Still no cars.
The Executioner trotted to the fuel truck, unreeled the hose up the driveway and across the porch. Pulled the nozzle to the mail slot.
A half-inch too big to fit.
He sawed off the nozzle with a folding knife. Pinched the rubber between thumb and forefinger, threaded it through the slot. Pushed till the end touched the floor.
Emily moaned, her rummy nightmare turning bizarre. The blank-faced killer sunk his spurs into a charging pickup truck, trying to run her over. She hurled lightning bolts at his neck. Dead beagles sang show tunes. The blood-red sky opened up, hurling babies onto the Riverwalk. She kicked the blanket to the floor, twisting side to side.
The Executioner started the pump. Unleaded premium lumped the braided hose, like a hamster through a python.
“I am so bored,” Viking muttered as he broke the first of the six dozen eggs he’d scramble later for headquarters’ breakfast. Ham was baking, and bread was rising - he prided himself on fresh country cookin’. “Only fun I had all day was showering those losers.”
“Speaking of which,” said his buddy who headed the bagpipe band, “I heard they complained to both chiefs.”
“Ours and Ken, right,” Viking said.
“Any repercussions?”
“Yep. I have to take remedial training. Learn how to judge wind better.”
“Aw, man, that’s bogus-”
Viking held up a finger. “Said remediation will take place at Our Neighbors. I’ll learn to gauge wind speed and direction by tossing beer at my mouth. If said beer hits, I’m remediated.” He winked. “Since it’s a training mission, Ken said he’s buying.”
“That guy’s almost as cool as a fireman,” his buddy said, scrubbing the refrigerator.
“Nobody’s as cool as a fireman,” Viking said. “But he’s pretty close.”
“Where am I?” Marty groaned, blinking awake.
He looked across the bed. Saw Emily.
Figured it out.
Apparently, his nap turned into an all-nighter. She came home, decided to stay. He was so tired he didn’t hear a thing. Some watchdog. Sweet of her to not wake him, though.
He admired her legs against the navy blue sheets. Settled for kissing the top of her head. The rest would wait till after they talked.
That they would seemed settled.
He was just about asleep when something dripped in his belly.
His eyes popped open. What was it? Nothing in the room but him, Em, and furniture. No sound except the ever-scraping tree limb. No smell. Then again, for him, there never was.
He could taste it, though. Heavy and damp. Sour and viscous. Faintly metallic.
Sewer gas?
Possible, he supposed. Maybe the toilet shifted during installation. Or the wax seal cracked. Whatever. Easy enough to fix. He’d do it now so Em didn’t get nauseous. He had a wrench on the Leatherman tool on his belt, and a spare seal under the sink.
He headed for the bathroom.
Time to go, the Executioner decided. The house contained enough gasoline to redefine “crematorium,” and his heart was beating risk-risk-risk. He loved it. He was never so alive as when he froze the world then broke it into pieces . . .
The starter ground. It wouldn’t catch.
“Come on,” he said. “Come on . . .”
Maybe I was dreaming about the taste, Marty thought as he opened the bathroom door.
“No, no, no, no,” he heard Emily moan.
He walked over, concerned. She was twisting and kicking, muttering “mama,” “beagles,” and “truck.” He peered at her eyelids. They jumped like bass to bait.
Deep REM sleep, he decided.
He picked up the blanket and spread it across her. Then paced the bedroom, tasting the air like a bomb dog. Definitely no dream - the metallic was more palpable now. Emily surely needed the sleep, but if he didn’t find the source in ten minutes, he’d wake her and get out. No sense taking chances. Let Hazmat figure out what it was.
Passing the window, he wondered if it was external. Riding the breeze from elsewhere and seeping through the cracks. He lifted the sash, gulped air.
Not outside.
He continued his patrol.
* * *
The hose tip retreated off the porch and down the driveway. It unlooped the curbside mailbox, straightened out behind the truck. Twenty seconds later it was even with the VFW.
The Executioner hopped out, shut down the pump, stored the hose, moved the truck another twenty yards, trotted back to the start of his long, stinky fuse.
Pulled the box of matches.
Marty padded to the first floor, awash in moonglow from the huge skylight. Emily installed it to bathe the stairs and landing in natural light. He’d been leery when she explained what she had in mind - skylights leaked when not installed perfectly - but it turned into one of his favorite features. Didn’t leak a drop in even the heaviest storm-