fearsome, especially when encountered in significant numbers, they
aren’t so formidable that only silver bullets or kryptonite will kill
them.
On the sidewalk, Curious George sat on his haunches, wrapped his long
arms around his torso as if comforting himself, and peered up at the
moon once more. He gazed heavenward so long that he seemed to have
forgotten the bungalow.
After a while, I consulted my wristwatch. I was worried that I would be
trapped here, unable to meet Bobby at the movie theater.
He was also in danger of blundering into the troop. Even a man as
resourceful as Bobby Halloway would not prevail if he had to face them
alone.
If the monkeys didn’t move on soon, I’d have to risk a call to Bobby’s
mobile number to warn him. I wasn’t happy about the electronic tone that
would sound when I switched on my cell phone. In the hush of Dead Town,
that pure note would resonate like a monk breaking wind in a monastery
where everyone had taken a vow of silence.
Finally, Curious George finished contemplating the medallion moon,
lowered his face, and rose to his feet. He stretched his shaggy arms,
shook his head, and scampered back toward the street.
Just as I let out a sigh of relief, the little freak squealed, and his
shrill cry could have been interpreted only as a shriek of alarm.
As one, the troop responded, raising their heads, springing away from
the iron disc that had preoccupied them, craning their necks to see what
was happening.
Bleating, shrieking, scolding, gibbering, Curious George leaped into the
air, leaped and leaped, tumbled and flipped and twirled and capered,
beat upon the sidewalk with his fists, hissed and screeched, clawed at
the air as if it were cloth that could be rended, contorted himself
until he seemed to be looking up his own butt, rolled, sprang to his
feet, slapped his chest with his hands, hissed and spat and sputtered,
rocked and jigged, raced toward the bungalow, but exploded away from it
and scurried back toward the street, keening at a pitch that ought to
have cracked the concrete under him.
Regardless of how primitive their language might be, I was pretty sure I
got the message.
Even though most of the troop was forty feet from the bungalow, I could
see their beady shining eyes like a swarm of fat fireflies.
A few of them began to croon and hoot. Their voices were lower and
softer than Curious George’s caterwauling, but they didn’t sound like a
hospitality committee welcoming a visitor.
I drew the Glock from my shoulder holster.
Eight rounds remained in the gun.
I had the spare ten-round magazine in the holster.
Eighteen bullets. Thirty monkeys.
I had done the calculations before. I did them again. Poetry, after all,
is of more interest to me than math, so there was reason to double-check
my figures. They still sucked.
Curious George raced toward the house again. This time he kept coming.
Behind him, the entire troop erupted out of the street, across the lawn,
straight at the bungalow. Simultaneously, as they came, they all fell
into a silence that implied organization, discipline, and deadly
purpose.
I still didn’t believe the troop could have seen me, heard me, or
smelled me, but they must have detected me somehow, because obviously
they were not merely expressing their distaste for the undistinguished
architecture of the bungalow. They were in a rage of a kind that I had
seen before, a fury they reserved for humanity.
Furthermore, by their schedule, dinnertime had probably arrived.
In lieu of a mouse or juicy spider, I was the meat dish, a refreshing
change from their usual fare of fruits, nuts, seeds, leaves, flowers,
and birds’ eggs.
I turned a hundred eighty degrees from the window and headed across the
living room, hands out in front of me. I was moving fast, blindly
trusting in my familiarity with these houses. My shoulder clipped the
casing on a doorway, and I pushed through a half-open door into the
dining room.
Although the monkeys continued to restrain themselves, operating in
attack-status silence, I heard the hollow thumping of their paws on the