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“Who are you?”
“A friend. Hop in. I’ll take you home.”
“Sure,” Brad said. Feeling the way he did, a ride would be fine. He scratched at the red spot on his
arm. “You’re Barry Smith. You’re a friend. I’ll hop in and you’ll take me home.”
He stepped into the RV. The door closed. The WanderKing drove away.
By the next day the whole county would be mobilized in a hunt for the Adair All-Stars’
centerfielder and best hitter. A State Police spokesman asked residents to report any strange cars or
vans. There were many such reports, but they all came to nothing. And although the three RVs
carrying the finders were much bigger than vans (and Rose the Hat’s was truly huge), nobody reported
them. They were the RV People, after all, and traveling together. Brad was just . . . gone.
Like thousands of other unfortunate children, he had been swallowed up, seemingly in a single bite.
9
They took him north to an abandoned ethanol-processing plant that was miles from the nearest
farmhouse. Crow carried the boy out of Rose’s EarthCruiser and laid him gently on the ground. Brad
was bound with duct tape and weeping. As the True Knot gathered around him (like mourners over an
open grave), he said, “Please take me home. I’ll never tell.”
Rose dropped to one knee beside him and sighed. “I would if I could, son, but I can’t.”
His eyes found Barry. “You said you were one of the good guys! I heard you! You said so!”
“Sorry, pal.” Barry didn’t look sorry. What he looked was hungry. “It’s not personal.”
Brad shifted his eyes back to Rose. “Are you going to hurt me? Please don’t hurt me.”
Of course they were going to hurt him. It was regrettable, but pain purified steam, and the True
had to eat. Lobsters also felt pain when they were dropped into pots of boiling water, but that didn’t
stop the rubes from doing it. Food was food, and survival was survival.
Rose put her hands behind her back. Into one of these, Greedy G placed a knife. It was short but
very sharp. Rose smiled down at the boy and said, “As little as possible.”
The boy lasted a long time. He screamed until his vocal cords ruptured and his cries became husky
barks. At one point, Rose paused and looked around. Her hands, long and strong, wore bloody red
gloves.
“Something?” Crow asked.
“We’ll talk later,” Rose said, and went back to work. The light of a dozen flashlights had turned a
piece of ground behind the ethanol plant into a makeshift operating theater.
Brad Trevor whispered, “Please kill me.”
Rose the Hat gave him a comforting smile. “Soon.”
But it wasn’t.
Those husky barks recommenced, and eventually they turned to steam.
At dawn, they buried the boy’s body. Then they moved on.