Dead Mann Walking by Stefan Petrucha Read Free Book Online Page A

the diaphragm and the legs, like the way a pigeon’s head bobs when it walks. Human body is a complicated mother. The dead ones more so. Sometimes my left leg shakes like it’s hooked up to a vibrator.
    Sure enough, soon as Frankenstein was three yards off, Turgeon went for his gun. I grabbed his elbow. It was a breach in living/dead etiquette, but too fucking bad if he didn’t like a chak touching him. The fat moved loosely aside under my fingers, as if I hadn’t gauged my own strength correctly. The elbow was surprisingly bony.
    He yelped and tried to pull his arm free.
    â€œNo!” I said. “Listen to me. If they’re feral, it won’t help. Kneecap one and you’ll only piss the others off.”
    His face went blank. “You said to bring a gun.”
    â€œFor the hakkers!” I said. “But I guess we should have gone over that in the car, huh?”
    â€œWhat do we do?”
    I was about to tell him to dive for the Humvee, but something caught my eye. The minute I’d said “hakkers,” Frankenstein blinked. Blinking is not something ferals do. It could’ve been a trick of the light, but I didn’t think so. Plus, they were already close enough to charge, but hadn’t.
    I raised my voice so anyone listening could hear me. “Mr. Turgeon, I know you’re scared, but please put the gun away for now, nice and slow.”
    The moment it disappeared into his pocket, the crowd slowed. I heard a relieved hiss.
    Damn.
    I rolled my eyes. “Who the fuck do you think you’re playing with?” I yelled.
    â€œWhat? I did what you asked!” Turgeon said.
    â€œNot you, them !”
    I took a step toward the crowd. “I already said I was one of you!” I shone the flashlight up into my face. “You think I need this crap?”
    When Frankenstein stopped and squinted, it was obvious even to Turgeon they’d been faking. It was a setup. They’d taken us for hakkers and hoped a mass of ferals might scare us off. If we’d been a bunch of drunks on motorcycles it could’ve worked. Nice.
    Frankie held up his hand. “False alarm! Everyone back to places!”
    More moans. Not desolate, just annoyed. He jerked a thumb at the burning car. “And somebody put that thing out!”
    I stuck my hand out open palmed and took our new friend’s paw in my wrinkled mitt.
    â€œHe’s just nervous,” I said, pointing back at Turgeon.
    â€œHe’s not the only one, Mann. I’m Thornell. Word is Bedland’s getting hit tonight.”
    I let go of his hand and punched the air. “Shit! Shit! Shit! That’s what all the theatrics are about?”
    â€œHell, yeah,” Thornell said. “It’s not like the cops are going to help.” As if it itched, he rubbed the rim of the hole in his head, then wiped his fingers on his arm. “You’re so worried about it, what’re you doing here? We figured you had to be hakkers. Who else?”
    I’d hoped to play this close to the chest, in case anyone working for Boyle’s siblings was here ahead of us. But with the hakker odds ramped up, my strategy shifted.
    â€œLong story short, I’ve got some good news for a chak I heard stays here.”
    Thornell laughed. That meant that he was high-functioning, and that he was easing up on us. “Good news? Didn’t know they made that kind.”
    â€œYeah, there are probably snowballs in hell, too.” I pulled out the photo. “Frank Boyle. Look familiar?”
    Thornell stared and scratched his forehead hole again. “We’ve got a Frank, but that’s not him.”
    Maybe he wasn’t all that high-functioning. You never know which parts of the brain are working, and that hole meant at least some was missing.
    â€œLook again. Picture him dead a few months.”
    He squinted, shook his head a while, but finally nodded. “Yeah, yeah. That is Frank. One of our