by MJ Ware
Chapter 2 – Snookum's Last Stand
A few minutes after punching a public servant in the face, we finally stopped running in front of Misty's house with its familiar faded cedar siding. It was old and rustic, but solid. It'd probably last forever.
I wiggled my fingers, making sure they still worked. It never hurt when a guy punched someone in one of those old karate movies Misty and I used to watch.
"Nate, what the heck happened?" Misty was breathing hard. She might have been in better shape than me. Athletic, but definitely not in a big-boned, husky sorta way.
"I don't know." I took a few deep breaths before continuing, "I've heard the mayor is grabby, but that was ridiculous. He could be your gramps. And did you see his fogged-over eyes?"
"His eyes? You shoulda smelled his breath—like a rotting cheeseburger." Misty squirmed from head to toe.
"Wait until I tell your brothers. Or your dad—"
"Nathan Patrick Lewis. You are not to tell a soul." Misty kicked up some dirt as she stood nose-to-nose with me. I'd been praying all year for a growth spurt. If it didn't come soon, she'd be taller than me. "Do you understand?" she said as if she could intimidate me.
"Don't worry, who'd believe me? I mean, the mayor trying to kiss you."
"Kiss me? I thought he was going to swallow my face, and what about you kicking his head like a soccer ball? What the heck are we supposed to do now?" Misty's fingers grabbed a clump of her long, wavy chestnut hair and she started chewing. I knew the hair thing meant she was either shy or nervous—or maybe completely freaked, like now.
"He was really gone. Bet he won't remember." I rubbed my leg where the mayor had tried to take out a chunk. "I'm fine, thanks for asking."
"Hey, look who's still here." Misty pointed to her neighbor's dog. A spoiled, obnoxious poodle, with an equally spoiled and obnoxious name: Snookums. "Mrs. Redberg would have never left Snookums alone."
"I hate that little rat dog. He always barks at me." He must have heard, 'cause he ran up to the fence yelping at full volume.
I'd never kick a dog, though I've heard poodles fly pretty far. I kicked the fence instead.
"Hey, Nate, stop picking on the dog."
It felt safe in Misty's house, something familiar that never changed. Wall-to-wall thick orange shag carpet, dark wood paneling, even popcorn on the ceiling—with sparkles. The sparkles were pretty cool.
The lock squealed as Misty bolted it behind me. I grabbed a pair of old sneakers. Worn and caked with dried mud, I didn't bother looking for a nicer pair. Her brothers probably didn't own any.
“I'm going to go powder my face," she said.
"Powder it with what?"
She shook her head and closed the bathroom door with a thud.
In the family room, I messed with the cable and Internet. A couple minutes later, Misty came in to supervise. Neither of us spoke. I kept rechecking the connections, more than a little desperate to get them working.
Nothing.
I was opening my mouth to tell Misty that it was useless when the windows, really the whole house, shook with the crack of thunder.
"Summer storm?" Misty asked, her voice higher than normal.
Indian Springs was deep in California's Sierra Mountains. Nothing but rivers and trees surrounded the place. Summer thunderstorms were pretty common.
"Maybe. Sounded more like an explosion," I said.
"This can't be good. Let's look out my window."
I hadn't been allowed upstairs for years. Mr. Wibbles still sat in his designated spot on the head of Misty's bed, but long gone were the plastic horses and pink curtains. Now the room was littered with pictures of her with girlfriends and posters of guys who were apparently so cool it didn't matter how bad their haircuts were.
From her window upstairs, we had a good view, but no sign of an explosion and not a cloud in the sky.
I chewed on one of the straps from my backpack as I looked over the vacant streets. The strap tasted like dirt and charcoal, so I spit it out. What was going on? Where were our parents?
"Think it could be a fast moving storm?" Misty asked.
I looked again. "No wind. I don't think so."
We stared helplessly out the window at the tiny town surrounded by rolling waves of trees and green surf as far as we could see. Finally, we headed back downstairs.
KABOOM!
Another explosion, but way larger. I felt it in my legs, as if the whole earth threatened to rip apart under my feet.
"Nathan, what the heck was that?" Misty's summer-bronzed skin went pale.
We flew back to the window, dodging pictures that had shaken off the walls and lay scattered along the floor.
Outside nothing changed. Well, almost nothing, that pint-sized dog started barking. Guess I couldn't blame him.
We kept our eyes glued to the window, searching for any sign of movement; a person, a car, even a raindrop would've been welcome. The only change, a silent haze that settled over the streets.
The dog's barking stopped, and in its place came a loud wail. My heart leapt. Could it be a fire truck?
A quick, desperate, piercing yelp and the sound died. "Nate, the dog. That's the neighbor's dog."
Goose bumps danced along my spine.
"Go check it out." Misty started pushing me towards the door.
I tried thinking of an excuse to stay put. "That dog's crazy. He'll probably bite me," was all I came up with.
"You're such a girl. If he tries to bite you, give him a kick."
"Oh, now I can pick on him," I said as I headed down the stairs. On the way out, I slammed the door to make Misty think she'd ticked me off.
Outside, I grabbed the big wood-splitting axe. Looking at the worn shaft, silvered with age, I wondered if I needed it. My hands wouldn't let go—I took that as my answer.
Hopping the old chain-link fence to the neighbor's yard left rusty freckles on my sweaty palms. I expected the runt to come tearing around the corner any second. Except when I got around back, what I saw frightened me way more than any dog.
