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“I’m just saying, I don’t want to die from an infected blister. That would be such a lame way to go.”
About half a mile down, the road forks. I wipe the sweat from my brow, cup a hand over my eyes to block the glare.
“Which way? Anybody?”
Balder consults his runes. “Left.”
“Fine. We go left,” I say.
“You sure?” Gonzo asks.
“No,” I answer. “I’m not sure of anything. So one road’s as good as another.”
Left we go over a path that’s little more than packed dirt winding up a hill. Finally, we reach the top.
“Whoa,” Gonzo says.
Down the hill is a field of mustard-colored wheat like brushstrokes in a painting.
Everywhere I look, there are wind turbines whirling against the clean blue of the sky like alien birds ready for takeoff, or takeover, whichever comes first. Smack-dab in the center are an old farmhouse, a barn, and what looks like a futuristic gas station.
Balder drops to one knee in prayerful thanks. “The Norn have favored us.”
“Great. Let’s see if they’ll give us some gas.”
Gonzo grabs my arm. “Are you out of your mind? Dude, didn’t you see Chainsaw Motel?”
“If I say no does that mean you’ll shut up?”
“Chainsaw Motel, quick plot summary,” Gonzo continues. “Spring break camping trip, ‘Oh, man, the truck’s out of gas! Bummer! Hey, look—there’s a creepy old bed-and-breakfast with a gas pump.’ Crunch, crunch through woods to isolated, gnarly house. ‘Knock, knock—hey, there’s nobody home—oh, what’s this weird chair made out of? Hey, it’s made out of human skin! Rrrrrnnnnnnnnn! Oh my God, he’s got a chain saw—Aaaahhhhhh! Rrrrrnnnnnnn! Gratuitous blood spray. Dismemberment. Death. Freezers of college-kid limbs. More screaming. And one lone, blood-spattered, forever-scarred survivor, who will spend the rest of her miserable life in psychiatric care. Roll credits.” Gonzo folds his arms over his chest.
“Wow. Maybe they have that on disc. We’ll ask them.”
I march toward the house, down a soft slope of clover and weeds. Gonzo darts in front of me, running serpentine style.
“Not doing this, Gonz,” I say, dodging him.
He sticks out his hands, moving them in bad martial-arts-movie style. “Can’t let you go in there, man.”
“Shall I go forward, Cameron? I would be honored to face a chain saw on your behalf, may Tyr grant me courage,” Balder says.
Gonzo practically pushes Balder forward. “Good idea. Balder can go. He can’t die.”
“Right. Great idea. We’ll send the yard gnome to ask for gas. No offense, Balder.”
Balder bows his head. “None taken.”
“Look, I’m going to knock on that door and ask for help. You can come with me or go back and stay in the car. Your choice.”
Gonzo sucks down a mouthful from his inhaler.
At the door, a black cat meows a hello and winds between my legs. “Don’t start,” I say to Gonzo.
“It probably feasted on human fingers this morning,” he whispers.
The door opens and the cat darts inside. A kid stands there, a bowl of cereal in one hand. He’s maybe about ten or eleven and wears a pair of small, round glasses. His wiry dark hair is sporting some serious bedhead cowlicks.
“Careful, he might be armed,” Balder deadpans.
