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uniform that they both thought was so silly. It usually did not bother Shawna when Mom left for work at night because Shawna knew
how badly they needed money. But tonight it did bother her. Because tonight, something was terribly wrong.
The road was flanked by parked trucks, some with lights shining, others dark, like giant metal beasts napping for a while. One of the
darkened trucks--a short funny looking one with no trailer behind it--was parked beneath a street light and Shawna saw someone
climb up on it, open the door and lean inside.
A moment later, the person on the side of the truck fell backward onto the road and began to crawl, face up, away from the truck.
Shawna gave a tiny gasp as she clutched the curtain, then a startled little squeak when Mrs. Tipton said, "Here's your cider, hon--oh,
I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. You okay?"
"There's something wrong."
"What?"
"Something's ... just wrong."
Mrs. Tipton put the steaming mug on the nightstand and sat on the bed, motioning for Shawna to join her. "What's wrong, honey? Do
you feel bad? Are you in pain?"
"No, not me. There's somebody down there." Shawna turned to the window again and pointed.
"Well, of course there is. There are lots of people down there." Mrs. Tipton walked over to Shawna's side and put an arm around her.
"No, look. Down there. See? Someone fell off of that truck." She watched as another figure stepped down from the truck and
approached the one on the ground, which was still crawling backward frantically. "And now that one there is--"
"Oh, you just come away from there, sweetheart," Mrs. Tipton said, turning her from the window and leading her to bed. "You don't
need to watch all the goings on down there. Those truckers, sometimes they just forget how to behave in public and they start picking
on each other. It's nothing you need to see. Besides, that window's cold. You should snuggle into bed where it's warm." She went
back to the window and pulled the shade down, then tucked Shawna into bed, pulling the covers up around her chin. "Would you like
some music? I can turn the radio on."
"Okay," she said softly. But her eyes were still on the shaded window, her imagination still down on the road in front of the truck stop.
Mrs. Tipton turned the dial on the radio beside Shawna's bed until she found some gentle, soothing music, then leaned over Shawna
and smiled. She was a round woman with hair the color of wood smoke, sparkling eyes surrounded by little crinkles and false teeth
that shifted and clicked when she smiled.
"Now," Mrs. Tipton whispered, stroking Shawna's cheek, "you think some nice thoughts and you'll have some nice dreams."
Shawna tried to smile as she nodded and Mrs. Tipton kissed her on the forehead. She left the bedroom door half open and Shawna
could hear the stairs creak as she went back down to watch television.
But Shawna could not think pleasant thoughts and she didn't expect to be asleep very soon. Because something was still terribly
wrong...
"Jon!" Bill hissed as he watched his son fall out of the cab and scurry over the slushy pavement like a crab. His insides shriveled
when he saw the look of undiluted horror on the boy's face and heard his scream dissolve into a frightened whimper.
His feeding had been interrupted and he was still trembling all over, but he jumped down and rushed to Jon's side. "Jon, it's okay,
Jon, really, if s--"
"Nuh-no, no, s-stay away, you're, you're ... just ... stay away." Jon stopped crawling and lay on the road staring up with wide, terrified
eyes. The terror drained from them slowly, just a bit at a time, as he stared at Bill, and he finally whispered, "Duh ... Dad?"
"Yeah, Jon." Bill hunkered down beside him, suddenly overwhelmed with affection, with the feeling of loss that had gnawed at him for
a year now like an impossibly unappeasable hunger ... but this time the feeling was magnified tenfold. He clutched Jon's shoulders
and lifted the boy into his arms, holding him close, squeezing him so tightly that Jon grunted as he returned his father's hug.
After a long moment, Bill pulled back and looked at his son, his handsome son who looked so much more mature, so much older than
he had a year ago.
"Oh, God," Bill whispered. "God. Jon, you're ... you look so good, boy. You look..."
Still visibly shaken, Jon touched his own lips, frowning, and asked, "What ... what's the stuff on your mouth?"
"Oh, shit." Bill wiped his mouth quickly and stood. "Look, Jon, just wait here a second, okay? Just ... don't go away." He went back
into the cab and climbed into the sleeper. His icebox was open, filled with clear plastic bags that contained his sustenance. He'd
stolen them last night from a closed and darkened blood bank in Redding before parking for the night at the 76 Truck Plaza. One of
the bags was open and half empty. He stared at it a moment, then licked the hand he'd used to wipe his mouth, closing his eyes and
exhaling tremulously. He glanced over his shoulder; the boy had not followed him into the cab.
A little more. Just a little more...
Kneeling on the bed, he took the open bag in a quavering hand and put his mouth over the opening, tilting it back.
After the second thick gulp, he fell sideways, leaning against the wall as he was overcome by the brief weakness that always
accompanied a feeding. It was a weakness that came from the inside, the weakness of ecstasy, of orgasm. But it was not as strong
this way ... feeding from an ice cold plastic bag ... alone...
It was always much stronger--intoxicating, mind altering--when it was warm and fresh, drawn straight from a living, breathing,
struggling body.
Bill had only fed that way once and had not been able to bring himself to do it again. Not yet.
Even so, as he swallowed the last of it, he became aware of his erection, of the not unpleasant throbbing in his head and the tingling
sensation that ran over his body in a wave, as if he were being covered, naked, by a blanket of feathers.
He wadded the plastic bag in a weak fist as he waited, breathing deeply, for it all to pass. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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