In the morning, I woke to shouted curses and the clang of metal on metal.

Chapter 44

The clanging noise was so close it sounded as if it were coming from within my skull. I curled up more tightly. The blackness within the truck bed turned oppressive—before it had hidden me, now it presaged the moment when the cloth flap at the back of the truck would be lifted, a light would pierce my shelter, and I’d be discovered.

When . . . if I was found, I didn’t want it to be like this. Curled in a ball on the truck floor, helpless. I stretched out and rolled silently, fighting the stiffness of my battered limbs. I balanced on my hands and feet like a tiger, poised to spring. If anyone came through the flap at the back of the truck, I would attack. A futile, hopeless gesture—like flying a flag on a sinking ship. I drew in a deep breath, filling my lungs with stale, oily air and my heart with renewed determination. So long as any light remained, I would struggle to survive and to find Darla.

The clanging crescendoed, like a series of hammer blows, and there was a sharp crack.

“Throw my ever-lovin’ tie rods!” someone yelled, almost in my ear.

“What’s wrong now?” The other voice was as rough as a dry, gravel-filled creek bed.

“Blasted bolt sheared. I cain’t work in these conditions.” He’d switched to a fake Cajun accent—zhees condishawns.

“If I had a gallon of gas for every time you said that—”

“Yeah, yeah, you’d be the richest punk in Iowa. Come on, I think there’s another M35 in the far corner.”

I listened until the sound of their boots striking the concrete floor faded. Then I let out the breath I’d been holding and relaxed, slumping to the floor of the truck.

I was stiff, sore, ravenously hungry, and to top it all off, I desperately needed to pee. I crept to the back of the truck, stuck my head through the flap, and looked around. This corner of the garage was dark and quiet, although I could hear the rough noises of men working and talking nearby.

I slipped out of the back of the truck and stood on the bumper, peering around. The garage doors were open, letting in the weak, postvolcanic morning light. The inside of the office was dark—its windows as opaque as sunglasses. At the far corner of the garage, a torch spread a separate pool of light, but the intervening trucks blocked my line of sight to whoever carried it.

It seemed safe enough where I was, at least for now. I turned my attention to more pressing problems—pressing on my bladder, that was. I could pee in the corner of the garage, just a few steps away. But if anyone came back here, the smell would be unmistakable. I spent a few minutes searching for a gas can, bottle, or some other container. I found nothing. Then the obvious solution to my problem hit me.

I found what I was looking for on the passenger’s side of the truck I’d slept in. I unscrewed the gas cap, but I wasn’t tall enough. I had to crouch on the running board to relieve myself into the tank. When I closed the tank, I couldn’t smell anything except the grease and smoke odor of the garage and my own sweat. Problem solved—although the Peckerwoods were going to have a rude surprise if they ever tried to start that truck again.

For breakfast, I had three strips of beef jerky, a handful of wilted dandelion leaves, and a bottle of water. I had at least ten pounds of cornmeal in my pack but no good way to cook it.

After breakfast, I crept back out to explore. The rest and food had refreshed and revived me. I would discover a way out of this garage today. If Darla was alive, I would find her.

Two guys were working by torchlight in one corner, struggling to remove something they called an alternator bracket from a dilapidated truck. I hid behind a nearby pickup and listened to their conversation until I’d heard, “I cain’t work in zhees condishawns” so often that I was tempted to stuff a sock down the guy’s fake Cajun throat.

Instead, I watched the office from the safety of the shadows under a parked pickup. For a long time, everything was still. I wondered if I might simply be able to saunter out into the light.

Then I caught a flicker of movement from inside the guardroom. As I continued watching, I saw more motion—dark shadows of arms or heads floating, appearing disembodied within the darkness of the room. I thought about it a minute—the outside of the guardroom was brighter than the inside, so I couldn’t see in, but the guards could see out, no problem. If I tried to waltz through the garage doors, I’d be painfully obvious, and probably painfully dead shortly thereafter.

I watched and waited, growing more and more anxious as the minutes ticked by, turning steadily to hours. When my stomach reminded me to eat, I retreated to the truck I’d slept in. As I ate a lunch of beef jerky, I thought about the situation. I couldn’t keep waiting and watching. But getting killed wouldn’t help, either. Maybe I could put a truck into neutral and push it into the guard shack? Or attack the two mechanics—they might be carrying keys.

The sputter of an engine growling to life interrupted my thoughts. I stuffed the remains of my lunch into my pack and slung it over my shoulders. I clambered out the back of the truck and onto the canvas roof to observe the center of the garage. Another cloth-topped deuce was pulled up alongside the stack of gas cans. One of the mechanics was gassing it up.

A hulking guy came around the corner of the truck. He might have been 6’4” if he had straightened up. But he walked with little mincing steps, hunched over as if he were cradling something to his chest. I couldn’t see his face or clothing; he was silhouetted in the light of the open garage doors.

I saw a flash of brown hair around him. A girl was walking beside him, shielded by his rectangular bulk. I crawled closer, sliding across the truck roof, trying to get a better look.

A pair of wiry guys strutted around the corner behind the hulk. They talked to each other in voices loud enough to be audible over the idling truck.

“Iowa City is going to be off the hook.”

“Them Dirty White Boys is scum, but they know how to party.”

All four of them had gathered in a knot at the back of the truck. One of the wiry guys let down the tailgate.

“What you waiting for?” the other guy slapped the hulk alongside his head. “Get in.”

The hulk hunched further over and moaned, an unnatural-sounding monotone noise that continued long past the point at which most people would have had to stop and breathe. The girl was saying something to him but too softly for me to hear her words.

Still moaning, the hulk took hold of the edge of the tailgate in both hands and hopped into the truck like a rabbit, both legs moving at once. There was a tinkling sound as he moved. Just before he vanished within the blackness of the truck, I saw why—his ankles and wrists were connected with lengths of heavy chain.

The girl heaved herself up onto the tailgate. I had a clear view of her back for a moment. My brain flooded with fierce light, and my heart leapt. Her height, her shape, the way her hair bunched around her shoulders—I’d recognize her anywhere. Darla.

Chapter 45

That truck wasn’t going to leave the garage without me. Either I’d be on it, or I’d get killed trying to hitch a ride.

Darla disappeared into the blackness of the truck bed, following the hulking guy. One of the wiry guys closed the tailgate and tied down the flap. Then they strolled around the corner of the truck, heading toward the cab, out of my line of sight.

The only person I could see now was one of the mechanics. He was facing away from me, holding a five-gallon can above the truck’s gas cap.

Only about two feet separated me from the roof of the nearest truck. I crawled to the gap and reached across, eyeing the mechanic the whole time. Once my hands touched the other truck, I swung my legs across. The mechanic didn’t even glance up.