Page 2 of Long Pig

The kid’s voice was tentative, but not desperate. He had his sandwich and drink clutched tight, like they were the only things saving him right now.

Butch turned slowly. “Oklahoma City.”

The kid licked his lips. “Could I bum a ride?”

There it was.

Butch wiped his hands on his jeans, extending one. “Name’s Butch. You got a handle?”

The boy hesitated, then placed his hand in Butch’s. His grip was weak.

“Ron,” he said.

Butch almost smiled. Bogus name. Runaways weren’t stupid.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Butch said. “Damn government regs cap my hours, and I’ll hit my limit in a few. Can’t afford a hotel, so I’ll catch some shut eye in the sleeper. You can stretch out on the front seat, do the same. That work for you?”

The kid’s shoulders eased just a little. “Yeah. Thanks, Butch.”

Butch chuckled low in his throat. “I know the name’s a little weird,” he admitted, this time letting his smile show more teeth. “My old man was a butcher. Had a shop when I was yourage, so folks started calling me that. Stuck a hell of a lot better than what was handed me at birth.”

“Thanks, Butch,” the kid repeated, softer this time.

“Eat your sandwich while I finish fueling,” Butch said, pulling open the truck door for him. “Got a pack of chocolate donuts I’ll split with you. One rule, though, driver picks the music. Hope you don’t mind country.”

For the first time, the kid cracked a real smile, and his relaxed shoulders said it all: He had finally caught a break, or so he thought.

They traveled for an hour before Butch found a spot to stop. The highway sat lower than the surrounding land, and a ditch further obscured the view. It was the perfect location.

He motioned Ron from the rig, and as soon as the kid’s feet hit the ground, Butch grabbed his shoulder and spun him so he looked at the great expanse and not the highway. Ron sputtered and tried to jerk away.

“What the hell you doing?” he yelled.

“See all that land?” Butch asked casually, close to the kid’s ear.

“What do you mean?”

“Listen to me,” Butch said. “You get one crack at this. You run; I follow. Not because I’m cruel, but because I know how the hunt ends. If you slip free, you live. If I find you, everything changes, and it will be worse than anything you can imagine. Now move. Don’t look back.”

“You’re crazy.” Ron was gasping for air now, terrified, and not thinking clearly.

The kid hadn’t been a runaway long enough to judge the danger involved in his chosen way of life. He’d had one other kid, a girl, roll under the rig and almost get out on the side closest to the highway. She’d been fun.

He gave Ron a hard shove away from the truck, causing him to fall to his knees.

“Please, mister,” he begged, lifting his hand.

“Run,” Butch yelled.

The kid didn’t move, so Butch stepped closer, reached down, and grabbed his wrist. With a sudden twist, he broke his arm. The kid screamed and rolled.

“I said to run,” Butch all but spat. He hated when they wimped out.

The kid scrambled to his feet and took off. Butch counted to ten slowly before he pulled out the rifle from the rack behind the passenger seat. Through his systematic experimentation, he had learned that youth glowed with the taste of sunlight. It was untouched and unbearably pure, like spring fruit right before it ripens.

Ron never made it to Oklahoma City.

Four hours later, Butch had the heat cranked as he pulled into a mom-and-pop truck stop outside Tulsa. A handful of rigs were scattered across the lot, their cab lights glowing in the dark.