The Supernaturalist Read Free

fingers another notch. The truck lurched from its spotin the parking bay, rolling on to the main highway. A guiding rod extended from below the chassis, slotting into a corresponding groove in the highway.
    ‘We’re locked in,’ called the pilot. ‘Ten minutes to the Institute.’
    Redwood released Ziplock’s neck.
    ‘You’ve got the luck of the Irish, Francis. I’m too happy to inflict pain on you now. But later, when I’m in a foul mood, you can count on it.’
    Ziplock drew a greedy breath. He knew from experience that soon his windpipe would shrink to the diameter of a straw and he would whistle when he spoke.
    ‘Keep a lid on it, Ziplock,’ hissed Cosmo, watching the marshal continue down the aisle. ‘Redwood is crazy. We’re not real people to him.’
    Ziplock nodded, rubbing his tender throat.
    ‘I can’t help it,’ he rasped, tears in his eyes. ‘The junk just comes out of my mouth. This life just drives me crazy.’
    Cosmo knew that feeling well. It visited him most nights as he lay in his pipe listening to the cries around him.
    ‘You must feel it too, Cosmo? You think anybody is going to adopt a borderline psycho kid, or a moody teenager like yourself?’
    Cosmo looked away. He knew that neither of them fitted the likely adoptee profile, but Ziplock had always managed to pretend that today was the day his newparents would show up. Denying that dream meant that Ziplock was teetering on the brink of crack-up.
    Cosmo rested his forehead against the window, watching the city beyond the glass. They were in the projects now, flashing past grey apartment blocks. Pig-iron buildings, which was why the locals referred to Satellite City as the Big Pig. Not that the material was actually pig iron. It was a super-strong, steel-based polymer that was supposed to stay cool in summer and warm in winter, but managed to do exactly the opposite.
    The truck shuddered violently. Something had rear-ended them.
    Redwood was thrown to the floor’s plastic planks.
    ‘Hey, what’s going on up there?’
    Cosmo raised himself to the cuff’s limits, straining to see. The pilot was on his feet, repeatedly punching his code into the uplink unit.
    ‘The Satellite. We lost our link!’
    No link! That meant they were out here on an overcrowded highway with no pattern to follow. Minnows in a sea of hammerheads. They were struck again, sideswiped this time. Cosmo glimpsed a delivery minivan careering off the highway, bumper mangled.
    Redwood struggled to his feet.
    ‘Go to manual, you cretin. Use the steering wheel.’
    The pilot paled. Steering wheels were only used in rural zones or for illegal drag racing in the Booshka region. More than likely he had never wrestled with a steeringwheel in his life. The choice was taken away from the unfortunate man when a revolving advertisement drone hit them head-on, crushing the cab like a concertina. The pilot was lost in a haze of glass and wiring.
    The impact was tremendous, lifting the truck from its groove, flipping it on to its side. Cosmo and Ziplock dangled from their chairs, saved by the restraining cuffs. Redwood and the other marshals were scattered like so many leaves in a storm.
    Cosmo could not tell how many times other vehicles collided with the truck. After a time the impacts blended together like the final notes of a frenetic drum solo. Huge dents appeared in the panelling accompanied by resonating thunderclaps. Every window smashed, raining crystal rainbows.
    Cosmo hung on; what else could he do? Beside him, Ziplock’s hysterical laughter was almost as piercing as the shards of glass.
    ‘Oh man, this is it!’ shouted the Irish boy.
    The truck revolved a half-turn, slewing off the highway in a cascade of sparks. Chunks of tarmacadam collapsed beneath the onslaught, leaving a thirty-metre trench in the vehicle’s wake. They eventually came to rest after smashing through the window of The Dragon’s Beard Chinese Restaurant. The spicy odours of ginger and soya sauce