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“Let’s see if you end up keeping watch over a freezer of flesh, Gnome-Man.”
“Hi,” I say, ignoring them both. “Our car ran out of gas out on the road, and I was just wondering if maybe your parents have some we could buy off ’em?”
“I don’t have parents,” the kid says in a soft, high voice. Milk dribbles from his cereal-full mouth down his chin. “I’m an orphan.”
“Is there anybody else here, like an adult?” I ask.
The kid leaves the door standing open and we follow him into the dark house. The TV’s on in the living room. The kid sits down cross-legged on a beanbag chair with the name ED stitched on it and goes back to eating cereal and watching cartoons. “They’re downstairs in the basement.”
“Oh hell no,” Gonzo whispers.
“We’re not staying,” I remind him. “Just getting the gas and we’re outta here.”
“This way.” Balder opens the cellar door, and we climb down in darkness, following a short, dimly lit passageway to a pretty serious-looking door made of stainless steel. A sign beside it reads ENTERING MAGNETIZED ZONE, PLEASE REMOVE ALL METAL.
Gonzo holds his inhaler close to his chest. “This is the part in the movie where I would haul ass.”
We put everything with any metal into little plastic bags we find on a nearby table. I practically have to pry Gonzo’s inhaler out of his hands. There’s no bell or anything that I can see, so I just throw the door open.
o;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.”
