George started walking toward 6. I walked beside him. He hunkered down, took the \valkie out of its holster on his hip, and stirred through the strew of broken Saf-T-Glas with the rubber antenna. Then he picked something up. It was our pal’s cruicifix earring. He must have lost it when he climbed through the broken window.
‘Fuck,’ I said again, but in a lower voice. ‘Where do you think he went?’
‘Well, he’s not in with Shirley, she sounds too chirpy. Which is good. Otherwise? Down the road, up the road, across the road, across the back field and into the woods. One of those.
Take your pick.’ He got up and looked into the empty back seat. ‘This could be bad, Eddie.
This could be a real fuckarow. You know that, don’t you?’
Losing a prisoner was never good, but Brian Lippy wasn’t exactly John Dillinger, and I said so.
George shook his head as if I didn’t get it. ‘We don’t know what he saw. Do we?’
‘Huh?’
‘Maybe nothing,’ he went on, and dragged a shoe through the broken glass. The little pieces clicked and scritched. There were droplets of blood on some of them. ‘Maybe he hightailed it away from the shed. But of course going that way’d take him to the road, and even if he was as high as an elephant’s eye he might not’ve wanted to go that way, in case some cop 20-base should see him — a guy covered with blood, busted glass in his hair — and arrest him all over again.’
I was slow that day and I admit it. Or maybe I was still in shock. ‘I don’t see what you’re —
‘
George was standing with his head down and his arms folded across his chest. He was still dragging his foot back and forth, stirring that broken glass like stew. ‘Me, I’d head for the back field. I’d want to cut around to the highway through the woods, maybe wash up in one of the streams back there, then try to hitch a ride. Only what if I get distracted while I’m making my escape? What if I hear a lot of screaming and thrashing coming from inside that shed?’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Oh my God. You don’t think he’d really stop what he was doing to check on what we. were doing, do you?’
‘Probably not. But is it possible? Hell, yes. Curiosity’s a powerful thing.’
That made me think of what Curt liked to say about the curious cat. ‘Yeah, but who on God’s earth would ever believe him.?’
‘If it ever got into the American, ‘ George said heavily, ‘Ennis’s sister might. And that would be a start. Wouldn’t it?’
‘Shit,’ I said. I thought it over. ‘We better have Shirley put out an all-points on Brian Lippy.’
‘First let’s let folks get the mess in Poteenville picked up a little. Then, when he gets here,
we’ll tell the Sarge everything — including what Lippy might have seen — and show him what’s left in Shed B. If Huddie gets some half-decent pictures . . .’ He glanced back over his shoulder. ‘Say, where is Huddie? He should’ve been out of there by now. Christ, I hope — ‘
He got that far and then Shirley started screaming. ‘Help! Please! Help me! Please, please help me!’
Before either of us could take a step toward the barracks, Mister Dillon came out through the hole he’d already put in the screen door. He was staggering from side to side like a drunk, and his head was down. Smoke was rising from his fur. More seemed to be coming out of his head, although at first I couldn’t see where it was coming from; everywhere was my first impression. He got his forepaws on the first of the three steps going down from the back stoop to the parking lot, then lost his balance and fell on his side. When he did, he twisted his head in a series of jerks. It was the way people move in those oldtime silent movies. I saw smoke coming out of his nostrils in twin streams. It made me think of the woman sitting there in Lippy’s bigfoot truck, the smoke from her cigarette rising in a ribbon that seemed to disappear before it got to the roof. More smoke was coming from his eyes, which had gone a strange, knitted white. He vomited out a spew of smoky blood, half-dissolved tissue, and triangular white things. After a moment or two I realized they were his teeth.
THEN:
Shirley
There was a great confused clatter of radio traffic, but none of it was directed to base. Why would it be, when all the action was either out at Poteenville Grammar School or headed that way? George Stankowski had gotten the kids away from the smoke, at least, I got that.
Poteenville Volunteer One, aided by pumpers from Statler County, were controlling the grassfires around the school. Those fires had indeed been touched off by burning diesel and not some flammable chemical. It was chlorine liquid in the tanker, that was now confirmed.
Not good, but nowhere near as bad as it might have been.
George called to me from outside, wanting to know if I was all right. Thinking that was rather sweet, I called back and told him I was. A second or two later, Eddie called out the f-word, angry. During all this I felt strange, not myself, like someone going through ordinary chores and routines in the wake of some vast change: the death of a friend, bad news from the doctor, a declaration of war.
Mister D was standing in the door to dispatch with his head down, whining at me. I thought the burned patches in his fur were probably paining him. There were more burned places, dottings of them, on both sides of his muzzle. I reminded myself that someone — Orv Garrett was the logical choice — should take him to the vet when things finally settled back down. That would mean making up some sort of story about how he got burned, probably a real whopper.
‘Want some water, big boy?’ I asked. ‘Bet you do, don’t you?’
He whined again, as if to say water was a very good idea. I went into the kitchenette, got his bowl, filled it at the sink. I could hear him clicking along on the lino behind me but I never turned around until I had the bowl full.
‘Here you a — ‘
I got that far, then took a good look at him and dropped the bowl on the floor, splashing my ankles. He was shivering all over — not like he was cold but like someone was passing an electric current through him. And foam was dripping out from both sides of his muzzle.
He’s rabid, I thought. Whatever that thing had, it’s turned D rabid.
He didn’t look rabid, though, only confused and in misery. His eyes seemed to be asking
me to fix whatever was wrong. I was the human, I was in charge, I should be able to fix it.
‘D?’ I said. I dropped down on one knee and held my hand out to him. I know that sounds stupid — dangerous — but at the time it seemed like the right thing. ‘D, what is it? What’s wrong? Poor old thing, what’s wrong?’
He came to me, but very slowly, whining and shivering with every step. When he got close I saw a terrible thing: little tendrils of smoke were coming from the birdshot-spatter of holes on his muzzle. More was coming from the burned patches on his fur, and from the corners of his eyes, as well. I could see his eyes starting to lighten, as if a mist was covering them from the inside.
I reached out and touched the top of his head. When I felt how hot it was, I gave a little yell and yanked my hand back, the way you do when you touch a stove burner you thought was off but isn’t. Mister D made as if to snap at me, but I don’t think he meant anything by it; he just couldn’t think what else to do. Then he turned and blundered his way out of the kitchen.
I got up, and for a moment the whole world swam in front of my eyes. If I hadn’t grabbed the counter, I think I would have fallen. Then I went after him (staggering a little myself) and saying, ‘D? Come back, honeybunch.’
He was halfway across the duty room. He turned once to look back at me — toward the sound of my voice — and I saw . . . oh, I saw smoke coming out of his mouth and nose, out of his ears, too. The sides of his mouth drew back and for a second it seemed like he was trying to grin at me, the way dogs will do when they’re happy. Then he vomited. Most of what came out wasn’t food but his own insides. And they -were smoking.