could see a station-house up ahead. On the roof, DUPRAY SOUTHERN & WESTERN had been painted on faded green shingles.
Got to get off now, Luke thought. Absolutely do not want to meet any uncles.
“One . . .”
He swayed forward.
“Two . . .”
He swayed back.
“Three!”
Luke jumped. He started running in midair, but hit the cinders beside the track with his body going at train speed, which was still a bit faster than his legs could carry him. His upper body tilted forward, and with his arms extended behind him in an effort to maintain his balance, he looked like a speed-skater approaching the finish line.
Just as he began to think he might catch up with himself before he went sprawling, someone shouted “Hey, look out!”
He snapped his head up and saw a man on a forklift halfway between the warehouses and the depot. Another man was rising from a rocker in the shade of the station’s roof, the magazine he’d been reading still in his hand. This one shouted “Ware that post!”
Luke saw the second signal-post, this one flashing red, too late to slow down. He instinctively turned his head and tried to raise his arm, but hit the steel post at full running speed before he could get it all the way up. The right side of his face collided with the post, his bad ear taking the brunt of the blow. He rebounded, hit the cinders, and rolled away from the tracks. He didn’t lose consciousness, but he lost the immediacy of consciousness as the sky swung away, swung back, then swung away again. He felt warmth cascading down his cheek and knew his ear had opened up again—his poor abused ear. An interior voice was screaming at him to get up, to beat feet into the woods, but hearing and heeding were two different things. When he tried scrambling to his feet, it didn’t work.
My scrambler’s broke, he thought. Shit. What a fuckup.
Then the man from the forklift was standing over him. From where Luke lay, he looked about sixteen feet tall. The lenses of his glasses caught the sun, making it impossible to see his eyes. “Jesus, kid, what in the hell did you think you were doing?”
“Trying to get away.” Luke wasn’t sure he was actually speaking, but thought he probably was. “I can’t let them get me, please don’t let them get me.”
The man bent down. “Stop trying to talk, I can’t understand you anyway. You took a hell of a whack on that post, and you’re bleeding like a stuck pig. Move your legs for me.”
Luke did.
“Now move your arms.”
Luke held them up.
Rocking Chair Man joined Forklift Man. Luke tried to use his newly acquired TP to read one or both of them, find out what they knew. He got nothing; when it came to thought-reading, the tide was currently out. For all he knew, the whack he’d taken had knocked the TP clean out of his head.
“He all right, Tim?”
“I think so. I hope so. First aid protocol says not to move a head injury, but I’m going to take a chance.”
“Which of you is supposed to be my uncle?” Luke asked. “Or is it both of you?”
Rocking Chair Man frowned. “Can you understand what he’s saying?”
“No. I’m going to put him in Mr. Jackson’s back room.”
“I’ll take his legs.”
Luke was coming back now. His ear was actually helping in that regard. It felt as if it wanted to drill right into his head. And maybe hide there.
“No, I got him,” Forklift Man said. “He’s not heavy. I want you to call Doc Roper, and ask him to make a house call.”
“More of a warehouse call,” Rocking Chair Man said, and laughed, exposing the yellowed pegs of his teeth.
“Whatever. Go and do it. Use the station phone.”
“Yessir.” Rocking Chair Man gave Forklift Man a half-assed salute, and set off. Forklift Man picked Luke up.
“Put me down,” Luke said. “I can walk.”
“You think so? Let’s see you do it.”
Luke swayed on his feet for a moment, then steadied.
“What’s your name, son?”
Luke considered, not sure he wanted to give it when he didn’t know if this man was an uncle. He looked okay . . . but then, so did Zeke back at the Institute, when he was in one of his rare good moods.
“What’s yours?” he countered.
“Tim Jamieson. Come on, let’s at least get you out of the sun.”
25
Norbert Hollister, owner of a decrepit motel which only kept operating thanks to his monthly stipend