The circle of spotlighters is closing in. Catcalls coming louder. Another bottle flies past.

Lyle’s eyes finally flicker to life, speckled with lights. With an effort, he focuses on my face. A ghost of a smile surfaces. His eyes are shining with tears.

“We’re gonna change the world,” he whispers.

“Don’t do this, Lyle,” I say.

“I’m whole hog, man,” he replies. “Level five. It’s fuckin’ beautiful.”

One hand clamped to Lyle’s shoulder, I turn and face the circle. Try to smile while I pull him away. “We don’t want any trouble,” I say.

Lyle starts humming again, like a slack-jawed escapee from a mental ward. He’s taking deep breaths, savoring the breeze. For just this one second, it’s nearly silent in the field. Only the far-off puttering of the generator and thousands of pounds of cool night air sighing, dropping down onto our shoulders out of the infinite black sky.

The circle of men around us is complete, closing in like wild dogs. Reflexive group movements unfolding according to an ancient script. Everybody knows his part. These guys have probably all been practicing since grade school.

“He’s just drunk and wandered off,” I say. Lyle smiles at them, still humming. “We’re going.”

A flannel-shirted guy steps out, and my legs go numb with adrenaline. This is him. The guy who watched, laughing, while those teenagers worked me over with dirt clods. The one with the tattoo. Gunnin’ Billy.

“Hey, buddy,” he says, “we’re all drunk. That ain’t getting you nowhere.”

He’s flashing a strained smile through a week’s growth of stubble. He holds a black pump-action shotgun with the butt propped on his hip, casual. The weapon’s not tucked under his armpit with the muzzle down, like a hunter, but arrogantly aimed at the sky. More like a bank robber.

Watching me, Billy digs a cherry-red shotgun shell out of his jeans pocket. Shoves it into his shotgun, then rams it forward with the ball of his thumb. Digs out another shell. And another.

Snick. Snick. Snick.

“Told you not to come back, didn’t I? Already gave you the score and here you are again. You ain’t just getting beat down this time, amp,” he says.

Somehow, the oxygen has rushed out of the field. The main spotlight is behind Billy and his face is in shadow. Except for his teeth. Straight and long and yellow. His teeth glint as he talks quietly.

“Y’all got to know your place. We’re here for the safety of the town. We men are the only thing standing between you animals and our wives and families. Our kids.”

I can’t hold back. “You nearly killed a helpless kid tonight.”

Those yellow teeth wink at me from the beard. “He ain’t a kid,” says Billy. “He’s an amp. There’s a difference. Besides, we was trying to help him out. Did a little surgery. Tried to make him into a human being. It was a goddamn favor.”

“Little shit’s lucky we let him keep his robot eye,” says a man and nudges the guy next to him. They snicker.

“Yeah, he is lucky,” I retort. “His retinal recorded everything. We’ve got video. All your faces. And it’s going straight to the police or the FBI or whoever will listen.”

A wave of chuckles erupts around me.

“Oh, that’s precious. I’m the sheriff, numbnuts. Billy Hardaway at your service. And any evidence you want to share, well, I’d suggest you stick it straight up your ass.”

The group breaks into guffaws.

Lyle joins the laughter, chest heaving. Expressionless and standing straight-backed, he barks out a repetitive cackle. The sound is mechanical and grating, and it goes on for a long time.

The circle of men seems to shrink away from us like shadows from a campfire.

“I know this amp,” says Billy, pointing at Lyle. “I know you.”

Lyle keeps on barking, and I notice his hands are closed into fists now.

“No,” I say. “Don’t you fucking do it. Let’s run.”

Billy steps forward, closer to Lyle. I tighten my grip on the cowboy’s shoulder. But I can feel the black hole forming, the light sucked into it, too deep and old to stop.

“You’re the one who ran off my deputy the other night. Where’s all your little buddies now, huh? Not so tough with just your girlfriend here.”

“Respect,” mutters Lyle.

“What the fuck you say?” asks Billy. His eyes gleam, boring into Lyle’s face. He steps back and pulls the shotgun up across his chest. A hand curled under the forestock and a finger on the trigger. Its barrel-mounted flashlight stabs a ray of light into outer space.

“Respect,” says Lyle, clearly this time. And when he moves it is inhuman. The cowboy shrugs out from under my hand and just goes. I hardly see any movement from him yet he’s already flying forward. A prairie king snake gliding through the grass, disappearing in plain sight.

Lyle’s worn boot heel catches Billy dead square in the sternum like a lightning bolt. Snaps his collarbone audibly. His shotgun goes off and a tubby guy standing a few feet away loses his hat in a spray of buckshot.

“Ah fuck,” shouts somebody in an oddly high-pitched voice.

Billy carps his mouth, stunned. Drops heavily onto his ass. Next to him, the fat guy who used to own a hat pulls a finger out of his own ear. It’s bloody.

“Goddamn, Billy,” he whines.

But Lyle has not stopped. His fists are slashing and those tattooed crows are in a frenzy as he leaps to the next man in the line. And then the next. I can hear him breathing hard, making little grunts with the effort of each tight swing. Moving quicker than an electrical current. Punches coming in flurries, three- or four-strike combinations, the dull smack of calcified knuckles on soft body tissue. Throats, eye sockets, temples.

Whole hog.

Three men drop before I notice Billy has got his bearings and has the black eye of his shotgun staring me in the face. We make eye contact and I see the way Billy’s jaw tenses. His upper lip curls into a snarling murder look and I dive to the ground. The shotgun booms, and I feel the shock wave wash over my neck. Speeding shrapnel rips through the air over my head.

I’m on my hands and knees now, and there’s no hope. I’ve already heard the schlick-schlock of Billy’s shotgun cocking and its flashlight is throwing my shadow out in front of me. Three guys have got hold of Lyle, and from the yelling and cussing it sounds like the cowboy is already down to biting people. It won’t be long before I feel that lead shot burrowing under my skin. Even so, I keep crawling as fast as the loose dirt will let me.

Spotlighters in front of me are scrambling the hell out of the way, and I feel the hot presence of that shotgun on my back.

“You’re fucking dead,” Billy says, and I don’t doubt it.

I dive forward just as the shotgun goes off, and it’s like somebody shot out the lights. The field goes dark. A spray of dirt tattoos my neck, the sandpaper grind of tiny rocks. My body hits the ground with a rubbery thud. For an instant I’m wondering if this is death. Then there’s a high-pitched ringing in my ears. The tail end of a breath caught on the back of my tongue. I’m alive.

Somebody killed the generator is all.

A half-dozen flashlights flicker toward the silent machine. Across the black field, I see a pale face peeking over the rusted generator. Eyes shining, Lucy looks like a possum caught in car headlights.

“Get that bitch!” someone shouts.

Shotguns start to belch flame. Pounds of lead buckshot hit the generator in a hellish symphony. Lucy’s face drops out of sight between flashes.

Lucy.

I don’t remember deciding to stand.

I’m stalking, head down, toward the nearest spotlighter. My right hand is out, three fingers splayed and my eyes are half closed. I’m picturing the Zenith in my mind huge, the way a floating gray zeppelin is enormous in the sky, trailing tethers in the wind. It’s time to see what I’m capable of.