Another howl, this one of stark pain, suddenly rang out as the Ripper, pierced through the neck by the tire iron, thrashed violently and bloodily back and forth in a vain attempt to dislodge the steel shaft. But it was no use and, soon enough, as the Kid watched, catching his breath with an eye open for more Rippers, the beast finally coughed horribly before falling over dead.
The Kid almost let out a good loud yell of victory, quite proud of himself, but then decided against it; better to not attract any more attention. Sneering at the dead Ripper, he went over and gave it a hard kick, just to make sure it was good and dead. It most definitely was, so he jerked the tire iron from its neck and wiped away the blood on the wet grass. After another long glare at the beast (which was, he now decided, definitely the biggest he’d ever seen, let alone fought), he shouldered his weapon and, since he was out there in the open, had a look at the prone trio of Big People.
He crawled up to them on all fours, sure they were playing possum and would leap up and grab him any second, but they didn’t so much a bat an eye as he edged up to within a few feet. Once he was up close, he saw that, at least for the moment, the Bigs were no threat to him. He was puzzled, though, as to what was wrong with them. Why did they just lay there? They couldn’t be asleep, not out here in the open. They weren’t dead, as he’d already guessed, because they were still breathing. So… what? The Kid had no frame of reference for such odd behavior.
For a while, he simply crouched and stared at them, marveling at their oddness. For one thing, they were enormous! How did People get so big? Their hands and feet alone, especially in comparison to his own, seemed absurdly large, and their heads, nearly bald by his standards, were as big as good-sized wasp’s nests. Amazing. Plus, they were draped in stuff that he considered eminently impractical. Who could fight all wrapped up in that tight-fitting stuff? And what were those weird things on their feet?
Two of them were alike, furry of face, tall and thin, and vaguely like himself, but the other one was different, and in a way that he somehow knew was profound. This one had weird bumps under its shirt, long hair, no fur on its face, and an overall build much curvier (and somehow appealing) than the others. It even smelled different. Bemused, he cocked his head and wondered about this new variety of Big Person. Why was it so different? Why did it stir these weird feelings in his narrow chest? And how could it possibly smell so wonderfully nice?
Confused and nebulously upset, the Kid shook his head, edged a little closer, and then dared to reach out with the tire iron (the blunt end) and give the nearest one, one of the two bigger ones, a good poke. Nothing. Not so much as a snore. Huh.
Standing up, he scratched his head and stared at them a little longer, but there was just no reason he could think of for what was wrong with them. Finally he gave up, shrugged, and went to skin the Ripper and dispose of the corpse. More for the pit. And either these crazy Bigs would wake up or they wouldn’t; that was how things worked. All he could hope for was that they wouldn’t cause him any more trouble.
Chapter Thirty-Five
She’s an albino crack addict with a sexual perversion. He’s a paraplegic party clown with an eating disorder and three adopted transvestites for sons. Now they have to share an apartment! Can they ever get along, or is homicide in the air? Find out, this season on the new runaway hit reality series, Eye For An Eye!
At first the Hunter was able to tune out the Old Man’s rambling, pointless, wheezing, nasal monologues, but right about the time they crossed the former border between Oklahoma and Kansas, Lampert became quite a bit more demanding. So far all he’d blathered about, despite the recent ugly scene of his being parted from his CDC friends, had been weird, arcane things from the past; TV shows, cinema, popular culture, politics, things like that, all of which meant next to nothing to the Hunter and went in one ear and out the other. He had experience in this, as one of his cellmates, a bank robber named Darrell, had been of a similar nature and he’d learned how to ignore this kind of aimless blather. Now, though, the Old Man had a rather specific request.
“Hey, bullet-head,” he said. “I gotta take a leak. Hear me? I need to pull over and have a piss.”
The Hunter said nothing.
“Yo, screwhead!” said the Old Man, louder and more insistently. “You awake up there? You gone deaf or what? I said I gotta take a leak. Gotta drain the lizard. So unless you want me to piss myself and stink up the car, I recommend you pull this bucket of bolts to the side of the road, undo these restraints, and let me out for a minute.”
The Hunter scowled and cursed himself for not thinking of this before. Of course the old fart had to piss; old people were well-known for incontinence, weren’t they? What had he expected? Angrily, he hit the brakes and brought the car to a halt.
“‘Bout time,” Lampert grumbled.
Moving quickly, the Hunter got out of the car, undid the restraints on the Old Man and then stood back.
“You need help old dude?” he asked, not at all because he wanted to know but rather because he wanted to speed this along. “Want me to untie the nurse here?”
Lampert looked up at him from inside the car and scowled.
“Get bent,” he said defiantly. “Rather piss myself than accept anything from your psycho ass.”
The Hunter shrugged. Suit yourself, he thought. Slowly, like a video in slow motion, Lampert eased his skeletal ass from the back seat and then pulled himself out of the car. After getting his balance (another slo-mo process), the Old Man finally tottered to the side of the blacktop and began his business. More from disgust than propriety, the Hunter turned away and waited, but even after a good minute, there was no sound of pissing.
“What you doin’ old man?” said the Hunter testily. “I thought you had to go.”
“I do!” Lampert snapped. “But I’m workin’ with a 102-year old prostate, here, psycho-boy. OK? Sometimes it takes a while.”
The Hunter grunted and paced back and forth. Finally, a grunt and then a stream of liquid came from the Old Man and, before long, he was done, zipped up, and ready to go.
“OK, ya homicidal weirdo,” he said jauntily. “I’m all done. Although you might wanna check on Barb back there. Be a shame if you have to stop again.”
The Hunter considered. Was the Old Man trying something? Some sort of trick, or was he stalling for time? With a practiced eye, he scanned the horizon, but nothing stirred in the midday heat and there was no sign of trouble. After a moment’s thought, he stuck his head into the car and looked at the nurse.
“You need to piss?” he asked.
The nurse shook her head.
“OK, fine,” said the Hunter, turning to the Old Man. “Now get back in the car, old man.”
Lampert put his skinny arms akimbo and glared back. His eyes, the Hunter now noticed, were an amazing shade of piercing blue, not unlike his own.
“What if I don’t wanna?” Lampert said petulantly. “Huh? What if I don’t wanna go with you? What you gonna do then?”
The Hunter frowned and swore under his breath. Why did this ancient bag of bones have to be so damn difficult? He’d had escaped multiple felons that were easier to deal with! Grimly, he glared back at the Old Man.
“Tie you up and toss you in,” he said flatly. “If I have to.”
“And risk harming precious little old me?” sneered Lampert. “Risk losing whatever reward you’re lookin’ at? By the way, what are you gonna get for me, anyway? Money? Power? Women? Just curious.”