machete, and where are you going?"
Should I tell him the truth? That I was attacked in my home by a zombie mom, and in my yard by Bubba Lecter? Probably not. I'd spend a night or two in a psych ward.
Think fast.
"I'm on my way home, officer, from school. My last period was a drama class, but when the power went out, we were told we could go home. I tried to call my mom, but the phone didn't work and the buses aren't running. I live near the marina, so it's only a few blocks. I figured I could walk it."
Geez, what a lame story. Even Mr. Airhead wouldn't believe that one.
"Alright, Miss, just keep those props on your belt and take care, I've seen a few crazy-looking people walking around, so watch yourself."
Holy smokes! I can't believe
Similar Books
