booths crashing and spinning. The pie case fell off the counter, sending pie wedges skidding across the
floor.
The counterman was crouching with his eyes shut, and the kid was holding his girl. The trucker was
walleyed with fear.
‘We gotta stop it,’ he gibbered. ‘Tell ’em we’ll do it, we’ll do anything -,
‘A little late, isn’t it?’
The Cat reversed and got ready for another charge. New nicks in its blade glittered and heliographed in
the sun. It lurched forward with a bellowing roar and this time it took down the main support to the left
of what had been the window. That section of the roof fell in with a grinding crash. Plaster dust
billowed up.
The dozer pulled free. Beyond it I could see the group of trucks, waiting.
I grabbed the counterman. ‘Where are the oil drums?’ The cookstoves ran on butane gas, but I had seen
vents for a warm-air furnace.
‘Back of the storage room,’ he said.
I grabbed the kid. ‘Come on.’
We got up and ran into the storage room. The bulldozer hit again and the building trembled. Two or
three more hits and it would be able to come right up to the counter for a cup of coffee.
There were two large fifty-gallon drums with feeds to the
furnace and turn spigots. There was a carton of empty ketchup bottles near the back door. ‘Get those,
Jerry.’
While he did, I pulled off my shirt and yanked it to rags. The dozer hit again and again, and each hit
was accompanied by the sound of more breakage.
I filled four of the ketchup bottles from the spigots, and he stuffed rags into them. ‘You play football?’ I
asked him.
‘In high school.’
‘Okay. Pretend you’re going in from the five.’
We went out into the restaurant. The whole front wall was open to the sky. Sprays of glass glittered like
diamonds. One heavy beam had fallen diagonally across the opening. The dozer was backing up to take
it out and I thought that this time it would keep coming, ripping through the stools and then
demolishing the counter itself.
We knelt down and thrust the bottles out. ‘Light them up,’ I said to the trucker.
He got his matches out, but his hands were shaking too badly and he dropped them. The counterman
picked them up, struck one, and the hunks of shirt blazed greasily alight.
‘Quick,’ I said.
We ran, the kid a little in the lead. Glass crunched and gritted underfoot. There was a hot, oily smell in
the air. Everything was very loud, very bright.
The dozer charged.
The kid dodged out under the beam and stood silhouetted in front of that heavy tempered steel blade. I
went out to the right. The kid’s first throw fell short. His second hit the blade and the flame splashed
harmlessly.
He tried to turn and then it was on him, a rolling juggernaut, four tons of steel. His hands flew up and
then he was gone, chewed under.
I buttonhooked around and lobbed one bottle into the open cab and the second right into the works.
They exploded together in a leaping shout of flame.
For a moment the dozer’s engine rose in an almost human squeal of rage and pain. It wheeled in a
maddened half-circle, ripping out the left corner of the diner, and rolled drunkenly towards the drainage
ditch.
The steel treads were streaked and dotted with gore and where the kid had been there was something
that looked like a crumpled towel.
The dozer got almost to the ditch, flames boiling from under its cowling and from the cockpit, and then it exploded in a geyser.
I stumbled backward and almost fell over a pile of rubble. There was a hot smell that wasn’t just oil. It
was burning hair. I was on fire.
I grabbed a tablecloth, jammed it on my head, ran behind the counter, and plunged my head into the
sink hard enough to crack it on the bottom. The girl was screaming Jerry’s name over and over in a
shrieking insane litany.
I turned around and saw the huge car-carrier slowly rolling towards the defenceless front of the diner.