Brambleman Read Free

not
political correctness. Anyway, he was white, so what was up with
Lil Bit’s cold shoulder? It was just a diner, damn it! With a “74”
on its inspection certificate!
    Perhaps the restaurant sensed his disrespect,
for the place had turned against him the instant he walked in the
door. One of the young drunks in the booth behind him called
Charlie “’tarded” when he took his seat. The other muttered,
“homeless fuck.” Obviously, these were not his people: One wore a
camouflage hunting outfit and the other a red baseball cap adorned
with a Rebel battle flag and the words “Fergit, Hell!” And they’d
been cooing insults at him ever since. Of the four other people in
the place, only the cook had failed to show his contempt for the
soggy newcomer. (Then again, his back had been turned the whole
time, so maybe he had.) In any case, having just survived and
escaped his own worst impulses, Charlie now felt trapped in this
Pancake Hut of Hate.
    The rain quickened, pattering on the roof
like a manic drummer. Charlie lowered his hand and raised it. The
dripping had slowed, so he waved to get the water molecules in his
cuff moving again. Lil Bit, standing behind the counter just a few
feet away, continued to give him the alert indifference only the
best truly bad servers have mastered. She’d wait on him, all
right—to leave. When he recalled a news story about a homeless man
who’d been fed cleaning fluid by a Pancake Hut cook, Charlie
thought that maybe it was better if they didn’t serve him after
all.
    Well, she was stuck with him, since Charlie
had nowhere else to go. He didn’t even have his wallet, just a
ten-spot he’d stuffed in the pocket of his sweat pants weeks ago.
Enough to pay for food, if Lil Bit would notice him.
    The drunks escalated their insults.
Apparently, having failed to charm any women at the topless bar
across the street, they were now intent on kicking some ass before
they called it a night. “Come on, turdface, step outside,” the
Rebel said. “Just you and me. We’ll go a few.”
    Charlie was big, six feet four inches, but he
was in his forties, overweight, and relatively nonviolent, so he
ignored the invitation. He just wanted some coffee. He didn’t even
care if it was good, so long as it was hot and not laced with
ammonia or bleach. After that, he’d figure out how to survive the
night. Or maybe, if he got a chance, he’d make a run for it.
    Right then, he decided that no matter what,
he wasn’t going home, not until Susan got down on her knees,
apologized for what she’d done, and begged him to come back. Which
might not happen for a while. Or ever.
    His thought was punctuated by a flash that
lit up the sky. As the lights went out, a loud boom rocked the
diner. The guy in camouflage drawled, “What the hell?”
    As the diner’s occupants murmured in concern,
another bolt landed just behind the building with a blinding flash.
A few seconds later, Charlie noticed a greenish-yellow glow through
the rearmost side window—like some kind of radioactive fire.
    The lights flickered back on. The rain let
up.
    His antagonists, apparently having short
attention spans, refocused on their ham, eggs, and grits, so
Charlie decided to take the opportunity to slip outside, check out
the fire, and mosey off into the night, thereby avoiding the
whupping he’d been promised. He slipped off his stool unnoticed as
his antagonists grumbled and chewed.
    Charlie stepped outside. He walked around the
diner and saw something on fire behind the building. Whoa. Make
that someone . Fighting panic, he ripped off his soaking wet
bomber jacket and tossed it over the prone figure, putting out the
flames and raising a cloud of acrid, funky-smelling smoke and
steam. Whew .
    The poor wretch lay motionless. Charlie
picked up his coat and saw a six-inch-wide hole in the back of the
victim’s black leather jacket. Sure that nobody could survive a
direct hit like that, Charlie reached for his cellphone …