Catholic Guilt and the Joy of Hating Men by Regan Wolfrom Read Free Book Online Page B

started on about her. Like she’s Satan’s mother-in-law. Just... be careful.”
    I gave him a nod before I started walking, because that’s what you do, even when some guy’s lying motionless on the ground; my parents raised me right.
    I walked out to the main road and considered my options. I had no idea where I was. Near Rutland or something? Which in theory was in Vermont, which matched the license plates I’d seen yesterday.
    And it matched the license plate of a silver sedan that was idling on the shoulder.
    “Is this your ride?” I asked him.
    “That was the plan.”
    “Well if you’re not using it...”
    “No, I’ll be using it. I guess.”
    “Oh. Okay.”
    “Head to your left,” the Chinese man said. “That’ll take you into town.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “I’m a Green Mountain Boy, born and bred.”
    I took him at his word. “Thanks,” I said. “I don’t mean to butt in, but is there any way you could avoid killing those two idiots?”
    “I’m not a murderer,” he said. “I’ll do what I can.”
    “Uh... thanks.”
    I started walking up the road. I checked back every minute or so, but no one was following me. The car was still sitting on the shoulder, its headlights on and I assumed its motor still running.
    It was cold by then, the wind chilling my bare legs. It’s amazing how much that can slow a person down. It was dark and the moon was covered in cloud, and the road was completely empty.
    I didn’t know how long a walk I had.
    I couldn’t help but feel guilty for leaving my teammates behind. If the Chinese guy was able to snap out of the macoute thing somehow... that meant I wasn’t just turning my back on some brainless zombies.
    I kept walking.

    The first house I found along the road had some lights on upstairs; I rang the doorbell and a dog started barking.
    A woman with long red hair answered the door. She was in a housecoat, but her face was caked in white makeup; she reminded me of that English queen who pasted herself up... Cate Blanchett.
    “You poor thing,” she said. “You must be freezing in that getup.”
    Soon I was invited inside and lent a pair of sweatpants and given a cup of the world’s worst instant coffee.
    They were a youngish couple, maybe early thirties, the husband a slightly overweight man dressed in hipster plaid. Their house was classic Vermont, with country french wallpaper and oil paintings of red barns and roosters, and a beautiful hardwood curio with a collection of antique tea sets. It’s the kind of look you can only pull off if you actually live over there.
    The man seemed panicked, his hands shaking as he dialed the numbers on his cell phone; the woman was calmer, like she knew that her tranquility was exactly what I needed.
    “Your friends will be alright,” she said. “The Sheriff’s Department is good at what they do.”
    The man walked out of the kitchen with the cell phone, closing the sliding door behind him.
    “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m not traumatized or anything.”
    “You’re in shock,” she said. “But that’s good. You need time to process what happened.”
    “Maybe...”
    “It’s terrible what they did to you. I can’t believe that the Allens would do something like this. Their family’s been here for generations.”
    “So that makes them less likely to own slaves?” I said. And then I felt like an ass. “Sorry.”
    “It’s okay... we’ll chalk that up to the shock.” She smiled.
    The man came back into the kitchen.
    “They’ve been dispatched to the Allens,” he said. “They’ll send someone over here when they get the chance. They told me to make sure you eat something.”
    “We have muffins,” the woman said.
    “Wow,” I said. “You guys have quite the home here. Beautiful furniture and... uh... teapots, and fresh-baked muffins.”
    “They’re from Costco.”
    “Oh. Sorry.”
    “Maybe just stop talking,” the woman said. She seemed to catch herself, and smiled again. “You