Mockingbird by Chuck Wendig Read Free Book Online Page B

about it. Thirty seconds. Game over. I've spent more time smoking a cigarette."
      "You don't want me there."
      "No," she says. " You don't want you there."
      "I've got to go. What she's paying should cover you, but just in case–" He peels a trio of twenties out of his money clip. "Here. Get a cab. Go rent a motel room for the night. I have a quick run up to Erie, and I'll be back tomorrow."
      "You're really leaving me. Please. Stay."
      "Go on. It'll be fine."
      "Fine," she says. "I don't – you know what? I don't need you. This is what I do best. Walk. Wander. Alone. It'll be fine."
      "It will be fine."
      "It will , it totally will. Later, Louis."
      "Miriam, I'm sorry–"
      But she doesn't want to hear it. She's worked up. Miriam's already hopping out of the truck, his voice lost to the slamming door.
      The truck grumbles, reverses, and is gone.
      The Gates of Hell remain open. Just for her.
      "You going in or what?" Homer asks.
      She almost doesn't. Something about this place gives her a bad vibe and she's not even through the gates. She can't see the school yet – it's a winding drive that takes an elbow curve into the woods. All she has before her are the iron gates, the guard's booth, and a brass plaque on pale brick that says The Caldecott School in dizzying calligraphic loops and whorls.
      Going back to school always gave Miriam the pissshivers. Even though it's late summer and the Caldecott School starts its year early, the feeling is the same: The days are getting shorter, mornings darker, evenings creep on like a stalker outside your window. With the end of summer comes the start of school, and school was never a good time for Miriam. The classes, sure. Tests. Papers. Lectures. Those were fine. But the other kids. Mean, shitty little fucks. Grade school – elementary and up – is like being dropped in a dunk tank filled with starving piranha.
      And they never get full.
      Every part of her wants to run away. Even though she's an adult. She doesn't have to do this anymore.
      But Homer snaps the fingers on both hands at her. "Come on, now, shit or get out the outhouse."
      Miriam jogs through the gates.
      They close behind her with a mechanical whine.
      Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
       Clang . The way is shut.
      Still, her fingers tingle. While every other part of her – down to the twisting, thrumming marrow – wants to bolt for the woods, her hands know where they want her to go. They want to feed. They want to taste death.
      Five-fingered vampires, they are.
      "I… walk?" she asks Homer.
      He leans out of the booth, looks up and down the drive, and then scowls at her. "Where the hell else you planning on going? It's one road. It goes to one place. You want a map and a hang-glider?"
      "I just figured you had a golf cart or something."
      "Oh, I got one up my ass but my doctor says I should keep it up there in case it tears something bad coming out."
      "You're funny. You. Are. Funny. You missed your calling, Homer. Should've been a comedian."
      "Why'd the chicken cross the road?"
      She knows she shouldn't bother, but says anyway, "Why?"
      "To peck you in the butthole so you hurry the hell away from my guard booth. Like I told Mister Truck Driver, it's lunch-time and I am goddamn hungry."
      "Okay. Bye, Homer."
      "See you on the way out, Miss Black."
      "How far is the school?"
      "Far as it needs to be." He laughs.
      Asshole.
      She likes him.
      Time, then, to go back to school.
      The road is paved, no potholes, smooth as a beetle's back. Trees rise up on each side of her, these trees nothing like the scrub pines of Nowhere, New Jersey – these tall legacy oaks ringed in dark wet bark, each a silent sentinel, each a judging spire.
      Soon she hears it: the murmur of river water.
      The river reveals itself before too long. Five minutes later, the trees give way to a grassy uneven bank, and beyond