Page 27 of The Corruption of Hollis Brown

He couldn’t even scream. He wanted to throw up.

“—favorite part. But it shouldn’t be a problem by tomorrow,” Hollis heard his own voice saying.

What?

“I said it shouldn’t be a problem by tomorrow.”

And Hollis knew he’d never sounded like that. Exasperated and casual in the face of something horrible.

He wanted to run, but his legs weren’t listening to him. Then his arms began doing the unthinkable:

Pushing the grate off the street drain. Yanking the body closer. Peeling off his coat, then tipping the boy into the darkness with a hideous splash. One of Walt’s feet was in the way of the lip of the drain, and it hit the metal hard with a crack.

It fell clean off with a puff of dust and lay there on the sidewalk.

Hollis felt the urge to heave so hard that it translated externally, and he doubled over. But his arm continued moving without him. It slapped the foot into the drain.

“You’re quieter than most. Anyway, don’t worry. He’s not from anywhere remotely close to here, and his body will dissolve after an hour or so. He’s not wearing your coat anymore either, which is cracker, forensics-wise. This coat you have on now sucks; I can’t believe you just gave me your good coat like it was nothing.”

Hollis had murdered someone. In the middle of the street where everyone could see.

“There’s no one here for at least two blocks down. You’ve got a ton of abandoned buildings, which is . . . so convenient. Besides, I can smell pretty well; people have a stink. Unless Google Earth narcs on us, we’re good,” Walt said.

We.

Hollis finally began screaming.

Sweet

Walt’s voice echoed like it came from above, and it made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. When Walt spoke out loud, Hollis heard his own mouth speaking, of course, but internally it was all Walt.

He had an accent, but Hollis couldn’t place it.

You focus on the strangest things when time slows for a panic attack.

Every sensation was new and different. Layered in a way that was almost impossible to describe.

He was aware of the scrape of the denim on his legs, the itch of his sweater, the shock of cold as Walt took off Hollis’s old coat and shrugged on his new one. His bones felt a bit long, and his shoulders were tight. His shoes were too light for the weather.

His skin was taut, full to bursting the way it had been during the growth spurt that left Hollis tall enough to duck doorways. Walt was running his tongue over his teeth, blunt blunt blunt. In comparison to the other boy’s, Hollis realized.

Walt was adjusting to his body.

It was a new jolt of horror, but Hollis was already screaming. He couldn’t double scream. He couldn’t even struggle.

He remembered when he had almost thrown up—when it somehow overrode this for a bit—and tried to replicate that sensation. If he remembered how he felt just before, he might be able to wrestle back control.

Hollis strained and twisted.

Walt stopped mid-stride and put Hollis’s foot down.

You need to stop doing that right now or you’re going to give yourself a stroke, he said, very serious. If you’re patient, I’ll teach you how we can share, but you need to calm down first.

Share? Share?!

It’s too late at this point.

Walt continued walking.