Helltown - Jeremy Bates Page 0,42

It had been too far removed from her world. She’d acknowledged that it happened, but tuned out immediately, just as she had always tuned out thoughts on death when they became too philosophical. Even when her mother died, she had not allowed herself to dwell on what became of her soul. Of course she had been overwhelmed with sadness, but at eleven years of age, it was the sadness of loss, of loneliness, nothing deeper.

Slowly, carefully, Mandy stood. She felt strangely energized, like she could run a marathon. She was alive. Suddenly the concept of living was as invigorating as the concept of death was frightening.

She took a deep breath and tried to figure out what to do next. She couldn’t remain where she was. Cleavon and his brothers might resume their search for her in the morning when, without the cover of nightfall, she would be much more exposed and vulnerable.

She contemplated finding her way to the highway. She could flag down a passing car, get a ride into town. Then again, wasn’t that what Cleavon would expect her to do? What if he collected his car from the “ol’ McGrady house” and prowled the roads for her. She could unwittingly flag him down, just as the distressed damsel always flagged down her tormentor in the movies.

Could she walk all the way to town then? She had no idea how far Boston Mills was, but right then she was determined to walk all night if she had to. She could keep to the verge. If a vehicle came along, she could duck into the woods and hide until it passed—

She nearly slapped her hand against her forehead when she realized what she’d overlooked.

Steve and Noah!

They were likely already on their way back with help. Paramedics, police officers, firefighters. She had to get to the road, wave them down, warn them about Cleavon and his brothers. She wouldn’t be fooled. She’d recognize a police cruiser, or an ambulance. Their lights would be flashing, their klaxons blaring.

With fresh determination, Mandy went searching for the road.

CHAPTER 12

“That cold ain’t the weather. That’s death approaching.”

30 Days of Night (2007)

Cleavon was pacing back and forth in the middle of the road when he spotted a pair of headlights beyond the veil of fog. He moved to the gravel shoulder so Jesse didn’t run him over and waved his arms above his head. The two orbs of white grew brighter until Jesse’s Chevy El Camino appeared and hunkered to a stop before him. Jesse left the engine running as he hopped out one door, Weasel the other.

Jesse was an owlish looking man who always had his head stuck forward and always looked like he had a question on his mind. His big-framed, thick-lensed eyeglasses made his eyes look bigger than they were, while his perpetually puckered kisser made the rest of his face look smaller. He was freshly shaven and wore a beige jacket zippered to his chin against the chill. He liked to tell people he was the CEO of his own company, and he was, technically. What he didn’t tell people was that the company was a one-man operation called JG Outhouse Kleanin Kompany. He also didn’t tell people, if they asked, how he got the third-degree burns on his arms. He probably wouldn’t have told anybody, ever, had Randy not read about it in the Akron Beacon Journal. According to the story, which was now framed behind glass and hanging on the wall of Randy’s pub, Jesse had been working on an emergency toilet hole cleanup job in the middle of the night and had decided he’d needed light and lit a match while down in the hole. He was only lucky he’d been wearing a half-face respirator and goggles, or his face would have gone the way of his arms.

Weasel was still a kid, twenty-one next month, ferret-faced and thin as a rail. God knew why he grew that long-ass goatee, because it made him look all the more feral. He was bushy eyed and eager to please and more times than not dumber than a bucket of coal. He wasn’t a retard like Earl or Floyd, but he was prone to doing stupid shit—like what he did earlier this evening. Cleavon didn’t think Spencer should have given him so much responsibility in the first place. But nobody else wanted the job of skulking Stanford Road for does. High speed chases were dangerous, even if you were the chaser.

Weasel’s folks ran