Read Online The Five by Robert McCammon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert McCammon
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came. George handed the stuff out and started off, turning right on East Lake Shore. Distractedly, Nomad put the Coke on the seat between his legs and started unwrapping his burger.
“So what’d he talk to you about?” George asked.
“Nothing.”
“Had to be something , man.”
“I guess he was warning me. Us, I mean.”
“Yeah? About what?” Terry asked.
Nomad took a bite of his sandwich. “About knowing our—” Roles, he was going to say, but just as he swallowed he caught the tang of the melted cheese tucked under the meat and smelled it and he looked at the sandwich and saw it in there, yellow and gooey. He realized the guy at the window had screwed up the order, because his burger was wrapped in white paper and not yellow. It was down his gullet now, too late to spit it up, and he knew one bite of cheese was not going to lay him low, it would just cause his throat to itch, but it was one more thing to deal with and he yelled, “ Shit !”
Startled, George hit the brake. Nomad grabbed for his drink, the plastic lid popped off, and suddenly his seat was awash in Coca-Cola.
“What is it?” George asked, steering toward the shoulder. “What the hell …?”
“Fucking shit !” Nomad shouted, as he crushed the offending hamburger in one hand. “Let me out! Stop the van, let me out!”
“Cool it, bro!” Mike said, his mouth full. “Come on!”
“ Out !” Nomad repeated, and this time it was almost a shriek. He felt Ariel’s hand on his shoulder and he shook it off, and he realized as if looking down on himself in a dream that he was cracking up, he was about to fly to pieces, he had been blindsided by a fucking cheeseburger but that wasn’t all of it, no, not by a long shot, he was about to flail out and hurt somebody and he had to get out of this van…RIGHT…FUCKING….NOW!
“Okay, okay, okay!” George steered the Scumbucket off onto a dirt road that led into a thicket of pines and scrub-brush. Before George could stop, Nomad was out the door, Coke dripping from his crotch and the seat of his jeans, and he threw the balled-up burger as far as he could with an effort that he knew his shoulder was going to feel tomorrow morning.
This is a comedy, he thought. A comedy of errors, large and small. A guy standing on a dirt road in wet jeans, his fists clenched at his sides, his feet stomping the dust, rage in his heart and nobody to fight. It should be funny, he thought, and worth a real laugh on down the line.
Only he did not laugh, and in the next instant the tears welled up hot and blinding in his eyes and his chest shuddered with a sob.
He had to get away. But to where, he didn’t know.
Just away.
“Hey, John!” George called from the van. “We’ll get it cleaned up, man! No biggie!”
But Nomad, who had always thought his given name of John Charles made him sound incomplete, began to walk away along the road as if he were really going somewhere. He briefly took his sunglasses off to wipe his eyes; what a way to blow an image, he told himself. Big tough bad-ass reduced to a snivelling pussy. He was aware that the Scumbucket was following right at his heels, like an ugly dog begging for attention. A banner of dust floated up into the air behind the U-Haul trailer, and above the dark pines the sky was milky-white.
“Come on, John,” George said. “Shake it off.”
Nomad kept his head down. He kept walking. Space was what he needed. He needed to find a place to curl up and think. His heart was hurting. He kicked at his shadow, to get it out of his way. With George and Terry leaving, the band was done. It would be only a matter of time before the center could not hold. Know your role , he thought.
My clock is ticking, John . Yours is too, if you’ll be truthful.
Behind him, George tapped the horn, but Nomad did not look back.
He was following this road for which there was no roadmap. His father had been right. It was the musician’s path. His father had been right, even on
“So what’d he talk to you about?” George asked.
“Nothing.”
“Had to be something , man.”
“I guess he was warning me. Us, I mean.”
“Yeah? About what?” Terry asked.
Nomad took a bite of his sandwich. “About knowing our—” Roles, he was going to say, but just as he swallowed he caught the tang of the melted cheese tucked under the meat and smelled it and he looked at the sandwich and saw it in there, yellow and gooey. He realized the guy at the window had screwed up the order, because his burger was wrapped in white paper and not yellow. It was down his gullet now, too late to spit it up, and he knew one bite of cheese was not going to lay him low, it would just cause his throat to itch, but it was one more thing to deal with and he yelled, “ Shit !”
Startled, George hit the brake. Nomad grabbed for his drink, the plastic lid popped off, and suddenly his seat was awash in Coca-Cola.
“What is it?” George asked, steering toward the shoulder. “What the hell …?”
“Fucking shit !” Nomad shouted, as he crushed the offending hamburger in one hand. “Let me out! Stop the van, let me out!”
“Cool it, bro!” Mike said, his mouth full. “Come on!”
“ Out !” Nomad repeated, and this time it was almost a shriek. He felt Ariel’s hand on his shoulder and he shook it off, and he realized as if looking down on himself in a dream that he was cracking up, he was about to fly to pieces, he had been blindsided by a fucking cheeseburger but that wasn’t all of it, no, not by a long shot, he was about to flail out and hurt somebody and he had to get out of this van…RIGHT…FUCKING….NOW!
“Okay, okay, okay!” George steered the Scumbucket off onto a dirt road that led into a thicket of pines and scrub-brush. Before George could stop, Nomad was out the door, Coke dripping from his crotch and the seat of his jeans, and he threw the balled-up burger as far as he could with an effort that he knew his shoulder was going to feel tomorrow morning.
This is a comedy, he thought. A comedy of errors, large and small. A guy standing on a dirt road in wet jeans, his fists clenched at his sides, his feet stomping the dust, rage in his heart and nobody to fight. It should be funny, he thought, and worth a real laugh on down the line.
Only he did not laugh, and in the next instant the tears welled up hot and blinding in his eyes and his chest shuddered with a sob.
He had to get away. But to where, he didn’t know.
Just away.
“Hey, John!” George called from the van. “We’ll get it cleaned up, man! No biggie!”
But Nomad, who had always thought his given name of John Charles made him sound incomplete, began to walk away along the road as if he were really going somewhere. He briefly took his sunglasses off to wipe his eyes; what a way to blow an image, he told himself. Big tough bad-ass reduced to a snivelling pussy. He was aware that the Scumbucket was following right at his heels, like an ugly dog begging for attention. A banner of dust floated up into the air behind the U-Haul trailer, and above the dark pines the sky was milky-white.
“Come on, John,” George said. “Shake it off.”
Nomad kept his head down. He kept walking. Space was what he needed. He needed to find a place to curl up and think. His heart was hurting. He kicked at his shadow, to get it out of his way. With George and Terry leaving, the band was done. It would be only a matter of time before the center could not hold. Know your role , he thought.
My clock is ticking, John . Yours is too, if you’ll be truthful.
Behind him, George tapped the horn, but Nomad did not look back.
He was following this road for which there was no roadmap. His father had been right. It was the musician’s path. His father had been right, even on
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