The Same Place (The Lamb and the Lion #2) - Gregory Ashe Page 0,138
to come through here with a flamethrower and Agent Orange.”
“I can’t believe I wanted to go camping with you,” Tean said.
“I love camping,” Jem said, perking up.
“Also, Agent Orange caused an unbelievable amount of environmental damage to Vietnam. Thousands of square miles of forest were destroyed. And Vietnamese people and U.S. soldiers experienced long-lasting effects, including birth defects.”
“But I bet it got rid of all the nettles, so, kind of a fair trade.”
At the next building, which was much larger, they stopped again at a series of windows on the south wall. Tean stretched up onto his toes, scrubbed with the heel of his hand to clear a patch of glass, and looked inside. He dropped back down.
“Leroy is in there,” Tean whispered.
“I was right. Fucking hallelujah, I was right. Go on, you can tell me I’m a genius.”
“You’re a genius. He’s in there. And he’s got animals. Now let’s go.”
“The alligator?”
“I don’t know; it’s a bad view because something is stacked in front of the window. I just saw a dog with him.”
Cradling his hand, Jem made a face. “Always with the fucking dogs. I bet dogs love nettles.”
“Come on,” Tean whispered, yanking on Jem’s tee. “Let’s go.”
“We saw him with one dog. Let’s see if we can spot anything else.”
“No way. We’re leaving.”
“Do you really want to call Ammon and tell him you saw one man and a dog, and hey, he should probably investigate just in case a killer alligator has teamed up with the world’s most poisonous nettles?”
“I literally have no idea what you’re saying.”
“Five more minutes,” Jem said. He was grinning, crooked front teeth showing, his eyes bright and boyish. “I’ll check the windows at that end. You stay here.”
“I’m not staying here.”
“Then check the windows around the other corner. We’ll meet back in five.”
“Jem, no—”
But Jem was already moving.
Tean noticed another sound, a low rumbling. It got into his head, mechanical and regular, as he crept along the side of the building. Part of him recognized it as an engine. Another part, though, was thinking about bee swarms, how swatting them released a pheromone that only made things worse. It was the smell of their fellow bees dying that made them crazy. Instead of retreating, they became berserkers.
When he reached the next set of dirt-specked windows, he had almost made his way to the front of the building. Looking through the glass, he realized he could see clear through to the other side, where a rolling door had been raised. The smudged glass gave only a wavy image of Leroy Erickson, his shaved head pink and dull like a thumb sticking out of his overalls. The dog was gone.
Then Tean heard the snarl: low and vicious. He glanced around. Nothing but nettles and buffalo grass and Queen Anne’s lace that had burned up in the sun.
“Get him!” Leroy shouted
And Jem screamed.
37
The scream unlocked Tean’s muscles, and he ran. He reversed course, sprinting along the perimeter of the building in the direction Jem had gone. He forgot about the nettles; he was only distantly aware of the heat in his arms, the backs of his hands, like he’d rolled in ground-up glass. The scream went on and on, partially pain, mostly terror.
When Tean skidded around the next corner, he saw them. Jem was on his back, one arm raised to protect himself. That arm was already a bloody mess. The dog lunged, caught Jem’s arm again, and bit down. He shook Jem’s arm the way Scipio sometimes shook his avocado, a squishy dog toy that a friend had given him.
“Get him, Roger,” Leroy was yelling from the rollup door. “Kill that motherfucker!”
Like a snapshot, Tean’s eye captured in an instant what was happening: the dog, Jem, the tiny comets of blood on Jem’s cheeks and forehead, his eyes squeezed shut, Leroy flushed with excitement, and beyond Leroy, a box truck half-loaded with crates and pens that held turtles, foxes, jackrabbits, an angry tom that kept hissing. He was moving them. Another day—another few hours—and the animals would have been gone.
Then Tean kept moving, running toward Roger and Jem. The dog had dropped Jem’s arm and was lunging and snapping again, wild with excitement.
“Cover your head and belly,” Tean shouted as he ran. “Jem, cover your head and belly. Potato-bug style! Fingers in, fingers in, make a fist!” Then he was pulling his polo over his head, the sun hot on his skin, the sensation of moving air, the stinging brush of the nettle.