“There must be some other way in.” Ben began walking along the path that run around the building, his eyes scanning the walls for some hidden entrance.
“These people certainly went to a lot of trouble to make this place look like a house. There’s even a swimming pool. Or what looks like a swimming pool, but it’s just a layer of blue tiles with sheets of glass over the top of it for water.”
Michaela ran her fingers over the window with its painted blue drapes. “From a spy satellite, or if you saw this from a distance, it’s good enough to fool anyone. Look, they’ve even painted a cat in the upstairs window.”
“Now you know why I wanted to show you this. If we can find an entrance…”
“There should be supplies inside. Food, gasoline.”
“There’s probably enough canned and dried food in there to keep us alive and well for- ufff…”
“Greg.” She looked at me in alarm. “What’s the matter?”
I rubbed my stomach. “Get back on the bike, Michaela.”
“You’re getting that thing again, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.” I shot her a grim look. “My God-almighty Twitch. I think the boys are back in the neighborhood.”
As Michaela eased the pump-action shotgun from its holster strapped to the side of the bike, I slipped the rifle from my shoulder and looked ’round. The Twitch came again. Like a pair of tiny fists gripping chords of stomach muscle, then twisting.
“Ben?” I didn’t shout his name; I spoke it softly. “Ben. You there, buddy?”
At that moment he rounded the corner. “Hey, Greg. I couldn’t find an entrance, but I think-” He stopped when he saw me with the rifle. The look that flashed across his face told me he thought I’d got the Twitch when I saw him. “Greg… Greg, I’m all right. Believe me, I’m clean.”
“Ben, I know. Just get back on the bike.”
“But you’ve got the Twitch.”
“Got it sharp, too. Hornets must be close by.”
“Dear God…”
“Don’t start the engine yet.”
“Shit, Greg. We need to get outta here.”
“Believe me, old buddy, we’re going. Like greased lightning.” I slipped onto the seat of the Harley while Ben climbed astride the dirt bike with its big front wheel and tires as knobby as an alligator’s back. “Start the engine on the count of three. OK?” Michaela tightened her grip ’round my waist.
“OK.”
“One-”
“Here they come,” Michaela whispered. “See them?”
“Yup.” I glanced at Ben. “They’re still in the woods but right behind you.”
Color fled Ben’s face. It bleached white as milk.
“Ben. Concentrate, buddy. One, two, three. Now!”
I thumbed the START button. First time; the Harley’s engine purred like a big cat. Ben put his foot on the kick start, then bore down on it. I heard nothing, but the expression on Ben’s face said it all.
No go.
Thirty-two
Ben stamped hard on the kick start. Still nothing. I drew the bolt on the rifle.
Shit. There was no point in popping at the hornets. There were maybe thirty of them. I had five rounds in the rifle. If they charged we’d be mauled. Michaela, still sitting tight behind me, chambered a round into the shotgun.
“Hold your fire,” I breathed. “They’re not in a hurry yet.”
Hornets filtered through the trees at nothing more than a stroll. So, OK, their eyes locked onto us with a burning intensity that made you shudder to the roots of your bones. But they were taking it slow. They were cunning creatures. While those had let themselves be seen there might be more working their way ’round the other side of that fake house.
They grew nearer. Now I could see the features of our would-be killers. Their hair fell in straggling locks, looking more like a head full of snakes than real hair. Probably crawling with lice, too. One guy had been in a fight with a wild dog or even a bear. His face looked like a ripped backside. A gash had opened up the side of his face, exposing both rows of teeth almost as far as his ear. One eye had gone, too. The empty socket looked like a bullet hole. But it hadn’t bothered him. The wound gave his face a distorted grin. The single eye glared at me so ferociously I recalled the phrase Mom was so fond of using: If looks could kill…
I glanced back at Ben, who still worked the kick start. His face had a shiny glaze of perspiration on the skin now. “Have you flooded it, Ben?”
“No! I… I don’t know.”
“If it’s flooded you can’t start it like that.”
“Hell, Greg! What do you suggest?” Panic bit into his voice.
“Wait… give it a few seconds.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me!”
“No. Leave it alone. Let the gas evaporate.”
“Greg.” Michaela’s voice came calm but forceful.
“Greg. We’ve got to get away from here.”
“I know; just give it a few seconds.”
“Well, I reckon we’ve got around twenty seconds before they reach us.”
She lifted the shotgun, aiming it at the one-eyed guy as he slowly emerged as Mr. Nightmare Man himself from the forest. Then in a flat voice she said, “Fifteen seconds, fourteen, thirteen…”
I looked at Ben; he’d put his foot onto the kick-start pedal. He was going for it again.
“Not yet, Ben. Wait.”
“Jesus, it’s easy for you to say.” He jerked his head ’round to stare in horror at the evil-looking bunch oozing from the forest. I aimed the rifle, too.
And, yeah, if it was you or me seeing someone point a gun at your heart, it would either stop you dead or send you running in the opposite direction. Not these damn guys. They didn’t even see the guns. At least it seemed that way. You could fire bullets so near their heads it shaved hair from their skulls but it didn’t faze them. They’d keep on coming toward you. You needed to put a shell in their head or their gut before they’d take notice.
And if they came that bit closer that’s what we’d need to do.
“Ben,” Michaela said, “if the bike doesn’t fire next time, jump up here behind me. This thing can carry three.”
White-faced, he nodded. I saw sweat drip from the end of his chin.
Michaela counted down as the hornets approached. “Ten second, nine seconds. They’re getting close, Greg.”
I saw most of them gripped iron bars or hunks of tree branch in their fists. They raised them.
“Eight seconds.”
“OK, Ben. Now!”
He lifted himself up, then bore down with his foot on the kick start.
Glory days!
The motor uttered a mushy-sounding cough. Un-burned gas sprayed from the muffler to wet the path.
But thank Christ and all His shining angels, there was goddam blue smoke, too. Ben throttled up, and the mushy cough morphed into a crackling roar. He rocked the bike off the stand to blast away across the astroturf and onto the drive. A shower of fake grass settled on my arms. Hell, even the devil couldn’t catch up with Ben now. There was nothing but blue haze on the driveway where he’d been.
Michaela’s arm encircled my waist, holding tight. In the rearview mirror I saw she was looking back, aiming
