Which he had probably done. Not Ms. Cooper. Out of curiosity he had squeezed out the contents of her large intestine, and could see that she had been a meat-eater. Too little fiber in her diet. It would have killed her one day, much more slowly.
What had he lived on before he came to Earth? His dentition was similar to a human’s, though presumably a dentist could tell he was different. He could crack bones with his molars, and his jaws were strong enough to tear apart humans and other animals. Clothing was sometimes too durable; he could break a tooth on a zipper or bra clasp. Though it was peculiarly satisfying to tear into people through their clothing, and it made the remains look more like an animal attack.
But his little talks with them were probably more interesting when they were naked. They were more frightened, which made them taste better. He knew the Chinese would beat dogs before they butchered them, partly to tenderize the muscle, but also for the endocrine tang of fear. When he had taken humans by surprise, killed them without warning, their flesh had been relatively bland. Much better to play with them for a while, and let ductless glands work their magic. The taste of hope, and the loss of hope.
Thinking made him hungry. In the back of the refrigerator he had a pair of hands in a large jar of dill pickle juice. He fished one out and had it with bread and butter, gnawing around the small female bones. Then he threw the bones into the stockpot simmering on the stove.
That pot had enough evidence to hang him four times over, in this state. He would ask that they do it without the hood. He wanted to see their faces when he plunged through the trapdoor and hung there alive, smiling, at the end of the tether.
He grinned and picked bits of Ms. Cooper from between his teeth.
5.
Kit quietly closed the top of the computer. “Maybe let’s not have breakfast.”
“Oh, come on. It’s not that bad.”
“Okay. Just don’t order a hand sandwich.”
“Or finger food?”
“Seriously… don’t tell me that scene’s going to be in the movie.”
“I guess not,” I admitted. “Wrong genre. No chainsaws or goalie masks. But the book has to go a little further than the movie.”
“So what does he eat in the movie?”
“Well… that particular scene isn’t in it. Later on, he ladles a spoonful of broth and sips it.”
She smiled. “That’s a distinction. You’re grosser than Ron Duquest.”
I shrugged. “Different medium. Besides, you want to be over the top on the first draft. Easier to cut stuff than to add it.”
She nodded microscopically, not looking at me. “Yeah, you explained that.”
Storm signals. “It bothers you that I would even think of such horrible things.”
She didn’t say anything for a couple of seconds, lower lip between her teeth. “Really, it’s all right. You’ve seen worse, I keep forgetting.”
I tried not to think of yards of intestine unspooled across a dusty road, the owner festering in a ditch, arms wide in dumb supplication. Why was that so close to the surface?
She put her hand over mine. “If you want to talk about it, we could.”
Actually, we couldn’t. There was no vocabulary. Smell, heat, pain, always the edge of nausea. Just the smell of diesel exhaust made me clench my teeth. The somatic memory of it back behind the sinuses, shit burning in diesel, rot, the buzz of fat flies. Mud spatter, blood soaking desert sand. The guy had looked like a Matthew Brady daguerreotype, mouth open in dark bloated features. The second dead man I had seen, but the first had only been a dusty bundle.
“Honey? You want to lie down?”
Actually, I wanted a drink. But maybe I’d better not say that. “Naw. Get some chow.”
She smiled. “Okay, soldier. Make a mile first?”
“Check the map.” I unfolded it and found our motel. There was the Burger King across the way, but nothing else on the map for about twenty miles. “Let’s see what they’ve got across the street.”
“If it’s hands, we go someplace else.”
“Deal.” We rolled up yesterday’s clothes and repacked the bikes in about a minute. The air was cool and clean, and if it had been just me I would have gone on down the road. But if she doesn’t have breakfast she turns into something dangerous, so we crossed to the Monarch of Mediocrity.
In truth, Burger King wasn’t half as bad as McDonald’s. I got three little hamburgers and fries while she had some egg thing. On impulse I asked for a salad. The high-school girl behind the counter acted like I had asked for a human hand. Would you like guts with that? She wrinkled her nose and said it was breakfast time. Hamburgers, sure. Salad, no.
There’s something weirdly satisfying about hamburgers for breakfast. Some would disagree. Kit made a face when I squirted mustard and catsup on them. “Caveman,” she said.
“Og like meat. Meat with blood and the yellow stuff.”
“Your internal clock is off. Hamburgers and fries?”
“I suppose.” Actually, she knew I didn’t like regular breakfasts unless I fixed them myself. Eggs completely dead, no evidence of their actual origin… which isn’t all that appetizing, if you think about it. Og not eat that. It come from bird’s asshole. Cloaca. Same difference. An asshole by any other name, the poet said, would smell just as sweet.
The sun was still low behind us when we took off down the service road that paralleled 90. Not much traffic, no wind or weather. It would be a great vacation if we were on vacation. Riding alongside quiet bayous, wading birds oblivious to us, stalking breakfast.
But I couldn’t not think.
How deep shit were we in, and with whom?
Besides the Enemy, we were in at least shallow shit with the forces for good in the universe, Agent Underwood and her ilk. Presumably they would understand why we had dropped out of sight.
Kit was reading my mind. “Should we let somebody know where we are?”
“Maybe. Who would be safe?”
“God knows. If they’re tapping phones, they probably have our parents covered, and your agent. But you say they can’t tap a random phone from the 7-Eleven?”
“No way. Not unless they had possession of it first, got at its software.”
“So why did you destroy that one this morning?”
“Just caution.” I was on shaky ground—I’d researched it for High Kill, but that was four or five years ago. “They couldn’t tap the phone, but maybe they could track it. Given the information they could pick up from our parents’ phones.”
“Think so?”
“Well… at the very least, they could call us back and as soon as we answer, they know where we are.” Or where the nearest booster antenna is? “Wish I’d taken some engineering courses.”
“Me, too,” she said. “Amazing how little help quantum electrodynamics is in real life.”
We switched places; my turn to lead. I preferred following, since all I had to do then was keep an eye out for her and drop back when she came into view. I was a stronger cyclist, so if I was in front I tended to pull away steadily, especially if there were hills—power up and streak down. On the level like this, I had to keep an eye on the speedometer, keep it below thirteen or fourteen miles per hour.
If it were only about logic, it would be sensible for her to lead all the time. We found out in a couple of hours that that didn’t work; she pushed herself, trying to stay in my comfort range, and was dead tired by noon. Whether that was competitive or accommodating, I wasn’t sure.