The Skunge Read Free

neck. They both wore sunglasses.
    "What do you need here?" the shorter of the two rasped. He sounded like a lifelong smoker in the body of a teenager. "Nothing here for you, go back to the city."
    "We're looking for a hospital. Our friend had an accident, and he needs a doctor."
    The short one bent to peer into the back seat. "Some accident." The insectile lenses of his glasses reflected Christian's pale, drawn face. "Better get back to where you came from, before anything worse happens." He smirked, displaying teeth like a rotting picket fence. "No doctor here." They chuckled like trolls as they walked away, moving slowly, like they might decide to come back any moment. As they turned the corner, something caught Christian's eye. His blood froze.
    A paper, affixed to the wall, flapping in the wind. It featured a picture of blond girl with good cheekbones and big, mournful eyes. Underneath, a number to call if you saw the girl, and one word. MISSING. Christian had seen her. Two hours ago, at the bottom of a hole, splashed with grave-dirt, being buried an inch at a time. He imagined calling the number, and calmly, with no embellishment or artifice, explaining what had happened to Katrina. He would name Skin and Mik, and then disappear. He would run, as far and fast as he could, and try to forget.
    But no, it would never work. He had signed papers, rental agreements for Mik. Skin's credit, of course, was nonexistent. Christian's name would be pulled down into the same dank gray hole that now hid the body of the girl.
    "I told you this was a shit-hole," Skin said. He grinned and crunched a stale French fry from an old grease-spotted bag. He gunned the engine and threw it into gear. Christian watched the rear-view mirror, convinced the teenagers would turn around and give chase. Mik groaned piteously from the back seat. As they left the curb, Christian saw the shadows of the two teenagers change, melting into writhing shadows. He blinked, sure that the rain had tricked his eyes.
    Like a miracle, through the rain, a flashing red cross. "There." Christian pointed. He felt something loosen in his chest. Things were going to be OK. They could drop Mik here, and leave for Wichita. Mik would have objected, but this was his insane plan to begin with, and he could deal with the aftermath. No longer my problem— the words washed over Christian like a balm.
    Skin skidded to a halt in front of the building. Christian jumped out. The frigid rain sent freezing rivulets down the small of his back, and the wind threatened to knock him over as it gusted. He scrabbled at the rear door handle, and when he opened it, Mik almost slid out to the ground. The front of his jeans was a red mess, his face slack and empty.
    "Help me, you asshole," Christian gritted at Skin, trying to lift Mik. The guy was even heavier than he looked, and heavier still for being unconscious.
    "Not my problem," Skin said airily, lighting a cigarette. "Besides, can't you see it's raining out there?"
    Christian cursed and began to drag Mik inside. The flashing red cross cast glaring light over Mik's ashen face, turning him into a victim in an Italian horror movie. He whimpered as Christian dragged him up the steps.
    He was trying to wedge open the door with his leg when he was startled by a blast from the Mustang's horn. "Hurry up, we're low on gas!" Skin shouted before winding the window up again. His laughing face was lost in the dirty cascades of water sluicing down the windows.
    Christian felt like his head would explode. "Fuck you, you goddamn fucking scum!" He shrieked at Skin, and with a grunt, yanked Mik's body up the last steps. He fancied he could hear Skin laughing from the car.
    "Wake up. Wake up, asshole." He chanted to Mik, dragging him into the dripping silence of the entryway. He laid him on the carpet, nudging Mik's boots onto the runner so they wouldn't drip filthy water on the tiles. The boots were caked with the wet soil of Katrina's grave, and he tore his