He didn’t want to even think about what they’d all be eating in a week. From what Duck had heard, there was food in the fields, but no one wanted to pick it if there were zekes. He shuddered at the thought.
But he supposed he could spare the hot dog relish. Not exactly something good for you, but Hunter had sounded pretty desperate. And nowadays everyone was eating things that would have made them gag before.
Duck had a sudden vision of actual hot dogs. The real thing, steaming hot, nestled in a tender white bun.
Duck’s aunt was from Chicago. She had taught him about genuine Chicago hot dogs with, what was it? Seven toppings? He wondered if he could remember them all.
Mustard. Relish. Onions. Tomatoes.
His mouth was watering at the thought. But then his mouth would have watered at the idea of a real hot dog topped with Brussels sprouts.
He made up his mind. It wasn’t about freaks versus normals. It was about whether he could just leave Hunter out there cowering all through the night.
No. He’d bring him the relish and then, if Hunter needed a place to hide, he’d let him stay in the basement here at the house.
Duck slipped the relish into the pocket of his jacket and headed with great reluctance back into the night.
It took only a few minutes to reach the church.
“Hunter. Yo, Hunter,” he called in a hoarse whisper.
Nothing.
Great. Perfect. He was being punked after all.
He turned and started to walk away. But around the corner came a group of seven, maybe eight kids. It took him only a second to spot the baseball bats.
Zil was in the lead.
“There’s one!” Zil shouted, and before Duck could even react the seven boys were rushing him.
“What’s up?” Duck asked.
The boys surrounded him. There was no denying their menacing attitude, but Duck was determined not to give them an excuse to start swinging.
“What’s up?” Zil mocked. “The Human Drill wants to know what’s up.” He gave Duck a shove. “One of your kind killed my best friend, that’s what’s up.”
“We’re sick of it,” another boy chimed in.
Various voices muttered agreement.
“Guys, I didn’t hurt anyone,” Duck said. “I’m just . . .”
He didn’t know what he was just. The hostile eyes around him narrowed.
“Just what, freak?” Zil demanded.
“Walking, man. Anything wrong with that?”
“We’re looking for Hunter,” Hank said.
“We’re going to kick his butt.”
“Yeah. Maybe rearrange his nose,” Antoine said. “Like maybe it would look better sticking out the side of his face.”
They laughed.
“Hunter?” Duck said, working to sound innocent.
“Yeah. Mr. Microwave. Killer chud.”
Duck shrugged. “I haven’t seen him, man.”
“What’s that in your pocket there?” Zil demanded. “He’s got something in his pocket.”
“What? Oh, it’s nothing. It’s—”
The baseball bat swung with unerring accuracy. Duck felt the blow on his hip where the relish hung in his jacket pocket. The soggy sound of wet glass shattering.
“Hey!” Duck yelled.
He started to push his way through them, but his feet wouldn’t move. He looked down, uncomprehending, and saw that he had sunk up to his ankles in the sidewalk.
“Okay, stop making me mad,” he cried desperately.
“Stop making me mad,” Zil repeated in a taunting, singsong voice.
“Hey, man, he’s sinking!” one of them yelled.
Duck was up to mid-calf. Trapped. He met Zil’s contemptuous gaze and pleaded, “Come on, man, why are you picking on me?”
“Because you’re a subhuman moof,” Zil said, adding, “duh.”
“You want Hunter, right?” Duck asked. “He’s in there, man, behind all this stuff.”
“Is that so?” Zil said. He nodded to his gang, and all together they climbed into the rubble in search of their true prey. Someone, Duck didn’t see who, smashed the stained glass fragment with his bat.
Duck took a deep breath. “Happy thoughts, happy thoughts,” he whispered. He had stopped sinking, but he was still trapped. He squirmed his foot this way and that. Finally he pulled one foot free—minus the shoe. The other foot came out easier, and he managed to keep the shoe.
Duck took off at a run.
“Hey, get back here!”
“He lied, man, Hunter’s not here!”
“Get him!”
Duck ran all-out, yelling, “Happy thoughts, happy thoughts, ah hah hah hah!” desperate to keep anger at bay, forcing his mouth into a grin.
He made it across the street. He was well out in front of the mob, but not far enough ahead that he would be able to get inside his house and lock the door before they caught him.
“Help! Someone help me!” he cried.
His next step landed hard.
The step after that broke the curb.
The third step plowed down through the sidewalk and he fell hard.
His chin hit concrete and crunched through it like a rock through glass.
He was falling into the earth again. Only this time he was facedown.
Zil and the others immediately surrounded him. A blow landed on his back. Another on his behind. Neither blow hurt. It was like they were hitting him with straws rather than bats. Then they could no longer reach him because he had fallen all the way through the cement and was sinking through the dirt.
But he supposed he could spare the hot dog relish. Not exactly something good for you, but Hunter had sounded pretty desperate. And nowadays everyone was eating things that would have made them gag before.
Duck had a sudden vision of actual hot dogs. The real thing, steaming hot, nestled in a tender white bun.
Duck’s aunt was from Chicago. She had taught him about genuine Chicago hot dogs with, what was it? Seven toppings? He wondered if he could remember them all.
Mustard. Relish. Onions. Tomatoes.
His mouth was watering at the thought. But then his mouth would have watered at the idea of a real hot dog topped with Brussels sprouts.
He made up his mind. It wasn’t about freaks versus normals. It was about whether he could just leave Hunter out there cowering all through the night.
No. He’d bring him the relish and then, if Hunter needed a place to hide, he’d let him stay in the basement here at the house.
Duck slipped the relish into the pocket of his jacket and headed with great reluctance back into the night.
It took only a few minutes to reach the church.
“Hunter. Yo, Hunter,” he called in a hoarse whisper.
Nothing.
Great. Perfect. He was being punked after all.
He turned and started to walk away. But around the corner came a group of seven, maybe eight kids. It took him only a second to spot the baseball bats.
Zil was in the lead.
“There’s one!” Zil shouted, and before Duck could even react the seven boys were rushing him.
“What’s up?” Duck asked.
The boys surrounded him. There was no denying their menacing attitude, but Duck was determined not to give them an excuse to start swinging.
“What’s up?” Zil mocked. “The Human Drill wants to know what’s up.” He gave Duck a shove. “One of your kind killed my best friend, that’s what’s up.”
“We’re sick of it,” another boy chimed in.
Various voices muttered agreement.
“Guys, I didn’t hurt anyone,” Duck said. “I’m just . . .”
He didn’t know what he was just. The hostile eyes around him narrowed.
“Just what, freak?” Zil demanded.
“Walking, man. Anything wrong with that?”
“We’re looking for Hunter,” Hank said.
“We’re going to kick his butt.”
“Yeah. Maybe rearrange his nose,” Antoine said. “Like maybe it would look better sticking out the side of his face.”
They laughed.
“Hunter?” Duck said, working to sound innocent.
“Yeah. Mr. Microwave. Killer chud.”
Duck shrugged. “I haven’t seen him, man.”
“What’s that in your pocket there?” Zil demanded. “He’s got something in his pocket.”
“What? Oh, it’s nothing. It’s—”
The baseball bat swung with unerring accuracy. Duck felt the blow on his hip where the relish hung in his jacket pocket. The soggy sound of wet glass shattering.
“Hey!” Duck yelled.
He started to push his way through them, but his feet wouldn’t move. He looked down, uncomprehending, and saw that he had sunk up to his ankles in the sidewalk.
“Okay, stop making me mad,” he cried desperately.
“Stop making me mad,” Zil repeated in a taunting, singsong voice.
“Hey, man, he’s sinking!” one of them yelled.
Duck was up to mid-calf. Trapped. He met Zil’s contemptuous gaze and pleaded, “Come on, man, why are you picking on me?”
“Because you’re a subhuman moof,” Zil said, adding, “duh.”
“You want Hunter, right?” Duck asked. “He’s in there, man, behind all this stuff.”
“Is that so?” Zil said. He nodded to his gang, and all together they climbed into the rubble in search of their true prey. Someone, Duck didn’t see who, smashed the stained glass fragment with his bat.
Duck took a deep breath. “Happy thoughts, happy thoughts,” he whispered. He had stopped sinking, but he was still trapped. He squirmed his foot this way and that. Finally he pulled one foot free—minus the shoe. The other foot came out easier, and he managed to keep the shoe.
Duck took off at a run.
“Hey, get back here!”
“He lied, man, Hunter’s not here!”
“Get him!”
Duck ran all-out, yelling, “Happy thoughts, happy thoughts, ah hah hah hah!” desperate to keep anger at bay, forcing his mouth into a grin.
He made it across the street. He was well out in front of the mob, but not far enough ahead that he would be able to get inside his house and lock the door before they caught him.
“Help! Someone help me!” he cried.
His next step landed hard.
The step after that broke the curb.
The third step plowed down through the sidewalk and he fell hard.
His chin hit concrete and crunched through it like a rock through glass.
He was falling into the earth again. Only this time he was facedown.
Zil and the others immediately surrounded him. A blow landed on his back. Another on his behind. Neither blow hurt. It was like they were hitting him with straws rather than bats. Then they could no longer reach him because he had fallen all the way through the cement and was sinking through the dirt.
