The two men in the truck paid no notice to his shouting and arm waving when he burst out from his front door in his pants and t-shirt, walking in the way that one must on gravel in bare feet. The truck was as tall as his house and it was yellow. Already the dumper was inclining, the arms telescoping out, blotting out the low morning sun, and scaring off a gutter-full of house sparrows.
'Stop!' Greg called again. 'Not there you idiots!' He ran round the side of the truck, climbed up onto the driver's step and banged on the glass with the bottom of his fist. The man in the driver's seat turned his head to look at Greg in a bored way, raising his eyebrows. He pushed the red button on the dash.
Greg's expletives came out in an eloquent flurry, flecks of his spit spattering the glass. The tailgate dropped. The dumper continued its incline, until gravity broke the inertia of the bodies inside, and it spilled them in a great heap before Greg's front door.
Arms and legs wrestled against each other as they fell. Heads banged against heads and against his doorstep. Pale ankles bashed on bootscrapers.
'Not there!' Greg yelled one more time.
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The New Uncanny Page 23
