Devil’s Wake Read Free Page A

was a thin woman, a “whisper,” as Terry’s dad used to say, wearing a T-shirt that said HODAD’S OPEN 24 HOURS!
    That shirt, gold letters against black, was stained red. And red leaked between the fingers pressed to her neck. Piranha had taken a few steps in her direction when there was another scream, and then another, and people were running in all directions.
    “Holy—” Terry didn’t get the rest of the thought out, because something was coming down Pike Street, and it was, as Terry’s father had often said, bigger than a butterfly and hotter than hell.
    The guy was the size of a pro fullback but dressed like a cop. Terry had never actually seen a pro fullback, except on TV, but his chest and back swelled out of his torn blue uniform. The face above the muscular chest was distorted with rage, or pain, or… something.
    His eyes were crimson. And by that, Terry didn’t mean like his old man after a night down at the Lancelot. No, it was as if those eyes were bleeding. The big cop was grabbing people as they ran, pulling them close—
    And then taking a bite. Just one bite. Arm, face—people were stunned, fleeing in all directions. Terry saw Vern rumble down the stairs carrying a big silver thermos—curious, not alarmed, just wondering what all the fuss was about—and turn the corner, coming face-to-face with the big man with the bloody eyes.
    Vern’s back was to him, but he imagined that his black eyes must have gone wide.
    “Mr. Stoffer!” Piranha screamed, running now, and damn, he was fast, flying, even though he really didn’t care much for Stoffer, and not at all for his redneck cousin. But it didn’t matter. Before the big kid was even halfway there, the cop had his hands on Stoffer’s arm, and yanked him around. Now he could see Stoffer’s face, and the expression was such pure shock, such what-the-hell that it was almost comical. The cop stared at him, red eyes to black eyes, and then those bloody teeth snapped forward, tearing at the upper arm.
    Stoffer screeched and tried to yank his arm away, and his cousin Sally jumped with astonishing agility, hitting the big guy from the side. The cop staggered, but didn’t go down. Then Piranha was there, and he saw the grappling and tussling and the blood and seemed uninterested in joining the mob. Instead, he picked up a mop someone had been using to wipe up a spreading stain of melting ice, and smashed it across the big man’s neck.
    Then Terry was there, and managed to get ahold of one of the muscular arms. Damn he was strong! Sucker had three guys on him, but the cop was still almost upright, as if he was on crack or meth. For a moment his leg buckled, and it seemed as if he was going down, then he turned his face to Terry, and at this range he could clearly see the thread of little red veins… more like little vines, really… all overthe whites of his eyes.
    Then the man convulsed, throwing them off, and got up. He seemed to be distracted, disoriented, as if uncertain where… or even who… he was.
    The cop staggered out into the middle of Pike Street just as a car speeding the other way, slewing to avoid one of the fleeing pedestrians, slammed into him, sending him cartwheeling into that Great Doughnut Shop in the sky.
    “Jesus. Jesus…” Vern moaned, holding his arm, and looking up at them through the shock. And then, just as if the third time was the charm, he added another fervent “Jesus.”
    Cousin Sally was blubbering, his hands covered with blood. “What the hell—get him out of here!” People were still running in all directions. There was another disturbance about fifty feet away, more people screaming, and Terry didn’t need another invitation. They got Vern to the van, buckled in, and took off as sirens began to howl from the other direction.
    Terry drove fast. Without the tie-downs, the flats of frozen fish in the back of the van bounced and swayed in response to the road. Vern sat in the back, holding his arm, as Piranha