in the pockets of his big coat. He found the guns in the preacher’s house that they burned down because it was full of the giant cocoons growing monstersinside. Mr. Lyss said he was going to pay for the guns with his lottery winnings—he had a ticket in his wallet with what he knew would be the right number—but Nummy had the bad feeling that Mr. Lyss really just stole them. Mr. Lyss seemed like his folks had never churched him when he was growing up.
The snow made a soft crunching sound under their feet as they walked around the house to the back porch, where they couldn’t be seen from the street. Mr. Lyss didn’t need his set of lock picks, because when he tried the kitchen door, it opened inward, hinges creaking.
Suddenly Nummy didn’t want to go into Officer Barry Bozeman’s house, not because it was wrong to go into a house when you weren’t invited, but because something bad waited for them in there. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew. A sick, sliding feeling in his stomach. A tightness in his chest that prevented him from drawing deep breaths.
“Let’s leave now,” Nummy whispered.
“Nowhere to go,” said Mr. Lyss. “And not enough time to go there.”
The old man crossed the threshold, slid one hand along the wall beside the door, and switched on the lights.
When Nummy reluctantly followed Mr. Lyss, he saw the Boze in his underwear and open bathrobe, sitting in a chair at the kitchen table. The Boze’s head was tipped back, his mouth hanging open, his eyes rolled back in their sockets.
“Dead,” said Mr. Lyss.
Nummy knew dead when he saw it.
Even though Officer Bozeman was dead, Nummy was uncomfortable, seeing him in his underwear. He was also uncomfortable because it seemed wrong to stare at a dead person when he didn’t know you were there and he couldn’t tell you to get out or even make himself more presentable.
You couldn’t look away from a dead person, either. Then it would seem you were
embarrassed
for him, as though it must be his fault he died.
When the dead person was someone you knew, like the Boze—or like Grandmama—you felt a little like you wanted to die yourself. But you just had to look at him anyway, because this was the last time you would see him except in photos, and photos were just photos, they weren’t the person.
A silver bead glistened on the Boze’s left temple, just like the beads on the faces of those zombie people in the jail cells.
All the people in jail had waited like good dogs told “Stay.” And then the handsome young man had arrived and turned into an angel, but then not an angel, and then he had torn them all apart and had taken them into himself.
Nummy hoped the handsome young man didn’t show up here anytime soon.
Mr. Lyss closed the back door and crossed the room, leaving clumps of snow on the vinyl floor. He peered closely at the corpse but didn’t touch it.
“He’s been dead awhile. At least eight or ten hours, probably longer. Probably it happened before dawn.”
Nummy didn’t have any idea how you could know when a person must have died, and he didn’t want to learn. To learn such a thing, you’d have to see a lot of dead people and most likely examine them close, but what Nummy wanted most was
never
to see another dead person as long as he lived.
From the table, Mr. Lyss picked up a sort of gun made of shiny metal. He turned it this way and that, studying it.
On the table stood a bowl of fresh fruit: a few bananas, a pear, a couple of big apples that didn’t look quite ripe. Mr. Lyss pointed the strange-looking gun at an apple and pulled the trigger.
Thhuuup!
Suddenly on the apple appeared a gleaming silvery bead just like the one on Officer Bozeman’s face.
Mr. Lyss pulled the trigger again, but nothing happened. When he fired the gun a third time—
Thhuuup!—
the second apple now had a silver bead, too. The fourth time, nothing happened again.
“A two-cycle mechanism. What’s it do on the second
The snow made a soft crunching sound under their feet as they walked around the house to the back porch, where they couldn’t be seen from the street. Mr. Lyss didn’t need his set of lock picks, because when he tried the kitchen door, it opened inward, hinges creaking.
Suddenly Nummy didn’t want to go into Officer Barry Bozeman’s house, not because it was wrong to go into a house when you weren’t invited, but because something bad waited for them in there. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew. A sick, sliding feeling in his stomach. A tightness in his chest that prevented him from drawing deep breaths.
“Let’s leave now,” Nummy whispered.
“Nowhere to go,” said Mr. Lyss. “And not enough time to go there.”
The old man crossed the threshold, slid one hand along the wall beside the door, and switched on the lights.
When Nummy reluctantly followed Mr. Lyss, he saw the Boze in his underwear and open bathrobe, sitting in a chair at the kitchen table. The Boze’s head was tipped back, his mouth hanging open, his eyes rolled back in their sockets.
“Dead,” said Mr. Lyss.
Nummy knew dead when he saw it.
Even though Officer Bozeman was dead, Nummy was uncomfortable, seeing him in his underwear. He was also uncomfortable because it seemed wrong to stare at a dead person when he didn’t know you were there and he couldn’t tell you to get out or even make himself more presentable.
You couldn’t look away from a dead person, either. Then it would seem you were
embarrassed
for him, as though it must be his fault he died.
When the dead person was someone you knew, like the Boze—or like Grandmama—you felt a little like you wanted to die yourself. But you just had to look at him anyway, because this was the last time you would see him except in photos, and photos were just photos, they weren’t the person.
A silver bead glistened on the Boze’s left temple, just like the beads on the faces of those zombie people in the jail cells.
All the people in jail had waited like good dogs told “Stay.” And then the handsome young man had arrived and turned into an angel, but then not an angel, and then he had torn them all apart and had taken them into himself.
Nummy hoped the handsome young man didn’t show up here anytime soon.
Mr. Lyss closed the back door and crossed the room, leaving clumps of snow on the vinyl floor. He peered closely at the corpse but didn’t touch it.
“He’s been dead awhile. At least eight or ten hours, probably longer. Probably it happened before dawn.”
Nummy didn’t have any idea how you could know when a person must have died, and he didn’t want to learn. To learn such a thing, you’d have to see a lot of dead people and most likely examine them close, but what Nummy wanted most was
never
to see another dead person as long as he lived.
From the table, Mr. Lyss picked up a sort of gun made of shiny metal. He turned it this way and that, studying it.
On the table stood a bowl of fresh fruit: a few bananas, a pear, a couple of big apples that didn’t look quite ripe. Mr. Lyss pointed the strange-looking gun at an apple and pulled the trigger.
Thhuuup!
Suddenly on the apple appeared a gleaming silvery bead just like the one on Officer Bozeman’s face.
Mr. Lyss pulled the trigger again, but nothing happened. When he fired the gun a third time—
Thhuuup!—
the second apple now had a silver bead, too. The fourth time, nothing happened again.
“A two-cycle mechanism. What’s it do on the second
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