Текст книги "Ashen Winter"

Автор книги: Mike Mullin

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Chapter 37

I thought through my options. That didn’t take long—I could sit, wait, and hope not to be discovered, or try to make a break for it, in which case I’d almost certainly be caught and killed. I could get caught immediately or later. I sat tight, choosing later, although waiting made my stomach clench with fear. What was happening to Darla?

The meat sizzled over the fire. It smelled like bacon—if I hadn’t known what it was, the smell might have made me hungry. As it was, I wondered if I’d ever be able to eat meat again.

I tried to listen in on their conversation as they ate, but with all of them talking at once, it was hard to make out what they were saying. Someone mentioned Brick’s absence. The cook repeated her joke—that he’d wandered off to pee and forgotten where his thing was—and everyone laughed and dropped the subject. I also gathered that Ace, the boss of this group, was gone but expected back today.

After breakfast, four of the guys mounted two of the snowmobiles and roared out of the shed. That still left six guys and five women. The guys dragged a rickety table and some folding chairs near the fire and sat around playing cards.

The women put a huge steel tub on a metal rack at one side of the fire. Then they all trooped in and out of the shed, carrying bucket loads of snow to fill the tub. The men didn’t help at all—just kept playing cards. That seemed awfully sexist to me, but I guessed they weren’t the enlightened kind of cannibals.

After a while, I figured out what the tub was for: washing clothes. The women put another tub over the fire next to the first one and filled it with snow, as well. One of them dumped some Tide—where they’d found laundry soap was beyond me—and a load of clothing in the first tub and started scrubbing. The second tub was the rinse water. They were scrubbing the clothing with a serrated wooden stick, wringing it out by hand, and hanging it on a line strung near the fire to dry. It reminded me of how back at Uncle Paul’s farm, we’d found an old-time washboard someone had been using as a percussion instrument before the volcano. And we wrung out our clothes with a machine Darla built—you pushed down on a lever, and it used a series of gears to amplify the force—clothes came out of that wringer almost dry.

My hand was in my pocket—I realized I’d been running my fingers over the chain I’d given Darla. I looked around again, desperate for a way out. There were no windows, but high on each gable a big metal fan was set into the wall. Maybe I could pry the cover off one of the fans and slide through the unmoving blades. But to do that, I’d have to climb up into the network of metal trusses that supported the roof. I might be able to get up there by standing on the roof of the minivan and jumping, but I’d be completely exposed.

I checked on Brick. He looked asleep—or maybe dead. But when I put my hand against his nose, I could feel him breathing. I’d kept him awake most of the night—hopefully he’d sleep quietly for a while.

The card game got boisterous. The women were yelling back and forth to each other, too, so I couldn’t make out what any of them were saying in the general hubbub. But at least the din would cover any noise Brick or I made.

The women had just started their fourth tub of laundry when one of the men facing the shed’s door shouted, “Ace’s back.” They laid down their cards and jumped up to heave on the sliding metal doors, opening them wider. A blast of frigid air blew in, shuffling up some of the cards and eliciting howls of protest from the men.

The cloth-topped truck started backing into the shed alongside the fire. The women rushed to move their clotheslines.

When the truck was fully inside, two men hopped out of the cab. The guys instantly crowded around the driver, clasping his forearm and bumping his shoulder in greeting. When the clamor of hellos died down, I heard one of them say, “Yo, Ace, what’d Danny give you for them skanks?”

“You won’t believe me unless I show you.” Ace strutted to the back of the truck, untied the canvas flap, and pulled it away with a theatrical flourish. “Reinforcements!”

Burly guys in heavy camo jackets and balaclavas started pouring out of the back of the truck—twelve of them in all.

“We’re going to own Worthington now!” Ace shouted. Raucous cheers echoed through the shed in response. It was getting crowded. If one of them moved a few more feet in my direction, I’d be spotted for sure. I ducked into the deeper darkness behind the minivan.

Would twelve more men be enough to overwhelm Worthington’s icy walls? I wasn’t sure. But I needed to warn them. I wasn’t too happy with Mayor Kenda, but I owed Rita Mae big time. A warning was the least I could do to repay them. But I had to find Darla—fast. And reach my parents at the refugee camp in Maquoketa. It all seemed so overwhelming; I swallowed hard, gritting my teeth. First things first: Focus on getting out of this shed alive.

I thought about what one of the gang members had said. They’d traded “skanks” to Danny for reinforcements. Hearing them refer to Darla as a skank was infuriating, but it also brought hope. I’d rather hear them calling her a skank than a carcass.

A clunk of wood striking wood interrupted my thoughts. It was followed by a steady stream of sliding noises, more clunks, and the hard exhalations of men at work. When those noises ended, there was a squeal—nails ripping free of wood. Someone yelled, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” and I risked a glance around the minivan’s bumper.

A huge pile of crude wooden crates had sprouted by the back of the truck. The lid had been pried off the top crate, and Ace stood beside it, his arms upraised as if in victory. One hand held a crowbar, the other an assault rifle.

“No peckin’ way Danny gave you all those for a little vee jay,” someone said.

“Course not,” Ace replied. “They’re short on supplies at Grandma’s. I’m headed back now to take them our meat and some truck parts.”

“What the—”

“Just shut up right there. We’ll be in Worthington by this time tomorrow. Dining at the all-you-can-eat long pork buffet. So load it up!”

Most of the group turned toward the meat locker door on my side of the shed. I ducked behind the minivan again and checked to make sure Brick and I were out of sight.

The ratchet clanked as someone pulled it free of the door. I realized this could be the perfect opportunity to escape and slithered around the minivan on my belly. The gang members’ feet were silhouetted by the fire as they tromped back and forth from the meat locker to the truck.

There was an open area between the minivan and the closest snowmobile—ten feet or so. I waited, ready to rush across the gap. All my muscles were tensed; my breath came in short, fast gasps. Everyone seemed to be focused on their work. I hurled myself across the gap.

A voice boomed, “Hey, there’s someone back there!”

“Uhh,” I groaned softly. I’d almost made it.

Chapter 38

The shed was suddenly silent. I heard footsteps coming closer. “Who’s there?” a voice barked, so close it felt like he was on top of me. I scuttled around the snowmobile, keeping it between me and the voice.

Someone else said, “It’s just Brick.”

“That you, Brick?” the voice said. I prayed Brick was still asleep.

“Dumbass is probably planning to jump out and scare us.” The same voice continued, yelling now. “It don’t work like that, Brick. It’s not scary when you hide and jump out—only when we all do it to you.”

Everything paused for a second, as if they were expecting a response. I held my breath and scrunched as tightly into the darkness as I could.

“Back to work,” Ace yelled. “I want to make Anamosa, deliver this meat to Danny, and get back while there’s still daylight.”

“But Brick oughta be helping—”

“You can deal with him after I’m on the road. Now finish loading, or I’ll be bringing Danny more carcasses than I promised.” I heard a door slam—Ace getting into the truck, maybe.

I heard footsteps moving away from my hiding place, and the general racket resumed. I slowly let out the breath I’d been holding. My hands were trembling; I closed my eyes briefly and tried to relax my muscles.

I was still at least twenty feet from the back of the truck and even farther from the shed’s doors—plus the open area between me and the truck was close to the fire and well-illuminated. I’d never make it across without being seen. I needed some kind of distraction.

I wormed toward one of the workbenches against the shed wall, being careful to keep the snowmobile between me and the Peckerwoods. I reached up with one arm and blindly groped around the surface of the workbench. I felt something cylindrical and grabbed it.

It was a heavy flathead screwdriver. That would work. I crawled back to my hiding place alongside the snowmobile. Ready as I’ll ever be, I thought.

I reached over the snowmobile and hurled the screwdriver at the opposite wall of the shed. It clanged against the metal wall so loudly that the sound reverberated through the building. I peeked over the top of the snowmobile. Everyone was looking in the direction of the noise, and about half of them were moving that way. Now or never. I thrust myself upright and ran behind them, moving fast but running on my toes, trying to keep my boots from making too much noise.

I reached the back end of the truck and ran alongside it, so it was between me and the gang investigating the noise at the other side of the shed. The cab of the truck was sitting just inside the open doors of the maintenance shed. A beautiful rectangle of light beckoned: freedom. I ran for it, sprinting alongside the truck.

Just then, a leather-jacketed arm pushed the cab door open, blocking my escape.

Chapter 39

I skidded to a stop. I was less than ten feet from the door. When the driver got out, I’d be dead meat. A boot appeared. I dropped to my belly and tried to worm under the truck, alongside the double set of rear wheels. My backpack caught on something. Another boot joined the first under the cab door. I scrabbled against the concrete floor, forcing myself forward. Something ripped as I popped under the truck’s dark, oily underbelly.

I heard Ace yelling from the direction of the cab. “If the rest of that meat isn’t loaded in five minutes flat, I’m adding one of you to the load.”

“But there’s someone in here, Ace!” one of the gang yelled back.

“Forget that! It’s just Brick messin’ with you. Fix his hash after I’m on the road.”

The boots disappeared, and I heard the cab door slam. A moment later thumping sounds started coming through the floor of the truck—the Peckerwoods had started loading meat again.

I had five minutes to get out of here before the truck pulled out. It seemed hopeless. If I crawled out the back or side of the truck, the guys loading meat would spot me. If I crawled out the front, Ace, in the driver’s seat, would see me.

I crawled forward. My backpack caught again. I backed up and rolled, trying to see if I could escape on the far side of the truck, but I wound up on my back with my pack holding me off the ground like a turtle upside down on its shell. I struggled, trying to turn over in the tight space under the truck without making any noise. I could smell my own sweat over the stink of grease and tire rubber—it smelled like fear.

Then the truck roared to life.

The noise of the engine was deafening. I craned my neck to look toward the back end of the truck. I was clear of the wheels. If it pulled out, I wouldn’t get crushed. Instead I’d be left lying in the middle of the shed, completely exposed to the not-so-tender mercies of the Peckerwoods. Being crushed would be preferable.

Out of desperation, I did the only thing I could think of. I groped around above me and found a greasy strut. I pulled on it experimentally—it would support my weight. Then I kicked out with my feet. My boots thumped against the spare tire stored horizontally underneath the truck. I forced my boots into the space between the undercarriage and the spare tire. My head was perilously close to the front wheel.

I heard a clang of metal on metal coming from the back of the truck, and then someone slapped the truck twice. It ground into gear and pulled out of the shed—with me clinging to the bottom like a doomed barnacle.

Chapter 40

My backpack rubbed on the packed snow rushing by beneath me. I clung desperately to the strut as the truck dragged me down the road. The straps on my pack bit into my shoulders, and the nylon made a noise like tearing paper as it dragged, almost as loud as the truck’s engine. I straightened and arched my back, pushing harder on the spare tire with my legs, trying to lift myself off the road to spare my pack from destruction.

The noise and the pressure eased instantly. As long as I kept my back arched and my hips up, thrust against the filthy underbelly of the truck, I could ride underneath without dragging.

The truck lumbered through two slow turns. Its gears ground again, and as we picked up speed the wind bit cruelly at the exposed skin around my eyes and wrists. The whine of the engine was overwhelming.

My back and legs ached. The bullet wound drew a line of fire across my arm. Clinging to the truck was like holding a push-up at the halfway point—I could do it for a while, but soon it was going to start to really hurt. Eventually I’d collapse.

Would falling off be such a bad thing, I wondered? We hadn’t gone far—I was probably still in Cascade. From there, I could hike to Worthington in three or four hours. I’d probably get there in plenty of time to warn them about the reinforcements. Surely the Peckerwoods wouldn’t launch their attack until their leader had returned from his errand?

But any move toward Worthington would take me farther from the Peckerwood base in Anamosa—farther from Darla. And Mayor Kenda had tried to imprison me in Worthington—tried to prevent me from going in search of Darla. I knew Mayor Kenda meant well. She thought I’d get myself killed, and right now that seemed pretty likely. But I still had to try. Even with so little cause for hope, the thought of Darla kept me going. Worthington would have to do their best without any warning. I tightened my grip on the strut.

My hands joined the chorus of pain coming from my back and legs. My ears ached and pulsated from the chill and the roar of the engine mere feet from my head. There was nothing to do but hold on for dear life. How long would it take to get to Anamosa? An hour, like Brick said? I didn’t know for sure—didn’t know how long it would take, nor how long I could realistically hold on.

The truck was rolling down a long straight highway. We seemed to have left Cascade, although I couldn’t really tell. All I could see was the grimy underside of the truck, and out of the corners of my eyes, the snow berms on either side of the highway flying past.

I tried to shift my position, to take my weight on my right arm and let my left relax for a moment. But I sagged into the road. The ice tore at my backpack, jerking it so hard that something ripped and my fingers were pulled from the strut. In less time than it took to blink, I twisted through a 180-degree turn. My right leg bent at an impossible angle, and the spike of pain forced a moan from my lips. My left boot dragged against the ground. I strained to raise it. I craned my neck as my back dragged, trying to keep my head off the road. The truck pulled me along by my right ankle, which was still jammed between the spare and the undercarriage. Something fell out of my backpack, and I snapped my head back just in time to see the twin rear wheels of the truck bump over my sleeping bag and rifle. Not good.

I froze, despite the bone-jarring ride. The huge wheels that had just flattened my gear were less than a foot from my head.

Chapter 41

I moaned, not knowing or caring if the Peckerwoods in the cab could hear. My right knee was twisted at a terrible angle. I strained to keep my leg bent—if I relaxed it, I was afraid my leg would be wrenched apart at the knee.

The wheels crunched through the snow inches from my face. Pellets of ice peppered my neck. The engine’s roar was all-consuming, inevitable in its bass growl. I groped frantically, trying to grab something, anything.

I got my fingers hooked around the other side of the spare tire and pulled. The instant my body was off the road, the bone-rattling shaking eased. I planted my left foot against the strut and tried to straighten my right leg. I was finally able to straighten my ankle, easing the pressure on my knee.

I was still terrifyingly close to the deuce’s rear wheels, clinging to the spare tire like a spider. I had to move—if I slipped, I’d be crushed.

I groped blindly to my right, toward the center of the truck. My glove touched a spinning shaft. It threw my hand down against the road, wrenching my arm. I snatched my arm back and flexed my fingers experimentally. My whole arm hurt, but everything seemed to work.

When I reached out again, I moved more slowly, trying to see what I was grabbing. The underside of the truck was a chaotic mess of parts spinning furiously in the dimness. I reached up past a U-beam, my right hand inches from the whirling driveshaft, and grabbed some kind of strut. Slowly I inched sideways, sliding my left hand to join the right. That moved my head out from the path of the rear tires, although now I was perilously close to the driveshaft.

I didn’t think I could hold on to the bottom of the truck much longer. I needed to get inside the truck, where I could rest. I worked my way toward the back, moving only one hand or foot at a time. The pain of my tortured muscles was excruciating—it felt like they were burning up under my skin. Tears leaked from my eyes, dried instantly by the whipping wind. I longed to let go. But every time my fingers slipped, I thought of Darla. This truck would take me to her, but only if I held on.

I slid under the first rear axle, clinging to it with my hands and dropping a few crucial inches closer to the road. My pack dragged, and more of my supplies flew out the top. Moving one hand or foot at a time, I slowly pulled myself under the second rear axle to the back of the truck. My muscles had become ribbons of fire, scarcely holding my battered skeleton together. My butt had been dragging—it felt like everyone at my dojang had practiced round kicks on it for an hour instead of using the punching bags.

I got a grip on the truck’s tiny rear bumper and tried to pull myself up. My feet fell and were whipped from under me. Now I was hanging from the back of the truck, my body dragging behind it. I bent my arms, pulling myself upward, groaning through clenched teeth with the effort.

I couldn’t climb into the load bed. The canvas cover was tied too tightly. I groped for my knife, breathing a sigh of relief when I found it still on my belt. Clutching the knife, I stabbed upward, cutting a slit about two feet wide in the canvas. I heaved myself over the gate, sliding through the hole I’d made.

I collapsed into the darkness inside the truck. My arms trembled spastically. Something sharp dug into my side—one of the spare truck parts the Cascade Peckerwoods had loaded into the truck, maybe. I tried to breathe deeply, gulping air, but that didn’t help—there was a vague rotted scent in the air that nauseated me. I jammed my head through the slit in the tarp. Clean outdoor air poured over me, and gradually the trembling in my limbs subsided.

Chapter 42

Something shifted in my backpack, and I heard a clunk behind me. I pulled my head back into the truck. One of my pans had fallen out of the backpack, thunking into a metal truck part I couldn’t identify. I shrugged out of my pack to check it—that pan had been packed securely when I left Worthington.

Dragging the pack along the road had torn the top flap off and shredded much of its body. I’d packed or tied the most important and useful things at the top, where they would be easy to get at. My rifle and sleeping bag were gone. I’d lost a lot of my food, water, and extra clothing. Three bags of wheat were gone, too. Only the stuff packed at the bottom had stayed put. I inventoried what was left by touch. I had plenty of food, four or five days of drinking water in a wide assortment of old plastic bottles, some extra ammo, a change of clean clothes, a lamp, and a plastic bottle of low-quality lamp oil. I checked my belt—I’d lost the pistol at some point and not even noticed. I was relieved to find that the kale seeds and two bags of wheat I’d packed inside my coat were still there.

I’d packed a needle and thread in the first-aid kit at the bottom of the backpack. I dug it out and set to work trying to repair my pack. I sat on one of the truck parts and lifted my leg, forcing my boot into the slit in the canvas. That pose was supremely uncomfortable, but it let enough light into the truck to see and kept my hands free for sewing. My hands shook—my muscles were still a limp, noodly mess from being dragged under the truck. Forcing the needle through the nylon with shaking hands was tough, and the thread I had wasn’t really heavy enough, but I managed a crude repair. It would be good enough—I hoped.

That done, I put my pack back on and started exploring, hoping the truck might contain something useful—maybe even a gun or two. A mountain of frozen flesh filled the front of the load bed, and the truck parts were at the back with me—luckily not the other way around. I navigated here and there by feel. I went all the way around the perimeter of the load bed, winding up back by the tailgate. If there was anything useful in the truck, I hadn’t found it.

The truck slowed and tilted through a series of turns. Had we been on the road long enough to reach Anamosa? The truck swung through a final, wide arc and stopped. I held my breath, reserving every ounce of energy for listening and trying to figure out what was happening. I heard a gear grind, and the truck lurched into reverse.

I thought about looking out the back. But if anyone was standing there waiting to unload, I’d be seen for sure. Of course, when they opened the tailgate, it was going to be pretty obvious that some of their meat was still alive and kicking. I started scrambling around the pile, thinking I’d hide behind it.

The truck stopped again and the engine sputtered off. I froze, only halfway around the pile. I was afraid to move without the engine’s growl to cover any sound I might make. I heard the cab door slam, and a moment later a banging noise like someone beating on a door.

Everything was quiet for a moment. Ace’s voice broke the silence. “Get some men out here to help me unload the meat,” he yelled. “I need to gas up and get back to Cascade.”

“Yeah, yeah, hold your pecker a minute,” an unfamiliar voice replied. “Everybody on kitchen duty’s busy making lunch.”

“Screw that, I’ve got all our meat here, just like Danny wants. I gotta get back and catch some fresh.”

“Whatever,” the other voice replied.

“Len!” Ace roared, “Sons of bitches are making us wait. May as well get out and stretch your legs.”

I heard the truck’s passenger door creak open and then slam. A few moments later, there was a distant scream, abruptly cut short. Who was Len? I’d had no idea there was anyone else in the truck, although I guessed it made sense—nobody with any instinct for self-preservation would travel through this failed and frozen world alone. And what was that scream? More importantly, how was I going to get out of this truck? I could try to get out through the back or sides of the truck by cutting more holes in the canvas. But I wasn’t sure exactly where Len and Ace were, and I was certainly better off avoiding a face-to-face meeting with them.

I resumed moving around the perimeter, trying to get to the front of the truck. I could hide behind the pile, but that wasn’t going to be a viable plan for long.

Something slipped beneath my feet. It rolled down the pile and hit the side of the truck, making a loud clunk. I froze.

“Something’s moving in there, Ace!” The voice sounded like it was right on the other side of the canvas wall of the truck.

“There’s something moving in a truck of meat? You been listening to zombie stories again?” Ace yelled back.

Someone pulled up the canvas at the side of the truck an inch or two, letting in a wedge of light. I quit breathing, closed my eyes, and prayed that the darkness would hide me—prayed that nobody would notice the slit I’d cut at the back. The moment stretched as I waited for Len to give the alarm, to shout the words that would inevitably end with me—or parts of me—joining the pile of meat I was leaning against.

The moment finally passed, and I heard the slap of canvas against steel. I let the breath I’d been holding escape my lips and opened my eyes. The inside of the truck was as black as an ashfall again. I remained motionless, afraid to move.

A few minutes passed before the silence was interrupted again. The same voice I’d heard talking to Ace earlier yelled, “Long pork’s on the fire—at least enough for lunch. We’ll get you—”

The voice was drowned out by a babble of men joking with each other and laughing in rough tones. Their noise was drawing steadily closer.

A memory of Darla came to me: her body hitting the roof of this truck, compressing the canvas around her. There was one direction I’d forgotten that might prove accessible. I ran up the meat pile, heedless of the noise. I hoped the talk of the approaching men would cover it.

I whipped my knife off my belt and stabbed it into the canvas roof. The noise it made as I cut the tough fabric seemed loud, but it was probably no worse than a piece of paper tearing.

The canvas at the back of the truck flapped as the men started to untie it. I thrust my knife back into its sheath and reached through the slit, grabbing one of the bows that supported the roof. The weakness and pain washed from my muscles in a flood of adrenaline. I heaved myself up through the slit, out of the darkness and rancid stink and into the light and the clean, cold air above.

I heard a heavy metallic clunk: the Peckerwoods were opening the tailgate. I reached back to make sure the slit in the canvas was closed, but I needn’t have bothered. The canvas was stretched so tightly over the bows that formed the roof of the truck that it had sealed itself behind me.

I lay on the roof, panting and trying to hold myself motionless. The bows supporting the canvas held me up—one of them dug into my thighs. My body was probably making a bulge in the truck’s ceiling, but I figured if I didn’t move, the Peckerwoods might not notice.

I rotated my head slowly left and right. I couldn’t see anyone around the truck—I was on my back, roughly in the center of the roof, so my view was blocked. Which was a good thing: If I couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see me.

Boots clanged against the truck floor beneath me. The Peckerwoods’ boisterous chatter was so close, it felt as though I were standing in their midst. I could even hear their grunts and heavy breathing as they unloaded the truck’s horrid cargo.

I twisted my neck, trying to see a way off the truck’s roof. Perhaps I could slide over the front windshield while the Peckerwoods were occupied, but to do that I’d have to turn around. A lump in the canvas ceiling of the truck might not be noticed, but one turning and crawling toward the front surely would be.

I looked up—the prison’s wall loomed above me. It was built of white limestone, carved and ornamented in a gothic style. I’d always assumed a prison would be spare and utilitarian, but Anamosa was fancy—more like a castle than a penitentiary. Tall, narrow windows stretched from the ground floor to the battlements, four or five stories above me. The barred windows were opaque, which was fortunate because no one inside could spot me through the frosted glass.

I could do nothing except wait and pray that I would remain unnoticed. I felt like a mouse hiding in a cat shelter. Each minute crawled past like an hour.

The truck growled back to life. The Peckerwoods withdrew from the load bed beneath me, and the tailgate clanged shut. I drew in a huge lungful of air. The truck lurched forward, and I clung to one of the bows.

The truck turned twice, circling the prison. I thought about jumping off—I sure didn’t want to go back to Cascade. Before I could do anything, we pulled into a huge metal garage.

In the sparse light admitted by the doors, I could see that the building was packed with vehicles. There was a windowed office just inside, but otherwise the garage was one big open space. I scooted to the side of the truck’s roof for a better view.

We pulled up alongside a huge stack of gas cans. Hundreds of red, plastic five-gallon cans were arrayed in layers—each layer separated from the one above with a sheet of plywood.

The truck’s engine cut out, and Ace slid out the driver’s door, slamming it behind him. Someone else was approaching from the direction of the office. I scooted backward on the roof, out of their view.

“Fill ’er up!” Ace roared.

“Five gallons should be plenty to get you back to Cascade,” another voice said.

“Screw that! You wouldn’t be eating tomorrow ’cept for me. Fill it the peck up. All fifty gallons.”

“Can’t spare that much juice.”

“Whaddya mean? You’ve got a few thousand gallons here.”

“I gotta conserve it—there’s no new supply coming in. Every tank in Iowa’s empty now.”

As they continued to bicker, I looked around for a way down. I belly-crawled to the far side of the truck. From there I could see a large work area. A pickup sat in the middle, its hood off and engine suspended on a chain hoist beside it. Two guys were working on the engine. I pushed myself slowly backward, out of their line of sight.

To my right—two guys and the engine. To my left—Ace and the argument over gas. To my rear—a large open space with no cover. To my front—Len, probably still sitting in the passenger seat.

Apparently, I had an unfortunate talent for getting trapped inside cannibals’ garages.