Read Online The Object: Book One (Object Series) by Winston Emerson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Winston Emerson
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roof. Have his way with her. Pluck out the hobo's eyes and then break his neck.
Or maybe he wouldn't kill Lillia. Maybe he'd stick to the plan. If he could free himself soon, that RV Steve had spotted down on South 3rd might still be there. The owners were an elderly couple. He doubted they would flee the city in the middle of the night.
The plan was simple. First, he and Steve were to kidnap the girl. They'd both had their eyes on her for months, and she'd make a nice toy to keep them occupied on their way to Mexico . Next, rob a bank. If the banks were all closed, hit a dozen gas stations and liquor stores. Then steal the RV and get the hell out of town. If aliens were coming to destroy the world, Ted would rather die on the beaches of Ensenada than in a filthy bedbug-infested Louisville apartment. It would also be kind of cool to watch the show.
He needed to think. In order to think, he needed a cigarette.
Then he remembered the Zippo lighter in his pocket.
He kicked off his shoes as quietly as he could, not sure whether the black guy was around but remembering that he'd dragged a mattress to the top of the stairs. If he was asleep, Ted didn't want to wake him. If he was awake, Ted would have to work quietly so as not to arouse suspicion.
With his shoes off, he used the heels of his feet to pull on the legs of his pants. He'd always belted his pants loosely around his gut, but they resisted coming down over his hips. Finally the waistband slipped over his butt, bringing his dirty yellow underwear down with it, so that when the pants finally lay in a bundle at his feet, his underwear hung suspended on his hips.
He tried to scrape his butt against the wall to pull them back up but only succeeded in working them even lower and twisting them up.
Using his toes, he picked up his pants by the crotch and shook them until the contents of his pockets spilled out, rattling on the hardwood. This noise he couldn't avoid. He listened for a moment but didn't hear the mattress squeak. Then he felt around the floor with his toes, touching change, his pack of cigarettes, an ink pen, a tire pressure gauge, and finally his Zippo. He scooted it close, then spent the next few minutes trying to stand it up and grasp it between the index and big toe of his left foot. Then he opened the lid with the other big toe and after several attempts managed to strike a flame.
Now came the most difficult part. Ted felt like a ballerina, working so delicately on his toes. Holding the lighter in place, he used his free foot to lift a leg of his pants, which were blackened by oil and axle grease and should flare up easily, and bring it to the flame. If he moved too quickly, he could smother it, but with just the right finesse, the tip of the flame to the greasy hip . . .
At first contact with the pants, the flame doubled in size. Then it ate a hole through the fabric and suddenly the entire leg was engulfed, lighting up the corridor and producing thick, rancid smoke.
Ted looked around himself quickly, in search of the most flammable thing in his proximity. Through the entrance to the living room, he could see a wicker chair sitting in front of a large window with heavy drapes. Perfect.
He bundled the pants up as much as he could without burning himself, then hooked his foot under the cool side and kicked them across the corridor and through the doorway, where they landed on a rug just shy of the wicker chair.
"Come on, baby," he whispered, licking his lips and watching the flames brighten and swell.
~ ~ ~ ~
Lillia sat up in bed. Something had woken her. A sound, maybe. A clatter. She tried to remember only for a moment. Then she noticed a pulsating glow in the scratches on the window's black paint. It brightened, dimmed, brightened, dimmed, but never fully extinguished.
Kate lay next to her. She climbed out of bed slowly and pulled the blanket up to Kate's neck.
Or maybe he wouldn't kill Lillia. Maybe he'd stick to the plan. If he could free himself soon, that RV Steve had spotted down on South 3rd might still be there. The owners were an elderly couple. He doubted they would flee the city in the middle of the night.
The plan was simple. First, he and Steve were to kidnap the girl. They'd both had their eyes on her for months, and she'd make a nice toy to keep them occupied on their way to Mexico . Next, rob a bank. If the banks were all closed, hit a dozen gas stations and liquor stores. Then steal the RV and get the hell out of town. If aliens were coming to destroy the world, Ted would rather die on the beaches of Ensenada than in a filthy bedbug-infested Louisville apartment. It would also be kind of cool to watch the show.
He needed to think. In order to think, he needed a cigarette.
Then he remembered the Zippo lighter in his pocket.
He kicked off his shoes as quietly as he could, not sure whether the black guy was around but remembering that he'd dragged a mattress to the top of the stairs. If he was asleep, Ted didn't want to wake him. If he was awake, Ted would have to work quietly so as not to arouse suspicion.
With his shoes off, he used the heels of his feet to pull on the legs of his pants. He'd always belted his pants loosely around his gut, but they resisted coming down over his hips. Finally the waistband slipped over his butt, bringing his dirty yellow underwear down with it, so that when the pants finally lay in a bundle at his feet, his underwear hung suspended on his hips.
He tried to scrape his butt against the wall to pull them back up but only succeeded in working them even lower and twisting them up.
Using his toes, he picked up his pants by the crotch and shook them until the contents of his pockets spilled out, rattling on the hardwood. This noise he couldn't avoid. He listened for a moment but didn't hear the mattress squeak. Then he felt around the floor with his toes, touching change, his pack of cigarettes, an ink pen, a tire pressure gauge, and finally his Zippo. He scooted it close, then spent the next few minutes trying to stand it up and grasp it between the index and big toe of his left foot. Then he opened the lid with the other big toe and after several attempts managed to strike a flame.
Now came the most difficult part. Ted felt like a ballerina, working so delicately on his toes. Holding the lighter in place, he used his free foot to lift a leg of his pants, which were blackened by oil and axle grease and should flare up easily, and bring it to the flame. If he moved too quickly, he could smother it, but with just the right finesse, the tip of the flame to the greasy hip . . .
At first contact with the pants, the flame doubled in size. Then it ate a hole through the fabric and suddenly the entire leg was engulfed, lighting up the corridor and producing thick, rancid smoke.
Ted looked around himself quickly, in search of the most flammable thing in his proximity. Through the entrance to the living room, he could see a wicker chair sitting in front of a large window with heavy drapes. Perfect.
He bundled the pants up as much as he could without burning himself, then hooked his foot under the cool side and kicked them across the corridor and through the doorway, where they landed on a rug just shy of the wicker chair.
"Come on, baby," he whispered, licking his lips and watching the flames brighten and swell.
~ ~ ~ ~
Lillia sat up in bed. Something had woken her. A sound, maybe. A clatter. She tried to remember only for a moment. Then she noticed a pulsating glow in the scratches on the window's black paint. It brightened, dimmed, brightened, dimmed, but never fully extinguished.
Kate lay next to her. She climbed out of bed slowly and pulled the blanket up to Kate's neck.
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