Back into the trash bag, there are no more easy pickings, but there are still things to eat. I’m chewing on a half-eaten corn on the cob when I hear footsteps.
My first fear is the Wolfman.
But these footsteps are stupidly loud on the concrete driveway.
I think, This is Logan. Like an animal, a growl rises in my throat. I’m not finished feeding. This ridiculous, hateful man needs to wait for me to finish feeding.
My suspicion is confirmed by the heavy, mechanic jolt of the garage door coming to life, complete with overhead light turning on. I doubt the Wolfman has the Logans’ garage door opener.
The side door waits for me. I look at it, and it seems to look back and say, “You need to run now. Run through me, out into the woods.” But something inside me snaps, and I say to the side door, “No, I’m finishing my corn first.”
And that’s how Mr. Logan finds me, leaning against his trash can, eating his corn on the cob. At my feet are the bones of my victims, plus some tinfoil.
His arm is extended; in his shaking hand he holds his big-boy gun. It’s way too much weapon for him. My guess is, he’s never fired it. Has no idea the kind of kickback he’s going to get. If he did, he’d have both hands on it. A bigger idiot I’ve never met.
“You’re a menace,” I say, as if I owned the place and he was the intruder. Somewhere deep, deep down a little thought bubbles up. You’ve gone crazy, it whispers. I respond, Yes, yes I have.
“You need to leave,” Mr. Logan squeaks.
Instead, I pluck out an uneaten rib from the trash and begin to strip it of its flesh.
“You need to leave!”
“Why?”
“You’re either on meth, or you’re telling the truth and you’ll bring that man here!”
“I’ve already brought that man here. Didn’t you see that truck drive away? That was him.” I drop the bone onto his nice, clean, concrete floor and grab another rib. “He knows where I am now. I’m guessing he’s parked the truck and is on foot.” I gesture with my rib. “He’s probably right behind you.”
Mr. Logan swings around, pointing the gun toward the road.
“That’s smart,” I say. “That’s where you need to be pointing that thing. Toward him.”
There’s some movement off to the left. It’s nothing but the shadow of a limb swayed by the breeze, but Mr. Logan fires. One-handed. The recoil almost knocks him off his feet. He drops the gun and clutches his ears. My ears are ringing too, but I just keep eating.
“Surprising, isn’t it? The first time you fire one.”
Trying to recover, he picks up his gun and points it at me.
“You!” There’s a new level of fear in him now. His eyes bulge from their sockets. “It’s you he wants. He’ll leave us alone if you’re not here. You need to leave!”
Right before it happens, I sense Mr. Logan has hit his breaking point, and I bolt for the side door.
I’m one stride into my escape when he starts shooting up the place. He can’t aim, and so the first thing he shoots is his own car. The alarm blares into the night. The second thing he shoots is the concrete floor. By the time he gets to the third shot, which I think goes sailing off into the woods somewhere, I’m out the side door and into the forest.
I don’t really hurry. For one thing, I can’t. My feet are in a new kind of pain, one I haven’t figured out how to deal with yet.
For another, I know Mr. Logan’s beating a fast retreat back to his house. He accomplished what he came to do, and now that his car alarm is screaming the news of my presence to the Wolfman, I have to get away.
On the other hand, maybe the car alarm will lure Wolfman to the Logan Family Lodge, and he can work out some of his aggression on them.
A girl can hope.
Oh my, the little whisper bubbles again, you have gone crazy.
“Damn straight,” I mutter aloud to no one, and then laugh.
Thirty-One Years Ago
THE CASHIER DOESN’T WANT TO touch his hands. She halfway throws the change at him, leaving the man to scoop up the coins from the counter. His fingers leave dirty streaks on the white Formica.
It’s not the dirt the woman is afraid of, but the red-yellow stains on the palms, along the nail beds. He wants to tell her it’s just iodine; it’s nothing to be scared of. The summer rains have hit harder than usual, and the whole herd has hoof rot. He’s the new guy, so he’s the one who gets to wrestle the dairy cows one by one, applying the burning unguent to their sore feet. It’s a hell of a job, one he won’t even get to keep. The dairy farm is up for sale. Developers are already circling, ready to create a subdivision filled with cookie-cutter homes the likes of which the man will never be able to afford, and would really like to set on fire.