“Shit.”
“What is it?” Rocky Horror asks, clearly seeing our concern.
“We heard that same thing back when we were camping with the Nomads.” I pull at the jacket I’m wearing—the one Jamie stitched together from the shredded rats’ nest in Dick’s Sporting Goods.
“What is it?” he asks.
“No clue. We left before we found out, and I think we should do the same now. Let’s get back on the highway,” I say. “Maybe go an exit or two farther just in case.”
“Yeah, that shit sounds ominous.” Rocky Horror puts the road atlas away as I call out for the Kid to finish up.
The Mexican hat dance ends, then starts over again.
Then again.
Still the Kid doesn’t emerge from the trees.
“Kid!” Rocky Horror shouts.
He doesn’t answer.
No way he would walktowardthat sound. Right?
I look at the others to see if they’re thinking the same thing, and they don’t seem to feel as optimistic as I do. Taylor shouts for himagain, her voice anxious. But I run to the trees, the others calling after me.
“Kid!” I yell. But not too loudly. Because if we can hear the Mexican hat dance, it means the person playing it can also hear us if we get too loud. I look around the trees, trying to see if the Kid is just having a bad tummy day—I mean, it happens to the best of us on the road, so we’ve got to have a nice way of putting it for the Kid.
But he’s not here.
I call out again, keeping my voice low as I step farther into the woods.
A twig snaps behind me, and I turn in the dimming daylight to see Taylor, followed by Jamar. They whisper-shout his name, too. But now I think he’s more drawn to the sound of the ice cream truck music. Because what kid wouldn’t be? It’s been over a year and a half since he saw an ice cream truck in real life, so why wouldn’t he walk toward one?
A million horrific possibilities pop into my head. The loudest being the most terrifying. It could be some psychotic child killer who survived the bug and decided to use an ice cream truck to lure kids with no parents out of their hiding places. A postapocalyptic Pied Piper.
The image is horrifying, and it’s enough to get me runningtowardthe music, the Kid’s backpack swinging in my hands. Fuck being quiet.
“Kid!” I scream.
Maybe the others figured out what I was thinking because I can hear them behind me. All of them, running, yelling for him.
The music gets louder, and through the trees I see headlights. And a fire. The chug of a diesel engine below the tinkly music.
The truck is on. Of course, it would have to be if it’s playing music through the speakers.
Which means it can drive away before we catch up to it.
“Kid!” I shout, getting closer to the lights. The music is louder now.
There’s a clearing up ahead. I burst through the tree line. No weapons, nothing in my hand except for the Kid’s backpack. My left arm throbs with pain and I clutch it to my chest.
The truck reallyisan ice cream truck. It’s painted pink and seafoam green, the wordsSEÑOR HELADOwritten in yellow above the window cut into the side. The lights inside the truck are on. There are two folding chairs set up by a fire.
But nothing else.
No one else.
Behind me, Jamar is the first to emerge from the woods and slides to a stop next to me. He sees the truck and slowly shakes his head. “I’m surviving the apocalypse and I’m absolutely worried about ice cream truck serial killers.”
