"Time's a-wastin, good buddy." He threw back his head and sang: "Oh... here comes Johnny with his pecker in his hand, he's a one-ball man and he's OFF to the ro-dee-OH ... that's right, Trashy, ya f**kin wet end, getcha back into it, only twelve minutes left... alamand left an alamand right, come on, ya f**kin dummy, getcha right foot right - "
Trash leaned against the Microbus. Bunched his legs and pushed. The Microbus moved perhaps two inches toward the drop. In his heart, hope - that indestructible weed of the human heart - had begun to bloom again. The Kid was irrational, impulsive, what Carley Yates and his pool-hall buddies would have called crazier than a shithouse rat. Maybe if he actually got the van over the side and cleared the way for The Kid's precious deuce coupe, the lunatic would let him live.
Maybe.
He lowered his head, gripped the edge of the VW's frame, and shoved with all his might. Pain flared in his recently burned arm, and he knew that the fragile new tissue would soon rip open. Then the pain would become agony.
The bus moved three inches. Sweat dripped from Trashcan's brow and ran into his eyes, stinging like warm engine oil.
"Oh, here comes Johnny with his pecker in his hand, he's a one-ball man and he's OFF to the ro-dee-OH! " The Kid sang. "Well, alamand left an alamand r - "
The song broke off like a brittle twig. Trashcan Man looked up apprehensively. The Kid had come out of the Austin's passenger seat. He was standing in profile to Trash, staring across their half of the turnpike toward the eastbound lanes. A rocky, brushy slope rose beyond them, blotting out half the sky.
"What the f**k was that?" The Kid whispered.
"I didn't hear anyth - "
Then he did hear something. He heard a small rattle of pebbles and stones on the other side of the highway. His dream recurred to him in sudden, total recall that froze his blood and evaporated all the spit in his mouth.
"Who's there? " The Kid shouted. "You better answer me! Answer, goddammit, or I start shooting! "
And he was answered, but not by any human voice. A howl rose up in the night like a hoarse siren, first climbing and then dropping rapidly down to a guttural growl.
"Holy Jesus!" The Kid said, and his voice was suddenly thin.
Coming down the slope on the far side of the turnpike and crossing the median strip were wolves, gaunt gray timberwolves, their eyes red, their jaws gaping and adrip. There were more than two dozen of them. Trashcan, in an ecstasy of terror, made wee-wee in his pants again.
The Kid stepped around the trunk of the Austin, leveled his .45s, and began firing. Flame licked from the barrels; the sound of the shots echoed and reechoed from the mountain faces, making it sound as if artillery were at work. Trashcan Man cried out and poked his index fingers in his ears. The night breeze tattered the gunsmoke, fresh and ripe and hot. Its cordite aroma stung his nose.
The wolves came on, no faster and no slower, at a fast walk. Their eyes... Trashcan Man found himself unable to look away from their eyes. They were not the eyes of - ordinary wolves; of that he was quite convinced. They were the eyes of their Master, he thought. Their Master and his Master. Suddenly he remembered his prayer and he was afraid no longer. He took his fingers out of his ears. He ignored the wetness spreading at his crotch. He began to smile.
The Kid had emptied both of his guns, dropping three of the wolves in so doing. He holstered the .45s without making an attempt to reload and turned west. He went about ten paces and then stopped. More wolves were padding down the westbound lanes, weaving in and out of the dark hulks of the stalled cars like tattered streamers of mist. One of them raised its snout to the sky and howled. Its cry was joined by a second, the second by a third, the third by a whole chorus. Then they came on again.
The Kid began to back up. He was trying to load one of his guns now, but the shells were spilling out between his nerveless fingers. Suddenly he gave up. The gun fell out of his hand and clanked on the road. As if it had been a signal, the wolves rushed him.
With a high, reedy scream of fear, The Kid turned and ran for the Austin. As he ran, his second pistol tumbled from its low holster and bounced off the road. With a low, ripping growl, the wolf closest to him sprang just as The Kid dove into the Austin and slammed the door.
He just made it. The wolf bounced off the door, growling, its red eyes rolling horribly. It was joined by the others, and in moments the Austin was ringed with wolves. From inside, The Kid's face was a small white moon looking out.
Then one of the wolves was coming toward the Trashcan Man, its triangular head held low, its eyes glowing like stormlamps.
My life for you...
Steadily, now not in the least afraid, Trash went to meet it. He held out his burned hand and the wolf licked it. After a moment it sat at his feet, curling its ragged, brushy tail about its withers.
The Kid was staring at him, his mouth hanging open.
Smiling into his eyes, Trashcan Man gave him the finger.
Both fingers.
And he screamed: "Fuck you! You're shut down! Do you hear me? DO YOU BELIEVE THAT HAPPY CRAPPY? SHUT DOWN! DON'T TELL ME, I'LL TELL YOU! "