“A tunnel?” Justin shook his head. “Is that so remarkable?”
“No, wait,” said Bowler, “I ain’t told y’all the really weird part. See, there was the tunnel, OK, but there was also somethin’ down there. Somethin’ alive. I got no idea what, cause I climbed outta there fast as I could, but yeah, it was somethin’ living, you know?”
“Like what?” asked Justin. “An animal?”
“I dunno,” said Bowler, face scrunched in concentration. “It was weird, like it was a man, a human, ‘cept that it had extra arms or something.”
“What?” Erin said incredulously. “What’s that mean? Extra arms?”
“Now, take it easy,” said Justin, waving. “Let’s slow down and take this from the beginning.”
As he questioned Bowler more closely, the Kid slowly, warily made his way out of the shed and sidled up to them. Justin stopped talking then, as the Kid suddenly, eyes wide and fearful, backed away from them. Holding his nose disgustedly, he pointed urgently at Bowler, grimaced, made some grunting noises, and shook his furry head.
“Now what?” said Erin.
“Yeah, what’s his problem?” asked Bowler, looking down at himself.
“He smells something,” said Justin. “Something he obviously doesn’t like.”
“Yeah, well,” said Bowler hotly, “he ain’t one to talk, now is he?! Fuck, just look at him! He reeks! Crazy little bastard.”
“No, not that,” said Justin. “I mean that you must have picked up the scent of this tunnel of yours. And our little friend here isn’t too fond of it.”
“Oh, I getcha…” said Bowler. He plucked at his tattered flannel shirt and sniffed it. “But I don’t smell anything, do you?”
“Well, no,” said Justin. “But obviously he does. At any rate, I think maybe we should just avoid this whole thing. Chances are, it was just an animal you saw and I see no need to go poking around in some decrepit old tunnel, so let’s just give it a wide berth.”
“Fine with me,” shrugged Bowler. “Just thought it was weird was all.”
“Yes, well,” said Justin, “there are a great many weird things to be found nowadays, aren’t there?”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
He’s a zombie and he’s a pizza delivery boy! And his boss is always mad; will he ever get it right? And he’s gay! Don’t miss the new season of That’s My Zombie, on UZS network, Thursday nights at 8:00, 7:00 central!
They had been back on the road for only about an hour when the car’s rad detector began to twitch. At first the Hunter wasn’t concerned; he’d gotten used to low levels of stray radiation. But then, when the thing jumped to its midpoint, indicating a pretty hefty dose, he knew that what he’d feared had mostly likely come to pass: Wolf Creek One had burst its containment. He slowed the car to a crawl, hoping the detector would calm down, but instead it notched up, first a tick and then another, and he slammed on the brakes and brought the car to a halt. For a moment, he waited and watched for any change.
“Whatcha doin’?” asked Lampert, peering over at the dashboard. “What’s that doohickey? Hey, wait—ain’t that the Geiger counter?”
“Yup,” said the Hunter.
“Well, uh, I’m no expert, mister, but ain’t that a tad on the high side? It does say danger there, and the gauge is all red and shit.”
The Hunter glanced over at Lampert and scowled. Angrily, he cranked the wheel, turned the car in a tight u-turn, and headed back the way they’d come.
“So now what?” asked Lampert, as they watched the rad detector slowly drop. “You gotta take a detour now, huh?”
The Hunter didn’t bother to answer. Once they’d traveled back far enough for the rad meter to level off, he pulled the car over, turned it off, and got out. For a while he paced back and forth on the sun-baked, weed-eaten highway and cursed his luck. This meant going a hell of a long way out of his way, on roads with which he wasn’t familiar, and through country he’d heard was as hostile and gang-ridden as any there was. And with that yappy old fart flapping his gums the whole way. All in all, not the skate of a trip he’d envisioned. Still, there was nothing for it but to get on with it, so he spat a final curse, dug out his weather-beaten AAA map, and spread it on the hood of the car.
For a long while, he traced various lines with a finger and muttered to himself. This way would avoid that hazard, but that way was shorter. Finally, satisfied that he knew where he was going, at least for the day, he carefully refolded the precious map and tucked it into a pocket in his nano-suit. Then he got back behind the wheel and, ignoring the Old Man’s questions, got back underway.
They’d been rolling along for about another hour, the car at its annoyingly pokey top speed of about 35 MPH, when Lampert quit blabbering about how much he liked some ancient 2D TV show called Futurama and announced that he had to piss. Again. But this time, the Hunter was ready for him.
“Use the bottle,” he said, jerking his head toward the back seat.
“What bottle?” said Lampert. “You expect me to piss in a fucking bottle?”
“Yeah,” the Hunter said. “What, ain’t you ever been on a road trip before? Now crawl on back there and get on with it. Or you can wait.”
“Or piss myself.”
“Guess so,” shrugged the Hunter. “Yer choice.”
With much grumbling and ado, the Old Man clambered into the back seat. This would not have been terribly difficult for any able-bodied person, as the interior of the car was designed to allow this sort of movement, but for Lampert it was practically an Olympic Event. Finally, though, after a lot of grousing and banging around, he made it to the back seat and went about his business. As best he could, given the horrible condition of the side road he’d been forced to use, the Hunter kept watch in the rearview mirror. After nearly ten minutes, with Lampert still in the back and apparently finished, he grew impatient.
“You done old dude?” he asked.
“Guess so,” said Lampert. “Hard to tell sometimes with these old pipes.”
“Well get yer ass back up here. Now.”
“Yeah, alright,” said the Old Man crankily. “I’m comin’. Damn maniac, makin’ me pee in a fuckin’ bottle.”
And on and on in a similar vein, climbing back into the front. Finally resettled, he went back to staring out the window. The Hunter drove on.
About midday they came to a washed-out culvert, where a storm sewer had collapsed, and were again forced to stop. Getting out, he walked over and surveyed the damage. It didn’t look too bad if he could find some tree limbs or boards or something. Nodding to himself, he went back to the car, kicking grasshoppers through the weeds, and stuck his head inside.
“I got some work to do,” he said. “So I’m gonna let you out ‘til I’m done. No bullshit and nobody gets hurt. Got it?”
The nurse nodded solemnly. Lampert just waved and made snotty comments. First the Hunter went over and freed Lampert. Then, climbing into the back, he went to undo the nurse’s restraints. And just then, as he was getting out of the car, the Old Man suddenly gave a groan and pitched, more or less headfirst, onto the ground.
“Urrrghh,” he moaned, writhing weakly. “I think it’s my ticker.”
Concerned but still wary, the Hunter went quickly back to the other side of the car and stooped down over the Old Man.
“What’s wrong old dude?” he said. “You sick or somethin’?”
Just then he caught something in his peripheral vision and his entire being went into survival mode, but it was too late; the nurse was, despite her size, too quick for him and he’d been far too distracted. Snake-like, she stabbed him in the back of the neck with a hypodermic and then, before he could grab her or get out a weapon, scampered away into the bushes.