The Twelve-Fingered Boy by John Hornor Jacobs Read Free Book Online

truck, to listen for Cather’s snores. There weren’t any. But the TV still blared, and I doubted anyone could hear me. The fatty probably shifted in his sleep and closed his mouth.
    I stood there in the dark for a few long moments, thinking about the keys and the truck and my mom and Vig back in our trailer and how I’d never be able to leave until Vig was eighteen or Moms was dead, drowned in alcohol. And those keys said things to me that went beyond speech or even thought. Like maybe they were a jailer’s keys, and all I had to do was turn them and change my life. Like there was nothing for it but to run.
    I slipped behind the wheel and adjusted the seat, all without thinking. I cranked the ignition and the truck roared, vibrating and monstrous and raw. I threw it into gear, backed it out, yanking the wheel right so the truck’s ass slewed left. And then I jammed it into drive and stomped the accelerator as far down as my foot would reach. The truck jumped and bucked like a bronco, the tail shifting and floating sideways, throwing the mud and gravel of the little trailer park road. Then finally the wheels caught and I was shooting forward, my heart doing its best to hammer its way out of my chest. And then the windshield went opaque with cracks, a million little facets, and I heard the cracks of what sounded like a rifle. Small pops, far away under the roar of the truck. And then the cab filled with a red fog, and I realized I was free, falling into the black, slipping into darkness, like a bird shot on the half-lit cusp where day meets night.
    I looked down and saw the blood pumping from my arm, drenching my shirt and pants, making a crimson mess all over the cab. All I thought was that Cather would kill me if he caught me.
    The truck slewed to the right. Now that I had trouble controlling it with my right hand, the steering wheel had a life of its own.
    Then there were more pops, one after another. The front windshield collapsed, and the rear one as well, and I found myself in a shower of glass and furious wind. I thought I should crouch down to avoid being shot, but by then my body was as out of control as the truck. The rig slammed into a car, caromed off it, and sideswiped a trailer. And then I was spinning, upside down, on the ceiling of the cab, then on the floor, then slamming into the dashboard. I felt parts of me go crunchy inside, and I thought I might black out. But I never did; I never faded to black. I held on until the truck came to a stop, upside down, the engine still running.
    I remember fat Cather’s face filling the window, as angry as a devil’s until he saw me. Then his face kinda crumpled like an empty beer can.
    I’m sure I was quite a sight.
    â€œDammit. Dammit.”
    Mrs. Johnson appeared behind him, and her daughter. The girl had a cell phone to her ear and was speaking quickly to someone.
    â€œIt’s the Cannon kid. The oldest.” Mrs. Johnson covered her mouth and glared at Cather.
    â€œHe’s been shot.”
    Cather sounded hurt. “I didn’t mean to! He stole my truck! How was I supposed to know?”
    â€œYou just started shooting?”
    Sirens sounded in the distance. Cather made a halfhearted effort to open the door and get me out.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said. But the words didn’t sound right, and Mrs. Johnson shushed me.
    â€œCall again, Louise. He can’t talk, and there’s blood everywhere.”

SEVEN
    On the inside, on Saturdays Booth unlocks the remote controls for the televisions, each set hanging dead and dull behind chicken wire all week, and passes the remotes out to the boys with the least demerits—which, believe it or not, never includes me.
    I tested it once and went on hiatus from the candy sales, did all my homework and towed the line, walked the straight and narrow, and didn’t get one demerit all week. But when the time came to pass out the remotes, Booth looked at me, snorted, and