Class Fives: Origins Read Free

hip against it, cross his arms and simply stare out at where Roger was rooted, his anger now boiling up to full.
    Fuck it, Roger thought, turned and moved briskly along the length of the large vehicle.
    He didn’t even hesitate as he rounded the front of the truck, shifting the folded newspaper to his right hand, then leaned down to take a firm grip under the truck’s front bumper with the other.
    I really shouldn’t be doing this, he managed to tell himself, before he straightened upright, the truck emitting a squeaky, metallic groan as its front wheels lifted from the surface.
    Too late now, he thought, and took a step.
    The locked pairs of tires instantly roared quietly with a grating, skidding sound as they scraped across the asphalt of the lot, and the dangling ramp at the rear of the truck jangled, bumping on the surface.
    Roger took a dozen steps, enough to be sure that access to his car was clear, then simply released the bumper.
    The cab banged down loudly, the sound dying away to quiet squeaks of offended joints.
    Roger stepped back around the side of the truck, his eyes searching out the front door of the convenience store. He spotted the delivery man now standing in front of the counter, his body upright, rigid and unmoving.
    As he reached the rear of the truck and moved along the side of the ramp, Roger stopped, glancing down at it before returning his attention to where the delivery man stood, rooted, inside the store.
    What the Hell, he thought.
    He raised a foot, placed it on the edge of the ramp, and shoved down.
    Like a piece of aluminum foil, the ramp bent sharply with a loud, sudden squeal.
    Lifting his foot, Roger saw that the ramp was now almost “L” shaped, one end still attached to the rear of the truck opening, the other end almost parallel to the ground for half its length.
    Have a nice day, asshole, Roger thought, continuing to stare at the man inside the store, and then smiled pleasantly.
    He climbed into his car, cranked up the engine and pulled toward the entry of the parking lot. He didn’t see that the delivery man was now frantically waving his arms at the confused and frightened clerk and demanding he call 911 immediately.
    I really shouldn’t have done that, Roger thought. Oh well. Guess I’m not going to be shopping here any more.
    He turned into the road and pushed, gently, on the gas pedal.
     
    John Kleinschmidt glanced down at the speedometer, assuring himself that he was just within the speed limit, and ordered himself to relax, leaning back against the seat and raising a hand to wipe it over his face before propping his elbow on the sill of the open window.
    What do I do, he wondered nervously? What do I do?
    He hadn’t thought to prepare for something like this and he inwardly chided himself for his complacency. Just because everything had gone smoothly for so long now, he’d gotten careless and sloppy and that made him not only angry at his own stupidity, but also immeasurably tired.
    You had to go and try to be a hero, he told himself. Had to stick your nose in where it didn’t belong, get your stupid ass involved in something that was none of your business and look what happens.
    Okay, he ordered himself, calm down. Think. One step at a time.
    First, he knew, would be to see if he could work out some kind of story that would explain that little adventure in that damned liquor store yesterday. Geez, he moaned internally, why did I have to do that? Why didn’t I just get out, walk away? But no, I had to stick my nose in and now – Now what, he suddenly wondered? Was he some kind of suspect? But suspected of what? Ok, so he’d smacked the dumb bastard with his own gun, maybe knocked him cold but surely –
    A sudden wave of icy fear flowed over him.
    Had the guy died? Had he cracked his skull or something? He hadn’t hit him all that hard, had he? Just enough to knock him cold, that’s all.
    Ok, he told himself, first thing. Get a newspaper. Check for some kind of