Read Online Don't Kill the Messenger by Eileen Rendahl - Free Book Online
Authors: Eileen Rendahl
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loading area closer to the river. I desperately wanted to sneak out and see what they were doing, but just when I got up the nerve to get out of the Buick, the Navigators pulled back around and turned left to head for the interstate.
I turned on the Buick’s engine and followed.
I wasn’t terribly thrilled with where we were headed. We got off I-5 and turned toward Fruitridge Road. Anybody who lives in Sacto can tell you that nothing good happens at night on Fruitridge Road. It’s gang territory, and I’m not talking about any gang. I’m talking about the Norteños.
I routinely deal with some of the most evil, undead beings that walk our planet. Since I was three years old, dead people have stopped by to have chats with me. I’m not scared of much, but I’m scared of the Norteños. I dropped back a block or so behind the very shiny, highly conspicuous SUVs.
I was at least a block and a half back when the Navigators pulled up to a corner where a group of young men lounged in the balmy summer night. The Delta breeze had started to pick up, but it hadn’t truly cooled anything off yet. I pulled over and rolled down my window. One of the young men detached himself from the group and sauntered up to the lead SUV. He had on a white wife-beater and baggy jeans that rode low enough on his hips to display a solid two inches of boxer shorts. Curse you, Marky Mark, for starting one of the stupidest fashion trends of modern times. The cholo said something to the driver in the SUV. From where I was, I couldn’t make out the words. But you didn’t really need to be able to hear to know what he meant. It wasn’t a welcome.
Two Asian guys stepped out of the front of the lead Navigator, one from each side. They had on suits and ties. Their hair was short and neatly combed. They were not, however, office drones. I can appreciate what it means to be in fighting form, and no suit could disguise that these guys were in exactly that. Several more of the lounging young men on the corner stood up and approached the SUVs. Words were exchanged. Once again, I’m not sure exactly what was said. Body language alone told me it wasn’t friendly. More Asian guys got out of the front seats of the other two Navigators. More words were exchanged. Sweat began to bead on my upper lip, and it wasn’t just from the heat. Whatever was going to happen here wasn’t going to be pretty.
The Asian guys opened the rear doors of the SUVs. For a moment, I could have sworn I heard the sound of bells ringing. Then things started hopping out of the vans.
I’m not sure really how to describe them. They sure as hell weren’t people, although they clearly had been at one time. I mean, they were people shaped. They were no longer people colored, though, unless a sick greenish yellow was now the new beige and nobody had bothered to tell me.
They didn’t move like people either. They hopped. When I say they hopped out of the cars, I mean it literally. They held their arms stiffly in front of them. Even from a block and a half away, I could see they had long, talonlike fingernails extending out from their fingertips. Their hair was long and matted. Long yellow strips of paper were attached to their foreheads.
They advanced toward the young Latino men on the corner, who were now doubled over with laughter.
That didn’t last long.
The laughter pretty much stopped when the first of the creepy creatures grabbed one of the young men and bit into his neck like an escapee from a Weight Watchers meeting biting into a Krispy Kreme. Blood gushed from the wound, and the young man sank to his knees as the creature continued to rip strips of flesh from his chest with its teeth. That’s basically when all hell broke loose.
I saw the glint of moonlight on steel. The Norteños had pulled knives. I watched as one approached one of the hopping things and shoved his blade deep into its belly. The thing paused for a moment, grabbed the
I turned on the Buick’s engine and followed.
I wasn’t terribly thrilled with where we were headed. We got off I-5 and turned toward Fruitridge Road. Anybody who lives in Sacto can tell you that nothing good happens at night on Fruitridge Road. It’s gang territory, and I’m not talking about any gang. I’m talking about the Norteños.
I routinely deal with some of the most evil, undead beings that walk our planet. Since I was three years old, dead people have stopped by to have chats with me. I’m not scared of much, but I’m scared of the Norteños. I dropped back a block or so behind the very shiny, highly conspicuous SUVs.
I was at least a block and a half back when the Navigators pulled up to a corner where a group of young men lounged in the balmy summer night. The Delta breeze had started to pick up, but it hadn’t truly cooled anything off yet. I pulled over and rolled down my window. One of the young men detached himself from the group and sauntered up to the lead SUV. He had on a white wife-beater and baggy jeans that rode low enough on his hips to display a solid two inches of boxer shorts. Curse you, Marky Mark, for starting one of the stupidest fashion trends of modern times. The cholo said something to the driver in the SUV. From where I was, I couldn’t make out the words. But you didn’t really need to be able to hear to know what he meant. It wasn’t a welcome.
Two Asian guys stepped out of the front of the lead Navigator, one from each side. They had on suits and ties. Their hair was short and neatly combed. They were not, however, office drones. I can appreciate what it means to be in fighting form, and no suit could disguise that these guys were in exactly that. Several more of the lounging young men on the corner stood up and approached the SUVs. Words were exchanged. Once again, I’m not sure exactly what was said. Body language alone told me it wasn’t friendly. More Asian guys got out of the front seats of the other two Navigators. More words were exchanged. Sweat began to bead on my upper lip, and it wasn’t just from the heat. Whatever was going to happen here wasn’t going to be pretty.
The Asian guys opened the rear doors of the SUVs. For a moment, I could have sworn I heard the sound of bells ringing. Then things started hopping out of the vans.
I’m not sure really how to describe them. They sure as hell weren’t people, although they clearly had been at one time. I mean, they were people shaped. They were no longer people colored, though, unless a sick greenish yellow was now the new beige and nobody had bothered to tell me.
They didn’t move like people either. They hopped. When I say they hopped out of the cars, I mean it literally. They held their arms stiffly in front of them. Even from a block and a half away, I could see they had long, talonlike fingernails extending out from their fingertips. Their hair was long and matted. Long yellow strips of paper were attached to their foreheads.
They advanced toward the young Latino men on the corner, who were now doubled over with laughter.
That didn’t last long.
The laughter pretty much stopped when the first of the creepy creatures grabbed one of the young men and bit into his neck like an escapee from a Weight Watchers meeting biting into a Krispy Kreme. Blood gushed from the wound, and the young man sank to his knees as the creature continued to rip strips of flesh from his chest with its teeth. That’s basically when all hell broke loose.
I saw the glint of moonlight on steel. The Norteños had pulled knives. I watched as one approached one of the hopping things and shoved his blade deep into its belly. The thing paused for a moment, grabbed the
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