“The jerky,” Zil said. “You called me jerkwad. Then you said ‘beef.’ So stop trying to be clever. You know exactly what it was, because you stole it. I had a piece of beef jerky.”
“That’s what this is about?” Hunter was incredulous. “First off, why were you holding out on us, man? I thought we shared—”
“Shut up, you mutant freak of nature,” Zil shouted. “I don’t share anything with you. I might share stuff with humans, but not with chuds.”
They’d had disagreements before. Even arguments. And this was not the first time Zil had harped on Hunter’s powers. But this was more intense, and now it was starting to seem like a fight they’d managed to sidestep in the past was now unavoidable. The question in Hunter’s mind was, could he win? Zil was bigger and stronger. But if there had to be a fight, then, okay, Hunter would have that fight. He couldn’t back down.
“Step back, Zil,” Hunter warned.
“Shut your fat mutant face, you subhuman chud freak,” Zil shot back. He balled his fists, tense, ready.
“Last chance,” Hunter warned.
Zil hesitated, but only for a second. He spun and grabbed a long, bronze poker from in front of the fireplace.
Hunter recoiled in shock. Zil could kill him with the poker. This wasn’t just a fistfight.
He raised his hands, palms out.
Harry moved with surprising speed, trying to get between the two of them, trying to calm them down, maybe, or maybe just get out of the way
Then Harry screamed.
He clawed at his neck.
He turned, slowly, and stared in horror at Hunter. Harry’s glasses slid off the end of his nose. His eyes rolled up in his head, and he crumpled to the floor.
Hunter and Zil both froze. They looked down at Harry.
“What happened?” Zil asked. “What did you do to him?”
Hunter shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing, man, I didn’t do anything.”
Zil dropped to his knees and touched Harry’s neck. “It’s hot. His skin is hot.”
Hunter backed away. “I didn’t do anything, man.”
“You freak! You murdering freak! You killed him.”
“He’s not dead, he’s breathing,” Hunter protested. “I didn’t mean to . . . He jumped between us—”
“It was me you were trying to kill,” Zil yelled.
“You were going to hit me with that poker!”
“What did you do, man? Did you turn on your magic microwave hands and fry his brains?”
Hunter was looking at his own palms, appalled, not wanting it to be true, needing for it not to be true. He hadn’t meant . . . Harry had been his friend . . .
“Oh, my God, you murdering mutant freak!”
“I’ll get Lana. She’ll save him,” Hunter said. “He’ll be okay. He’ll be fine.”
But as he watched, a massive blister was forming on the back of Harry’s neck, right at the base of his skull. The blister was six inches across, as big as an orange, a hairy sac full of liquid.
Hunter ran from the room. His former friend’s shouted accusations followed him: “Murdering freak! Murdering freak!”
Sam was asleep in the extra bedroom at Astrid’s house. He heard the sound of someone vomiting in the adjoining bathroom.
He was beyond weary, but nevertheless he dragged himself up out of bed, grabbed a T-shirt, and tapped at the bathroom door. “Hey,” he said.
“What?” Mary’s voice, shaky.
“You okay?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did I wake you up?”
“Sounded like you were ralphing. Are you sick?”
“No. No, I’m fine.”
He could have sworn he heard a sob in her voice, a catch. “You sure?”
Her voice steadied. “Yeah, I’m fine, Sam. Go back to sleep. Sorry I woke you.”
Sam thought that was a good suggestion. He climbed back into bed and arranged the pillows the way he liked them. He stared at the clock. Midnight. He closed his eyes. But he knew that sleep wasn’t coming back anytime soon. Instead there came a rushing freight train loaded with worries and fragments of worries. And his old friend, hunger. It was hard to fall asleep when your stomach was twisting into knots.
He heard the toilet flush and the bathroom light went off.
What if Mary was sick? Who could he get to take over running the day care? Astrid had to deal with Little Pete, so it couldn’t be her. He started running down the list of people he could trust to behave in a mature fashion and cope.
The only kids he could think of to take over for Mary would probably just do the job so they could get into the day care’s oatmeal supplies.
He’d been dreaming, he realized. Junior Mints. He’d been dreaming about . . .
. . . Junior Mints.
That was it, the thing nagging at the edge of his consciousness. Junior Mints.
“I’m going nuts from hunger, that’s what it is, I’m slowly but surely going nuts.”
He forced his eyes closed, but the nagging in the back of his head was yammering louder now, not letting go, demanding attention.
Alton and Dalton fighting over whom they belonged to. Who had taken them.
Did it ever occur to you it might be one of the other kids standing guard?
No. Heather B and Mike J were at the guardhouse. And Josh was asleep the whole time.
What do you mean Josh was asleep?
Junior Mints. The map with the power plant at its center. The memory of the day of the battle.
“That’s what this is about?” Hunter was incredulous. “First off, why were you holding out on us, man? I thought we shared—”
“Shut up, you mutant freak of nature,” Zil shouted. “I don’t share anything with you. I might share stuff with humans, but not with chuds.”
They’d had disagreements before. Even arguments. And this was not the first time Zil had harped on Hunter’s powers. But this was more intense, and now it was starting to seem like a fight they’d managed to sidestep in the past was now unavoidable. The question in Hunter’s mind was, could he win? Zil was bigger and stronger. But if there had to be a fight, then, okay, Hunter would have that fight. He couldn’t back down.
“Step back, Zil,” Hunter warned.
“Shut your fat mutant face, you subhuman chud freak,” Zil shot back. He balled his fists, tense, ready.
“Last chance,” Hunter warned.
Zil hesitated, but only for a second. He spun and grabbed a long, bronze poker from in front of the fireplace.
Hunter recoiled in shock. Zil could kill him with the poker. This wasn’t just a fistfight.
He raised his hands, palms out.
Harry moved with surprising speed, trying to get between the two of them, trying to calm them down, maybe, or maybe just get out of the way
Then Harry screamed.
He clawed at his neck.
He turned, slowly, and stared in horror at Hunter. Harry’s glasses slid off the end of his nose. His eyes rolled up in his head, and he crumpled to the floor.
Hunter and Zil both froze. They looked down at Harry.
“What happened?” Zil asked. “What did you do to him?”
Hunter shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing, man, I didn’t do anything.”
Zil dropped to his knees and touched Harry’s neck. “It’s hot. His skin is hot.”
Hunter backed away. “I didn’t do anything, man.”
“You freak! You murdering freak! You killed him.”
“He’s not dead, he’s breathing,” Hunter protested. “I didn’t mean to . . . He jumped between us—”
“It was me you were trying to kill,” Zil yelled.
“You were going to hit me with that poker!”
“What did you do, man? Did you turn on your magic microwave hands and fry his brains?”
Hunter was looking at his own palms, appalled, not wanting it to be true, needing for it not to be true. He hadn’t meant . . . Harry had been his friend . . .
“Oh, my God, you murdering mutant freak!”
“I’ll get Lana. She’ll save him,” Hunter said. “He’ll be okay. He’ll be fine.”
But as he watched, a massive blister was forming on the back of Harry’s neck, right at the base of his skull. The blister was six inches across, as big as an orange, a hairy sac full of liquid.
Hunter ran from the room. His former friend’s shouted accusations followed him: “Murdering freak! Murdering freak!”
Sam was asleep in the extra bedroom at Astrid’s house. He heard the sound of someone vomiting in the adjoining bathroom.
He was beyond weary, but nevertheless he dragged himself up out of bed, grabbed a T-shirt, and tapped at the bathroom door. “Hey,” he said.
“What?” Mary’s voice, shaky.
“You okay?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did I wake you up?”
“Sounded like you were ralphing. Are you sick?”
“No. No, I’m fine.”
He could have sworn he heard a sob in her voice, a catch. “You sure?”
Her voice steadied. “Yeah, I’m fine, Sam. Go back to sleep. Sorry I woke you.”
Sam thought that was a good suggestion. He climbed back into bed and arranged the pillows the way he liked them. He stared at the clock. Midnight. He closed his eyes. But he knew that sleep wasn’t coming back anytime soon. Instead there came a rushing freight train loaded with worries and fragments of worries. And his old friend, hunger. It was hard to fall asleep when your stomach was twisting into knots.
He heard the toilet flush and the bathroom light went off.
What if Mary was sick? Who could he get to take over running the day care? Astrid had to deal with Little Pete, so it couldn’t be her. He started running down the list of people he could trust to behave in a mature fashion and cope.
The only kids he could think of to take over for Mary would probably just do the job so they could get into the day care’s oatmeal supplies.
He’d been dreaming, he realized. Junior Mints. He’d been dreaming about . . .
. . . Junior Mints.
That was it, the thing nagging at the edge of his consciousness. Junior Mints.
“I’m going nuts from hunger, that’s what it is, I’m slowly but surely going nuts.”
He forced his eyes closed, but the nagging in the back of his head was yammering louder now, not letting go, demanding attention.
Alton and Dalton fighting over whom they belonged to. Who had taken them.
Did it ever occur to you it might be one of the other kids standing guard?
No. Heather B and Mike J were at the guardhouse. And Josh was asleep the whole time.
What do you mean Josh was asleep?
Junior Mints. The map with the power plant at its center. The memory of the day of the battle.
