cement floor.
There was rotten food and rat turds all over everywhere. And against the far wall, sitting in a hard wooden chair, there was
a large… person.
Sort of a person. He was kind of too big, though, and not shaped exactly right—but he was hard to see, 'cause he was all in
shadow.
Jake stood beside this guy, holding the pot of food. The guy growled at Jake, not human but like a thing. Jake held the pot
out and talked like he was talking to a pet dog.
“Here, boy. You hungry? Want your supper?”
The thing grunted and held out his arms. They were thick, with more muscles than I'd ever seen, covered with curly, dark hair
and too long for his grayed old coat. Heavy metal chains wrapped around his wrists, connecting him to the stone wall. He whined
like a starving child. Scared as I was, that crying sound made
me
want to cry tears, swear to God.
Jake held the pot just a few inches from where the chains held the thing. “Here, fella—this what you want? Your Tender Vittles?”
The big guy roared and grabbed for the bowl. Made me jump, it sounded like a wounded wolf. Jake dropped the pot, and the fish-head
soup spilled all over the floor.
The big guy cried again, more sort of like a rabbit in a trap.
Jake was real sarcastic, though. “Oh, poor boy. Sorry, fella. Maybe tomorrow night.”
The big thing whimpered. Jake laughed and turned for the door, which I jumped behind to hide. Jake walked rightby me. He didn't see me in the dark, so he walked back upstairs. So I came out and took a step into the room.
There was a small black-and-white TV against the wall, and it was turned on now, without the sound. It sat on bricks, near
the floor, with a little rabbit-ears antenna on top of it. The reception was awful. It looked like an old movie, with a sword
fight and people yelling. I think it was
The Count of Monte Cristo
, which I never saw, but I read the Classics Comics, so I knew this was definitely a sign, because the count got to be count
because
he
figured out
his
lost treasure map and dug his way to freedom.
Anyway, this big guy wasn't interested in any of that now. He was on his knees, eating the fish heads and tripe off the floor,
sometimes mixing it in accidentally with little bits of cement or rat bones or dirt, making little satisfied grunting sounds.
Then he heard me.
He lifted his head—and there in the whitish glow of the crummy TV, I saw what he looked like. And man, I was scared.
He was bald except for a little topknot, and his head just wasn't the right shape. High up were two partly formed ears, more
like dried apricots that had gone bad. His eyes weren't the same size or color, and they were at two different levels on his
face, one near where it was supposed to be and one down along the side of his nose. And his nose was all wrong, too, kind
of off-center and squished, like he'd fallen on his face and it was made of clay.
But his mouth was real sad.
He growled at me like I was going to steal his food, though, so I didn't stick around to argue—I just took off and hoped the
chains held and he'd had all his shots.
I ran down the basement hall, back up the stairs, andinto the lounge so fast, it made me wheeze. And I ran smack into Brand.
He was all dirty and bruised and looked totally pissed off. He grabbed me by the collar and lifted me in the air and stared
at me so hard, it hurt. “Death's too good for you,” he said. “I'm savin' you for Mom.”
I wheezed a little louder, and he dropped me. “Brand, what happened? You look awful,” I said. I was actually pretty glad to
see him, but with that thing in the basement, and Brand looking like he'd fallen into a blender, I didn't know what to say
first.
“I'll tell you what happened, twerp,” he said real quiet but like he was shouting. “I was on your trail on that teeny bike
when Troy Perkins pulled alongside me in his red Mustang, with Andy and Stef in the car, and he asked me if I wanted a
There was rotten food and rat turds all over everywhere. And against the far wall, sitting in a hard wooden chair, there was
a large… person.
Sort of a person. He was kind of too big, though, and not shaped exactly right—but he was hard to see, 'cause he was all in
shadow.
Jake stood beside this guy, holding the pot of food. The guy growled at Jake, not human but like a thing. Jake held the pot
out and talked like he was talking to a pet dog.
“Here, boy. You hungry? Want your supper?”
The thing grunted and held out his arms. They were thick, with more muscles than I'd ever seen, covered with curly, dark hair
and too long for his grayed old coat. Heavy metal chains wrapped around his wrists, connecting him to the stone wall. He whined
like a starving child. Scared as I was, that crying sound made
me
want to cry tears, swear to God.
Jake held the pot just a few inches from where the chains held the thing. “Here, fella—this what you want? Your Tender Vittles?”
The big guy roared and grabbed for the bowl. Made me jump, it sounded like a wounded wolf. Jake dropped the pot, and the fish-head
soup spilled all over the floor.
The big guy cried again, more sort of like a rabbit in a trap.
Jake was real sarcastic, though. “Oh, poor boy. Sorry, fella. Maybe tomorrow night.”
The big thing whimpered. Jake laughed and turned for the door, which I jumped behind to hide. Jake walked rightby me. He didn't see me in the dark, so he walked back upstairs. So I came out and took a step into the room.
There was a small black-and-white TV against the wall, and it was turned on now, without the sound. It sat on bricks, near
the floor, with a little rabbit-ears antenna on top of it. The reception was awful. It looked like an old movie, with a sword
fight and people yelling. I think it was
The Count of Monte Cristo
, which I never saw, but I read the Classics Comics, so I knew this was definitely a sign, because the count got to be count
because
he
figured out
his
lost treasure map and dug his way to freedom.
Anyway, this big guy wasn't interested in any of that now. He was on his knees, eating the fish heads and tripe off the floor,
sometimes mixing it in accidentally with little bits of cement or rat bones or dirt, making little satisfied grunting sounds.
Then he heard me.
He lifted his head—and there in the whitish glow of the crummy TV, I saw what he looked like. And man, I was scared.
He was bald except for a little topknot, and his head just wasn't the right shape. High up were two partly formed ears, more
like dried apricots that had gone bad. His eyes weren't the same size or color, and they were at two different levels on his
face, one near where it was supposed to be and one down along the side of his nose. And his nose was all wrong, too, kind
of off-center and squished, like he'd fallen on his face and it was made of clay.
But his mouth was real sad.
He growled at me like I was going to steal his food, though, so I didn't stick around to argue—I just took off and hoped the
chains held and he'd had all his shots.
I ran down the basement hall, back up the stairs, andinto the lounge so fast, it made me wheeze. And I ran smack into Brand.
He was all dirty and bruised and looked totally pissed off. He grabbed me by the collar and lifted me in the air and stared
at me so hard, it hurt. “Death's too good for you,” he said. “I'm savin' you for Mom.”
I wheezed a little louder, and he dropped me. “Brand, what happened? You look awful,” I said. I was actually pretty glad to
see him, but with that thing in the basement, and Brand looking like he'd fallen into a blender, I didn't know what to say
first.
“I'll tell you what happened, twerp,” he said real quiet but like he was shouting. “I was on your trail on that teeny bike
when Troy Perkins pulled alongside me in his red Mustang, with Andy and Stef in the car, and he asked me if I wanted a
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