One of them had a five-pound bag of Gaines dog food, and it wouldn’t let go. The descending door cut it in two before thumping home in its grooved slot. The severed chunk of tentacle squeezed convulsively tighter, splitting the bag open and sending brown nuggets of dog food everywhere. Then it began to flop on the floor like a fish out of water, curling and uncurling, but ever more slowly, until it lay still. I prodded it with the tip of the broom. The piece of tentacle, maybe three feet long, closed on it savagely for a moment, then loosened and lay limp again in the confused litter of toilet paper, dog food, and bleach cartons.
There was no sound except the roar of the generator and Ollie, crying inside the plywood compartment. I could see him sitting on a stool in there with his face clutched in his hands.
Then I became aware of another sound. The soft, slithery sound I had beard in the dark. Only now the sound wasmultiplied tenfold. It was the sound of tentacles squirming over the outside of the loading door, trying to find a way in.
Myron took a couple of steps towards me. «Look,» he said. «You got to understand-»
I looped a fist at his face. He was too surprised to even try to block it. It landed just below his nose and mashed his upper lip into his teeth. Blood flowed into his mouth.
«You got him killed» I shouted. «Did you get a good look at it? Did you get a good look at what you did?»
I started to pummel him, throwing wild rights and lefts, not punching the way I had been taught in my college boxing classes but only hitting out. He stepped back, shaking some of them off, taking others with a numbness that seemed like a kind of resignation or penance. That made me angrier. I bloodied his nose. I raised a mouse under one of his eyes that was going to black just beautifully. I clipped him a hard one on the chin. After that one, his eyes went cloudy and semi-vacant.
«Look,» he kept saying, «look, look,» and then I punched him low in the stomach and the air went out of him and he didn’t say «look, look» anymore. I don’t know how long I would have gone on punching him, but someone grabbed my arms. I jerked free and turned around. I was hoping it was Jim. I wanted to punch Jim out, too.
But it wasn’t Jim. It was Ollie, his round face dead pale, except for the dark circles around his eyes-eyes that were still shiny from his tears. «Don’t, David,» he said. «Don’t hit him anymore. It doesn’t solve anything.»
Jim was standing off to one side, his face a bewildered blank. I kicked a carton of something at him. It struck one of his Dingo boots and bounced away.
«You and your buddy are a couple of stupid assholes,» I said.
«Come on, David,» Ollie said unhappily. «Quit it.»
«You two assholes got that kid killed.»
Jim looked down at his Dingo boots. Myron sat on the floor and held his beer belly. I was breathing hard. The blood was roaring in my ears and I was trembling all over. I sat down on a couple of cartons and put my head down between my knees and gripped my legs hard just above the ankles. I sat that way for a while with my hair in my face, waiting to see if I was going to black out or puke or what.
After a bit the feeling began to pass and I looked up at Ollie. His pinky ring flashed subdued fire in the glow of the emergency lights.
«Okay,» I said dully. «I’m done.»
«Good,» Ollie said. «We’ve got to think what to do next.»
The storage area was beginning to stink of exhaust again. «Shut the generator down. That’s the first thing.»
«’Yeah, let’s get out of here,» Myron said. His eyes appealed to me. «I’m sorry about the kid. But you got to understand-»
«I don’t got to understand anything. You and your buddy go back into the market, but you wait right there by the beer cooler. And don’t say a word to anybody. Not yet.»