With little light and no sound but our breathing and the distant city hum, it’s hard to keep track of time. Maybe it’s been minutes, maybe hours. My only point of reference is that it’s the longest Grant has ever gone without complaining.
As if he can read my mind, Grant breaks the silence to whisper, “I still hate this.”
“Just think happy thoughts,” I whisper back. “Ice cream. Puppies. How cool it was when IGrand Theft Auto–ed your car.”
Even in the dark, I can make out the scorn in his sideways glare. “It’s not a verb. You didn’tgrand theft automy car; youcommittedgrand theft auto.”
“No, no. I mean like the video game.”
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s why the game is called that. Because in the game you commit grand theft aut—”
“Sshh.”I set a hand on his arm, listening. Somewhere nearby, a clock tower is chiming two—and along with it comes the soft, punctual sound of footsteps. A shiver skitters over my skin.
The steps grow closer and closer, until it sounds like they’re encircling our abandoned fire. Inspecting it, assessing the scene. Silence. Then they continue toward us—quiet, agonizingly slow—until they’re at our door. They stop.
There’s a hollow plasticpop, like the push of a lid, so quiet I would have missed it if I hadn’t been listening for it. A steady splashing, the stink of gasoline. Footsteps all along the front of the tent.
We wait, as discussed. Too early, and we risk another serial killer getaway. Too late, and we’re barbecued. The footsteps and the slugging of gasoline follow the tent’s perimeter, curving around toward the back. As the sloshing reaches behind us, I take a deep and quiet breath.
“Now,” I finally whisper, almost silently. Grant lifts a shaky hand and slowly unzips the door.
We step out, carefully avoiding puddles of gasoline, and have just enough time to creep a few feet away when a short bundled-up figure comes into view from behind the tent. His back is to us and his head is bent as he carefully distributes gasoline from a red canister, stopping every few feet to drizzle it up the sides. He turns the last corner, and I nod at Grant.
When the man sets the gas canister down and pulls a lighter from his pocket, I lunge.
He yelps as I send the lighter flying with a sort of double-handed slap. But he doesn’t cower. He’s small but agile, and when he whips around and shoots me a beady, feverish glare, I know instantly that this is no fleeing Pulverizer. The Terror is going to fight.
He twists out of my grasp. I dodge the elbow he launches at my face. He trips me with the sweep of a foot. I tug him down by the hem of his grimy puffer coat. He knocks over the gas canister as he hits the ground, and liquid glugs out of the spout, pooling around us in a noxious puddle. He throws out a hand, clawing at the ground. I pin his arm.
“Lighter!” I call to Grant, and he darts forward to snatch it away.
My hands are slick with gasoline and my eyes and nose are burning, but somehow I manage to get the man on his stomach and cross his arms behind him. He must be flagging.
“Zip ties!” Grant searches his pockets to retrieve them, but he’s not quick enough. The man squirms and wriggles, slipping from my grasp. He twists around and as I catch one of his flailing arms, he pulls it to his mouth and bites into my wrist with jagged, rotting teeth.
“EW!” I shriek, even though this is arguably more of anOWmoment. In that split second of shock and disgust, he escapes my grip and dashes to his feet.
The Terror wheezes as he whirls to face a petrified Grant.
There’s a moment of hesitation, and then the Terror charges him. Grant finally springs into action.
“DAAAGH!” he yells, his eyes wild as he employs his practiced disarm-and-jab maneuver with perfect form.
Which would be great if he were anywhere near the man. As it is, he’s a good three feet short, chopping and striking at empty air.
Still, the Terror stops short at Grant’s outburst and freezes, panting with rattling breaths.
He looks back at me warily, and for a moment we all hang there in a game of chicken, waiting to see who does something first. The man swipes sweat from his upper lip, his breath ragged. He shifts his weight back and forth and wiggles his fingers like a spaghetti Western gunslinger. And then, finally, his face splits into a manic smile and he laughs. The high-pitched, crackling sound rips through the night.
I look to Grant, wondering if this is some kind of classic crime trope he can clue me in on, but he just widens his eyes and gives me anI have no ideashrug.
“Such a shame,” says the Terror, still cackling. “I love a Sunday roast.”
“It’s Thursday,” I say.
“It’s Sunday somewhere.”
“No, it’s not,” says Grant.
