The lights of the Gro-Bain plant flashed past, and then Stott was humming along in the darkness, two walls of corn blurring past on either side, his headlights illuminating a small section of the dusty road. Up ahead it curved, angling lazily toward Medicine Creek. The lights of town lay to the left, a glow in the sky above the corn.
As he rounded the curve the engine clanked again, more ominously than before. And then, with a wheeze and cough, it went dead.
“Shit,” Willie Stott muttered.
The old Hornet glided to a stop along the road. Stott put it in park and turned the key, but there was nothing. The car was dead.
“Shit!” he cried again, slamming the wheel. “Shit, shit,
His voice died away in the confines of the car. Silence and darkness surrounded him. Whatever had happened in his car just now sounded pretty fucking final, and he didn’t even have a flashlight to look under the hood.
He pulled out his flask, opened it, tipped it up, drained the last fiery drop. He licked his lips, turning the bottle over in his hands, staring at it. He didn’t have any more at home.
He flung it out the window into the corn and checked his watch. Twenty minutes until the Wagon Wheel closed. It was about a mile. He could still make it on foot if he walked fast.
Then, hand on the door handle, he paused, thinking about the recent murder, about the unpleasant details the newspaper had hinted at.
Muggy night air flowed in as he opened the door. Christ, twenty minutes to eleven and it was still hot as bejesus. He could smell the corn, the moisture. Crickets chirped in the darkness. Heat lightning flickered on the distant horizon.
He turned back toward the car, wondering if he should put on the emergency blinkers. Then he decided against it. That would just add a dead battery to his problems. Besides, nobody would come along the road until the pre- shift, at seven.
If he was going to get to the Wagon Wheel in time, he’d better get moving.
He walked fast, lanky legs eating up the road. His job at the plant paid seven-fifty an hour. How the hell was he supposed to fix his car on seven-fifty an hour? Ernie would give him a break, but parts cost a fortune. A new starter might be three fifty, four hundred. Two weeks of work. He could hitch a ride to work with Rip. Like last time, he’d have to borrow Jimmy’s car to get home, and then come back at seven to pick him up. Problem was, Jimmy expected him to pay for all the gas during the arrangement, and gas cost a fucking fortune these days.
It wasn’t fair. He was a good worker. He should be paid more. Nine bucks an hour, eight-fifty, at least.
He walked even faster. The warm glow of yellow light in the Wagon Wheel, the long wooden bar, the plaintive jukebox, the bottles and glasses glistening on their shelves before the mirror—the images filled his heart and propelled his legs.
Suddenly he stopped. He thought he’d heard a rustling in the corn to his right.
He waited a moment, listening, but all was silent. The air was dead still. The heat lightning flickered, then flickered again.
He resumed walking, this time moving to the center of the road. All was silent. Some animal, coon probably. Or maybe his imagination.
Again his thoughts turned to the Wagon Wheel. He could see the big friendly form of Swede with his red cheeks and handlebar mustache moving behind the counter: good old Swede, who always had a friendly word for everyone. He imagined Swede setting the little shot glass down in front of him, the generously poured whiskey slopping over the side; he imagined raising it to his lips; he imagined the golden fire making its way down his gullet. Instead of a pint, he’d pay a little more and drink at the bar. Swede would give him a ride home, he was good to his customers. Or maybe he could just rack out in the back room, go on over to Ernie’s first thing in the morning. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d slept one off in the Wagon Wheel. Beat going home to the ball and chain, anyway. He could call her from the bar, make some excuse—
There was that sound in the corn again.
He hesitated only for a moment, then continued walking, his work shoes soft on the warm asphalt. And then he heard the sound again, closer now, close enough to be recognized.
It was the rustle of someone brushing through the dry corn.
He peered to his right, trying to see. But he could only see the tops of the corn against the faint sky. The rest was a wall of darkness.
Then, as he stared, he saw a single cornstalk tremble against the sky.
What was it? Deer? Coyote?
“Hah!” he cried, shooing his hands in the direction of the sound.
His blood froze at the reply. It was a grunt, human yet not human.
“Who the hell is that?”
No sound now.
“Fuck you,” said Stott, quickening his pace and veering to the far side of the road. “I don’t know who the hell you are, but
