Laumer, Keith A Plague of Demons

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had a voice than anything else. It didn't work. She looked at me suspiciously, handed over my change,
went back to her stool.
Back across the road, I started the car up, pulled across to the one-pump service station. While I filled
the tank, a heavy-bellied, sly-faced man in a coverall looked the car over.
"Goin' far?" he inquired.
"Just up Bogalusa way," I said.
He studied the pump gauge as I topped off and clamped the cap in place. He seemed to take a long time
about it.
"How's 'at transmission fluid?" he asked. His eyes slipped past mine; heavy-lidded eyes, as guileless as a
stud dealer with aces wired.
I handed him his money, added a cee note. "Better check it."
He pocketed the money, made a production of lifting the access panel, wiping the stick, squinting at it.
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"Full up," he allowed. He replaced the stick, closed the panel. "Nice car," he said. "How long since you
been in Bogalusa?"
"Quite a time," I said. "I've been overseas."
"Plant closed down a year ago," he said. "If you was looking for work." He cocked his head, studying
my arm. His expression was shrewdly complacent now, like a clever dealer about to get his price.
"You in one of them wars?" he inquired.
"I fell off a bar-stool."
He shot me a look like a knife-thrust.
"Just tryin' to be friendly . . ." His gaze went to the call-screen inside the station. He took a tire gauge
from a breast pocket. "Better check them tars," he grunted.
"Never mind; they're okay."
He walked past me to the front of the car, lifted the inspection plate, reached in, and plucked the power
fuse from its base.
"What are you doing?"
"Better check this here out, too." He went across to the station. I followed him; he was whistling
uneasily, watching me from the corner of an eye. I went over to the screen, got a good grip on the power
lead, and yanked it from the back of the set.
He yelled, dived for the counter, came up with a tire iron. I stepped aside, caught his arm, slammed him
against the wall. The iron clanged to the floor. I hauled him to a chair and threw him into it.
"The fuse," I snapped.
"Over there." He jerked his head sullenly.
"Don't get up." I went behind the counter, recovered the fuse.
"Who were you going to call?"
He began to bluster. I kicked him in the shin, gently. He howled.
"I don't have time to waste," I snapped. "The whole story fast!"
"They's a call out on you," he bleated. "I seen the tag number. You won't get far."
"Why not?"
He stared at me, slumped in the chair. I kicked the other leg. "Sheriff's got a road-block two, three miles
north," he yelped.
"How good a description?"
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"Said you had a bad arm, scar on your face; 'scribed them clothes, too." He pulled himself up. "You ain't
got a chance, mister."
I went over and picked up a roll of friction tape from the counter, came back and pulled him to his feet,
reached for his arms. He tugged against me feebly, his mouth was suddenly loose with fear.
"Here, what are you gonna "
"I haven't decided yet. It depends on your cooperation." I set to work taping his hands behind him.
"What's the best way around the road-block?"
"Looky here, mister, you want to slip past that road-block, you just take your next left, half a mile up the
road . . ." He was babbling in his eagerness to please. "Hell, they'll never figger you to know about that.
Jist a farm road. Comes out at Reform, twelve mile west."
I finished trussing him, looking around the room; there was a smudged, white-painted door marked
MEN. Inside, I found soap and water on the shelf above a black-ringed bowl. I took five minutes to run
the electroshave over my face.
There were plastic bandages in a small box in the cabinet; I covered the cut along my jaw as well as I
could, then combed my hair back. I looked better now like someone who'd been hurriedly worked
over by a bargain mortician, rather than just a corpse carelessly thrown into a ditch.
I dragged the owner into the john, left him on the floor, taped and gagged; I hung the CLOSED sign on
the outer door and shut it behind me.
There was a mud-spattered pickup parked beside the station. The fuel gauge read full. I drove my
Mercette onto the grease rack, ran it up high. There was a blue Navy weather jacket, not too dirty,
hanging by the rack. I put it on, leaving the bad arm out of the sleeve. I waited a moment for the dizziness
to pass, then climbed into the pickup and eased out onto the highway, ignoring the nagging feeling that
hidden eyes were watching.
* * *
The night was a bad dream without an end; hour after hour of droning tires, the whine of the turbine, the
highway unwinding out of darkness while I clung to the wheel, fighting off the cycle of fever blackout,
nausea, chills, and fever again.
Just before dawn, ten miles south of the Oklahoma-Kansas border, a police cruiser pulled in alongside [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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