She gave him an apologetic look in the rearview. He didn't buy it. And he couldn't look at her without getting mad. He didn't even know why it bothered him.
"Keep driving," Shadow said. "Don't stop for these scavengers."
In a different mood, Dylan might have argued. He didn't want to hurt anyone. But he told himself he didn't care anymore. The world was going to hell anyway. Anyone he had ever loved was probably dead. The DJ hadn't listed France as one of the inflicted countries, so his mom might have been okay, but chances were she wasn't. And Friday was a slut.
He gripped the wheel and accelerated, weaving between the wrecks.
A woman with a shopping cart full of clothes, skateboards, and other booty wheeled in front of him. Dylan slammed his brakes, but hit the cart. It spilled, and a few skateboards rolled away. One went under a Volkswagen Bug.
Shadow cheered and punched Dylan's shoulder. "Slug bug!"
The woman who had been pushing the cart stared as the Impala passed. Her eyes were wide, glazed. Dylan wanted to yell at her-she had almost gotten herself killed-but he couldn't even muster a glare.
The woman brushed back her bangs with a shaky hand and walked away, stunned.
Dylan's eyes darted from side to side, following every movement around him as he navigated the maze. He couldn't stop tapping the brakes, afraid someone else would shoot in front of him, afraid to mow anyone down.
"Faster," Shadow urged.
Dylan tried. He maneuvered through a cranny between a sedan and an Intrigue and flinched as he took off the Intrigue's rearview mirror. Past that, the maze ended in a crumple of cars.
"We're stuck," he said, slowing down.
Shadow pointed to the left. "Through that parking lot. Jump the curb."
The lot in question spanned more than two city blocks, servicing one long building divided into several stores: a shop for baby clothes, one for electronics, and a Sears. Concrete archways opened onto a covered path along the front. Aside from the plunderers and a few kids playing bumper cars with riding lawnmowers, the roadway through the lot was clear.
Dylan gritted his teeth as the Impala bounced over the sidewalk, over the parking curb. The suspension creaked and the chassis groaned. Several people jumped aside, clearing the way. Dylan sighed, but was still wary of pedestrians.
Around the side of the building, near a coffee stand and 6th Street, a police cruiser was parked. The cop stared at Dylan, his face emotionless, his eyes cold. He sat like a Greek statue, all motionless and muscular stone. His head was completely shaved.
Dylan passed, and the cruiser followed him, silent like a panther, almost as if the cop had been waiting for them. The car's emergency lights stayed dark.
"Po-po," Shadow said. "Step on it."
But Dylan couldn't. Another cop pulled in front of him, barring the path that led between the parked cars. Dylan had to stop.
The officer behind them got out and approached the driver's-side window, as stiff and powerful as a statue in motion. His hand hung near his gun like a rock.
Twenty-two.
"Go," Shadow said, hiding the gun beneath his Ramones t-shirt. "No rules. Just ram him."
Friday said nothing. She crossed her arms to shield her breasts.
Dylan checked his side rearview. The stone cop was almost to the window. The other cop sat in his car, leering, his eyes beady and almost black. He looked fat and pink, like a pig in uniform, malicious and very hungry.
The two cruisers held Dylan in tight. Even if he rammed them, he couldn't escape. And he wasn't sure he wanted to. Shadow seemed very anxious to avoid the law. He had warrants. Maybe the officers would arrest him.
The stone cop rapped his knuckle against the window and fixed his eyes on Dylan. They were gray, like gravel. He didn't seem to blink.
The cop's nametag read, "Staley." He didn't look like a Staley. And grease saturated the cracks in his hands, as if he were an auto-mechanic, not a cop. His uniform strained around his shoulders and chest, too small for his bulk.
Friday shifted. She set one hand atop the briefcase on the seat next to her.
"Just go," Shadow whispered. He laid his hand over the gun beneath his shirt. Hopefully, he wouldn't try anything stupid.
Staley tapped again, and Dylan rolled down his window. In the background, glass shattered and people yelled. Looters ran by with armfuls of merchandise, and a kid rode past on a lawnmower; the cops didn't even glance at them.
"License and registration," Staley said, his voice as dry as desert sand. He smelled like breath mints and cologne. He never took his eyes off Dylan, not even to check the passengers.
That's when Dylan saw the blood-rimmed bullet hole just below Staley's badge. Underneath, he wore a white shirt. It was clean. No hole.
The Pig in the other cruiser spoke into his radio; his whispers hissed from Staley's unit, attached to his shoulder. Dylan thought he heard words surfacing in the nonsense. Words like "gut them" and "fuck," followed by little titters.
"License and registration-"
Shadow opened his door, using it like a gate to block Staley. He bolted around the empty cruiser, and the cop booted the door shut to chase him. He went to draw his gun.
"No," the Pig said through the radio. He had a high-pitched Texan drawl; he sounded like a girl, or someone pretending to be a girl, except it was his real voice. "Forget him. Deal with the others."
Staley's hand fell away from his pistol. He turned back to the driver's-side window, and Dylan glanced at Friday in the rearview. She was white.
"Excuse me, officer," Dylan said, trying not to stammer, "but what did we-"
The cop stun-gunned him. It was like being hit with lightning, and it made him convulse.
Staley threw open the back door, and Friday screeched. There was a strange buzz and crackle as he zapped her. She flopped around on the seat and then fell limp. Staley cuffed her, then dragged Dylan to the concrete and cuffed him too. The manacles dug into Dylan's wrists. He couldn't fight back, still incapacitated from the shock.
The cop marshaled him into the Pig's cruiser and then put Friday in the other car. Staley began to drive away with her.
From the front seat, the Pig grinned back at Dylan. "I've been waiting for you," he said, following his accomplice. "Oh, the fun we'll have."
Twenty-three.
"So," the Pig said, following Staley back through the parking lot riot, "what do you think of my city?"
Dylan stared out the windshield, through the mesh that separated him from the driver. He could see Friday in the second cruiser, just a pale face gazing out the back window. He didn't plan to lose sight of her.
"It's a fixer-upper," the Pig continued, "but that's part of the fun, right? Once I've burned all the trash, all these sniveling little shits, I can make it anything I want-I can do whatever I want. Because it's mine. I made it."
The Pig stared at him in the rearview for a moment. Dylan could feel those beady eyes greasing him, and he forced himself not to meet them. He wished he still had his shirt, but he had lost it back at Pubes' house.
The car reeked of armpits, hotdogs, and something spicy.
The Pig chortled. "You're a real looker," he said, his voice lower, huskier, as close to a purr as it could get. "I knew I was a genius, but I never dreamed I could make something as precious as you."
Dylan met the cop's eyes this time. He couldn't help it. The man had just claimed to be his creator.
The Pig's smile widened, making his face fatter, his eyes narrower. "Oh yes, I know. You think you're special, that you have an identity. You think the world revolves around you. You all think that. Maybe because I like hard to get, I don't know. But I do know this: it's my world, Dylan Bradley, and I can destroy it. I am your God."
Dylan felt a little shiver in the pit of his stomach. Goosebumps broke out on his arms. He had not given his name, yet this man knew it. As if he were, in fact, God.
Ahead, Staley hit a skater. The kid somersaulted to the side, shrieking, his legs twisted and bony. The Pig snickered and flipped him off as he passed.
Both cruisers crossed the street to a two-story building: the first story was surfaced with red brick, but the second story was walled with white siding. The sign at the entrance read, "Juvenile Detention Center."
Dylan had been there before. After high school graduation, he and Minnie had shared a fifth of vodka. They went to 7-11 for snacks, and a cop arrested him in the parking lot. The officer brought him to the detention center. One of the attendants snipped the hemp anklet Minnie had made him-it felt as if he had severed an artery. Then the attendant locked Dylan in the drunk tank until his mom came to get him.
The two police cruisers parked near the drunk tank entrance, a gun-metal door with a slat window reinforced with wire mesh. Dylan and the Pig watched as Staley bullied Friday inside. Then the stone cop returned for Dylan.
"Careful with this one," the Pig said. "He's too pretty a peach to bruise. My ripest yet."
Staley nodded and dragged Dylan to the door. The Pig followed them inside.
In the drunk tank, Friday pressed her hands to the Plexiglas; they had uncuffed her. She stood in a snowdrift of ashes, singed limbs scattered here and there, feet still in their shoes. On the glass, the brief fires had left burns of greasy soot; the smell of burnt flesh permeated the hallway. It was like something out of Auschwitz.
"Gitchy gitchy goo," the Pig crooned, pretending to tickle Friday's naked breasts through the glass. "You'll burn like the rest of the trash." He turned to Dylan. "Say goodbye to the cunt. She's got no place in this world."
Friday coughed, probably bothered by all that ash. She met Dylan's eyes and began to weep. No sound, just tears, rolling down her cheek. A fine wisp of black hair covered her scar. Her lower lip trembled.
Dylan fought back his own tumult of growls and sobs. He wanted to put his hand over hers on the glass, wanted to tell her it was all right, but Staley pushed him along.
Dylan looked back past the Pig, keeping her in sight as long as possible. Then they went through a set of double doors, and Friday was gone.
The Pig chuckled. "She'll be dead in less than an hour."
Dylan had a horrible feeling he was right.
Twenty-four.
Staley brought Dylan to a room with a bed and a plain wood dresser. Apparently, juveniles lived here during a correctional period. The walls were bare and spackled white, and the bed was clothed in a thin blue blanket and a crisp sheet.
The Pig stood just inside the room, to the right of the door. "Cuff him to the bed," he told Staley.
The big cop nodded and chained Dylan to the metal bar of the frame. Dylan had to kneel, with his back to the entrance.
"Good," the Pig said to Staley. "You can go watch the girl now. I know you want to."
The big cop nodded again and left the room. He shut the door and locked it from the outside.
"He may be dumber than bricks," the Pig said, undoing his belt, "but he's as loyal as a dog."
"You're not a real cop," Dylan interjected. "Neither of you are."
The Pig giggled. "I'm whatever I want to be, Dylan. In this world, I am the law."
It was still unsettling that the creep knew his name. Maybe he was psychic. It made sense. He claimed to have foreseen Dylan's arrival, and the cops had been waiting in the right place. That meant the Pig knew how all this would end. Or at least he thought he knew.
He undid his pants button, sighing as he freed the fat around his waist. "Feels good to let it all hang out, don't you think?" He dropped his pants. Something small pitched a tent in his boxers.
Dylan almost laughed, part shock, part nerves, but also part cruelty, the desire to insult his enemy. This man claimed to have created the world, yet he had endowed himself with the penis of an infant.
Then again, maybe he was a pedophile and the package met his needs.
The Pig must have heard his thoughts; his grin curled into a snarl. "Oh, don't you worry, peaches. You'll feel it. By the time I'm done, you'll wish I had burned you with the others."
He stepped out of his pants, still wearing his shoes, white socks wadded around his skinny ankles. His legs looked like plucked chickens. He obviously shaved them.
The Pig gloated over Dylan and reached around his waist. His stink was horrible, a funk of oil, sweat, and feces, all simmering in body heat. The Pig's belly brushed Dylan's back and rankled the blisters.
"You like that?" he whispered, groping Dylan's crotch through his cargos. His breath slicked Dylan's neck and ear, heavy and thick like fry grease.
Tears burned in Dylan's eyes. He quaked like a volcano and clenched his fists and teeth. The handcuffs cut into his wrists.
"Yes," the Pig breathed.
Then he punched Dylan in the mouth.
Dylan tried hard not to whimper or to give any indication that he was hurt. His lip fattened and numbed, and blood tinged his tongue. It dripped onto the blue carpet.
The Pig yanked Dylan's head back by the hair and lapped at the blood and tears.
"Cry, you little slut, cry."
With his other hand, he fumbled open Dylan's pants button and zipper. He found his way inside and clamped Dylan's testicles in a clammy, trembling palm.
With a roar, Dylan head-butted the Pig's nose. Hot blood gushed down his back and stung his blisters.
The Pig cried out and fell on his ass. Dylan kicked him, pummeling his shoulders, chest, and potbelly. The Pig squealed and blocked his face, but Dylan got in a good blow, knocking the molester's jaw to one side.