* * * * *
Gasoline started to run down both sides of the fire engine tank. Frank took another drink from the bottle of vodka and climbed back into the driver’s seat. The vodka didn’t have the sweet, seductive bite of the rum, but he could feel the chill bloom into warmth as it hit his stomach. It would do. Before the rest of him could talk himself out of it, he plucked another pill out of the baggie and washed it down with vodka.
The distant whine of ATVs rose above the clunking gas pump and Frank realized that he’d only seen about five or six Glouck boys in the back of the station wagon. That left at least eight boys or more somewhere in town. The engines slowed and stopped and Frank knew they were at the park.
He hit the accelerator, pulling away without bothering to take out the nozzle, turn the pump off, or screw the cap back on. The fire engine roared down the wide street.
His original plan was to hose down the park and the rest of the surrounding buildings with gasoline and wait for Sturm to show up. Then, with a match or even a few bullets through the tank, he could take out everyone with a three-block radius. Hell, if he could, he’d burn the whole fucking town. Just turn everything into a fiery holocaust.
But the arrival of the Glouck boys had changed his plans.
* * * * *
The fire engine handled like a fat woman slathered in cooking oil with the shifting weight of the gasoline in the tank. The sun stabbed into the cab. Frank blinked and felt his eyes slipping again, flipping over into photo-negative mode. But this time he was ready. He fumbled for his sunglasses. He glanced up, saw the street, in blinding white light, and had just slipped on the glasses on when he heard gunfire.
He hit the brakes, feeling the truck surge and jump under him. Using a combination of the brake pedal and the emergency brake, he managed to slow down without sliding over the road too much. More gunfire.
He saw the trees in the park. Felt, rather than heard, booming shotguns, interspersed with the purposeful cracks of two revolvers. And finally saw Sturm as a ghostly figure striding through a desolate landscape, shooting smaller shapes. Jack and Pine trailed along behind, finishing off the Glouck boys, making sure there were no survivors. Jack had a shotgun, and stopped every few seconds, shooting wounded Gloucks. Pine had a machete, and hacked away at anything that moved.
It took Frank a few seconds to comprehend that were killing their own brothers and stepbrothers.
* * * * *
Sturm heard the fire engine, turned to it, and fired. A hole appeared in the windshield and Frank felt something thump into the seat, inches from his right shoulder. Frank hit the clutch and the emergency brake at the same time.
Sturm fired again, and another hole appeared. But this time it smashed through the window behind Frank’s head with a dull whistling rush. He must have been out of bullets because he put his revolvers back into the holsters and put the picnic table between him and the fire engine.
Frank hit the gas. The truck yawed and pitched and Frank fought her the whole way, sliding through the grass. Frank crunched the gearshift into first and popped the clutch. The truck launched itself through the picnic table after Sturm.
For a split second, Sturm was a fearless matador without a red cape, facing down a pissed off three ton vehicle. Calm, like he was going out for a Sunday stroll with the dog, he moved to the left, and Frank tracked him. And when Frank knew he had him, he eased off on the gas but Frank wasn’t expecting the tank full of gasoline to slam forward, pushing the cab before it in mindless fury, throwing the steering all to hell. Sturm simply stepped aside.
The fire engine smashed into a two-foot thick elm tree with the sound of dry thunder, the back end bounced with the impact, and for a moment, under a burning mid day sun, everything, even the dust in the air, was still.
* * * * *
Frank heard voices. The words didn’t make sense. He thought he was sitting upright in the fire engine cab, but all he could see was some smooth, curving piece of metal and the dry leaves under a bleached sky.
He had been thrown into the dashboard and had his head stuck somehow between the steering wheel and instrument panel and the door, staring up through the windshield. He untangled himself and sat upright as much as possible. The seat and the dash had suddenly gotten much closer. He didn’t know if it was the first or second pill or the crash but suddenly, he was feeling decidedly calm. Relaxed, even. Blood, both fresh and dry, streaked his face. He’d somehow ripped his shirt. But nothing much hurt anymore.
He got out and stepped into a flood of gasoline. The crash had broken something loose, but hadn’t sparked. Steam hissed from a crumpled radiator. The nearly sweet stench of gasoline hung heavy in the air, stinging Frank’s eyes and nose.
Ten feet away, Sturm mechanically reloaded his revolvers, using speed loaders. He slapped the cylinders back in to place and spun them, then turned to Frank. Pine was way off to the left, keeping well away from the tank. He cut the air around him in short, swift strokes with his machete, as if the blade was thinking for him. Frank couldn’t see Jack.
But he could see a lioness, slinking from between a couple of abandoned houses, nose twitching, eyes locked on the corpses. Frank let his gaze wander for a moment and saw another lioness, a wolf, and even more animals. They were drawn by the smell of death to this park. It was as if the park was calling to all of these animals, drawing them in, like some kind of magnet.
Sturm said, in an even, emotionless voice, “Fuck’s wrong with you, son?” He cocked one of the revolvers and brought it up.
Frank reached into his pocket and came out with Chuck’s matches. “Shoot. Go ahead,” Frank said, striking a match.
Sturm hesitated.
“I mean it,” Frank said, watching the small flame.
“Why’d you come back, son? This ain’t your home,” Sturm said.
“Drop ’em, right fucking now. Or I’ll drop this.” Frank pinched the burning match between his thumb and forefinger and held it out to the side, directly over the pool of gasoline. “We’ll all go up. This whole fucking town.”
“Why? I took you in. I showed you nothing but love,” Sturm said.
The match went out.
Frank went to strike another, quick, but something hard and heavy and dark exploded in the back of his head and the last thing he knew, he was pitching forward into the lake of gasoline, unlit match and matchbook falling from his fingers.
* * * * *
Frank tried to breathe, tasted blood and dirt and gasoline.
It hit his lungs like Drano attacking a clot of hair in a sink. He whipped his head out of black water, sucking in a ragged, searing breath, and found that he had been facedown in the middle of one of Sturm’s rice paddies.
Frank knew this was it. He was beyond kidding himself. But surprisingly, he realized that he was okay with the idea of death. It didn’t bother him as much as it had. In some ways, death was liberating. The worst had happened. And now that it was here, it was a relief. This life would be behind him and he would be held accountable for it. Frank just hoped it was quick.
The sun hung directly overhead, burning away the shadows. The water lay flat and smooth, except for bones that littered the edge of the water; sheep ribcages curled into the muck. Among the rotting carcasses, other rough, segmented humps lurked. He squinted in the scalding sunlight.
One of the humps moved. A segmented tail swept lazily through the muddy water. Just above the surface, cold green eyes watched him. Something gripped him deep inside and squeezed unmercifully. Sturm had known, seen Frank’s fear when he watched Frank’s reaction when they climbed up the metal stairs. And so, just in case, weeks ago, he’d sent Jack and Pine back to the zoo to haul away one more load.