Wayne Kyle Spitzer

I glanced at our sticks only several feet away, canted in the sand, their shafts crude but straight- then at the thing, which was nearly to its ship. And the truth of it is I was running before I'd even made a conscious decision to do so, running with the friends I'd had since 4th grade at Broadway Elementary, both of whom beat me to the pikes. Nor did we stop to think about it as we chased the thing down like chieftains and Orley delivered the first blow, lancing its back decisively and pinning it to the earth as I slid mine into what would have been its rib-cage and Kevin impaled its neck, all of which caused the thing to struggle furiously even as it tried to scream-this most assuredly-but found it had no mouth; as it melted away from our sticks like butter and reconstituted itself on the go, finally closing to within a few feet of its ship before Orley ran it through its back yet again and smashed it to the ground, stopping it in its tracks-even as Kevin and I stabbed it repeatedly-the sun filtering through the pines as it shuddered and bled, its ship beginning to falter, growing cool amidst the shadows.And yet we kept stabbing as though infected with blood-lust: exhilarated by each blow, hot for the kill, while nonetheless feeling as though we had lost something with each strike. Something of who we were and might have become. Something which felt good and bad at the same time. Like romantic love, I suppose, which we had yet to experience. Or the bite of cigarette smoke into the throat and lungs.Until at last the ship lie dormant and the Thing from Another World was dead, if it had ever lived at all, at least in the way we understood it. And then we just stood there for a time amongst the shafts of light and brooded in our youth and vigor and passion; there in July of 1980 in the sweltering heat and humidity of the day. There in the forest by the lake, which was shot through with orange and gold, in the brief, burning cathedral of summer.

There were six of them in total, more than had been present in the bar (not that it mattered, they would have rounded up others, I was sure). The important thing is that it was them-the MAGA crew-of that I had little doubt. Three of them were crowded into the cab while three others rode in the payload-all of them wearing crudely-stitched burlap hoods-and each brandishing some form of weapon, whether that meant a pistol or a rifle or a rusty pitchfork. The truck, meanwhile, was right out of central casting-I'd seen others like it in the red states I'd already passed through. You've seen them too: those jacked-up tanks with the huge tires and pig-ear smokestacks (their way of saying "fuck you" to the environmentalists), and the twin flags crackling in their payloads-usually an American and a "Don't Tread on Me," but sometimes a bona fide Confederate Southern cross, which is what this one had, along with one I couldn't clearly see. All I can say for certain is that the men in the back put down their weapons as I watched and appeared to fiddle with something in the payload-I really couldn't say because I had to look away in order to focus on the road.Meanwhile it didn't exactly surprise me to see that I-we-were going about 90 miles-per-hour-the fastest I'd ever traveled in a moving vehicle, and a speed at which the Camry had become dangerously unstable. I thought then of my decision when I was young to never own a firearm, and laughed a little at my own expense. Only then (and how I'd managed to not think of it until that instant remains a mystery) did it finally occur to me: my bloody phone was right there on the passenger seat The truck's engine roared and its flags crackled as I snatched the thing up and dialed 911, putting it on speaker so that I might better focus on the road, not to mention re-grip the wheel firmly in both hands.A moment later it came: "911, what's the address of your emergency?"I stammered and babbled before managing, "Old State Route 51-yes-Old State Route 51, between Danville and Tomlinson. I'm being pursued by a truck full of masked men, h-heavily armed. Let me repeat that; they are heavily arm-""What is the make and model of the truck?"I glanced out the window. "I-I don't know. A Ford, maybe. Yes, a Ford, I'm certain of it. It's dark green and has flags flying from the back. One of them's a Confederate. I-"I noticed movement and focused on the man nearest me-by the window in the truck's passenger seat-saw him training his pistol on, on ...My tire. My fucking front tire I let off the gas immediately and slowed down before veering into the lane behind them, even as the operator asked calmly, "Are you able to see the license number? If so, read it to me-as carefully as you can. Are they Kentucky plates?"I was distracted by the men in the payload, who appeared to be lifting something heavy, but quickly focused on the plate. "Yes. Kentucky 527 CXS, Franklin County." I squinted in the fog. The lettering didn't look right. "I-I think it's been altered. I'm following as close as I dare, and it looks like-""You are behind them?""Yes. One of them was-""Sir, be advised that units are on the way and that you are not to pursue. Repeat, do not pursue. Pull over immediately and wait for officers to arrive. What is the make and model of your vehicle?""I-it's a blue Toyota-a Camry. 2004, I think. I'm-I'm slowing down. But so are they. There's men in the payload. It, it almost ..." I was about to say that it looked like they were lifting, well, a trough, to be frank, one of those big aluminum vats used to water horses, when the men heave-hoed the thing twice ... and sent its contents hurling toward my windshield. At which point the thick, viscous stuff hit the glass like a hammer-exploding everywhere-and turned the world black.Black and blood red.

"Well, now we are getting somewhere," says Sula, glancing him up and down, appearing victorious. "But she was not a witch like me, else she would not have done what she did. For that is exactly what happened, isn't it? Jadis became infected by M24 and slew her own son, and your son too. And then you spent the next year and a half wandering a world you no longer recognized, a world where the dead were stacked on every street corner and the bonfires burned day and night, until you stumbled into a beer hall one night because they were offering free bread and heard a powerful orator talking about male superiority and cleansing the world; and you listened, at first just because it felt good to have something in your stomach, but later because you were swayed, and that orator's name was Kill-sin, who would go on to found New Salem and rule it with an iron fist. Am I warm, Witch Doctor?"

They were the kind of musical notes men and woman once swayed to-even worshiped to-or so Jasper had told him, ground from an instrument called an "organ"-which had once been common, or so he'd said, but had vanished from the face of the world. So, too, were there cymbals, which echoed throughout the crew compartment of the War Wagon like tinsel-if tinsel could be said to have a sound-and mingled with the steely whispers of their muskets and tanks and other gear as the truck rocked and their harnesses held them fast."When a maaan loves a woman," sang a hearty and soulful voice both inside and outside the compartment, and Jeremiah knew they were close, else the driver wouldn't have cued the music, and when he scanned the other Witch Doctors, strapped in six to a bench in the wagon's cramped confines, he knew that they knew it too. What was more, he knew that, however fearsome they looked in their black jumpsuits and white flame-retardant vests, their goggled respirators, their buckled hats-they were frightened, too.But then the wagon ground to a halt and there was no time to be feel anything, much less fear, as Jeremiah unbuckled and piled out with the others. And yet, as he paused momentarily to take in the building-a ramshackle six-story brownstone which looked as though it had been built before the Betrayal, much less the Pogrom-a strange thing happened. He thought he heard a voice; not from without but entirely from within-a woman's voice, a witch's voice. And it said to him, as faintly as the cymbals at the start of the music, Why have you come for us, Witch-Doctor? And he found himself scanning the illuminated windows of the brownstone as if someone had perhaps shouted to him (rather than reaching directly into his mind), and saw behind one of the uppermost panes a figure so small and motionless that he might have thought it a piece of furniture, a lamp, perhaps, had it not slid to one side and vanished.Then he was activating his musket, which was connected to the tank on his back and shot not just explosive balls but streams of incinerating fire, and charging into the foyer-where a handful of witches already lay, writhing and smoldering. Fifteen minutes. That's what they had before the Flyer lowered from the vespertine gloom and received them on the roof.

It's funny-because the first thing I noticed upon stepping into the garage wasn't the fact that Old Man Moss was holding what appeared to be massive gray arm in his hands. Nor was it the fact that in the middle of the room stood an 8-foot-tall giant-a giant which appeared to have been fashioned from solid clay and resembled not so much a man but a hulking, naked ape. Nor was it even the thing's frightful visage or stoic, lifeless, outsized eyes.No, it was the fact that the room was illuminated by candles and candelabrums-as opposed to bulbs or work lights or sun seeping through windows (all of which had been covered with what appeared to be black sheets). It was the fact that the garage didn't look like a garage. It looked-for all intents and purposes-like a temple."Ah, Thomas, by boy Vus machs da You are just in time."It was on the tips of my lips to ask him what for when he handed me the arm, which was surprisingly heavy. "I'll need you and Aaron to hold this while I sculpt. Can you do that?"The clay was tacky and moist beneath my fingers. I looked at Aaron, who looked back at me as if to say, Just go with it. Humor him."Sure, Mr. Moss. But-" I followed Aaron's lead as he positioned the arm against the mock brute's shoulder. "What on earth is it?"His face beamed with pride as he worked the leaden clay. "Why, this is Yossele-but you may call him Josef. And he is what the rabbis of Chelm and Prague called a golem-a being created from inanimate matter. This one is devoted to tzedakah, or justice."At last he stepped back and appeared to scrutinize his work. "And justice is precisely what he will bring-once he is finished. Once the shem has been placed in his mouth." He took a deep breath and exhaled, tentatively. "Okay, boys ... you can let go. Slowly."I didn't know what justice had to do with art, but we did so-the clammy clay wanting to stick to our fingers, its moist touch seeming hesitant to break contact. "Aaron, won't you be a good boychick and bring me the shem. Easy does it, now. Don't drop it."I watched as Aaron approached one of the workbenches and fetched an intricately-crafted gold box."Ah, yes. The shem, you see, is what gives the golem its power-thank you, son, a sheynem dank. It is what gives it the ability to move and become animated."I glanced at Aaron, who only looked back at me uncertainly, as his father approached the golem and opened the box, the gold plating of which gleamed like a fire before the candelabrums. "This one consists of only one word-one of the Names of God, which is too sacred to be uttered here." He withdrew a slip of paper and placed it into the golem's mouth. "I shall only say emet, which means 'truth' ... and have done with it. And so it is finished. Tetelestai." He turned and looked directly at me, I have no idea why. "The debt will be paid in full."Nobody said anything for a long time, even as the birds tweeted outside and a siren wailed somewhere in the distance. We just stood there and stared at his creation.At last I said, "So are you going to enter in the Fair, Mr. Moss, or what? How will you even move it?"At which Old Man Moss only smiled, ruffling my hair, and said, "No-it is only for this moment. That is the nature of Art. Tsaytvaylik. Tomorrow it will be gone. Now run along and finish your lawn. I've involved you enough."And the next day it was gone, at least according to Aaron, and both of us, I think, promptly forgot about it. At least until the first of the Benton Boys turned up dead, Sheriff Donner directing the recovery while his ashen-blue body bobbed listlessly against the Benedict A. Saltweather Dam.It was June.

Still he continued: "The wall was necessary. It was necessary, okay? Look, we had to. We had to. People say the money could have been better spent-that it didn't need the spikes, say, or the gangway for the guards, or the mote. But I play into people's fantasies. People may not always think big themselves, but they can still get very excited by those who do. That's why a little hyperbole never hurts. People want to believe that something is the biggest and the greatest and the most spectacular. In the case of my wall, it is the biggest and the greatest and the most spectacular-I mean, have you seen it? Beautiful. Beautiful. Wouldn't you say, Coup?"Coup looked around as people started to wake up. "Well, I-I guess as far as walls go-it's a monster, that's for sure. Makes for some great shade. About 50-billion dollars' worth."Nobody said anything."I take it you don't agree," said the President."I'd say your instinct on that is flawless," said Coup. He looked the man squarely in the face. "As always."Tucker just looked back-his large eyes puffy and purple, his brow furrowed. It was pretty clear that he wasn't used to being challenged-on anything. "What's not coming through anymore, Coup?"Abbie yawned and tried to intervene woozily. "Has anyone eaten anything? I'm starving ...""No, no, no. What's not coming through anymore?"Coup pinched the bridge of his nose, already tired with the conversation. "Look, how about we just leave it-""Murderers, Coup. Drug runners. Human traffickers. Bing bing, bong bong, bing bing. You name it. Rapists ...""Murderers and rapists ...""Well, someone was doing the raping, Coup I mean, somebody was doing it. Who was doing the raping? Who was doing the raping?""Jesus, I was doing raping, can we drop it, si?" said Johnny from Tuscan, and stood, leaving the group.Tucker and Coup looked at each other as Briggs straightened in his chair."Going to I.D. him, Chief?" said Coup, his eyes still locked with the President.And then something thumped against the window and everyone jumped, and when they all focused on it they saw an enormous tri-clawed hand pressed open-palmed against the glass; a hand which moved downward as they watched so that the tips of its claws scraped like fingernails on a chalkboard. Then it was gone, retreating into the gloom-within which Coup saw a massive shape shift and move forward, even as another massive shape crossed opposite it, so that it was clear to him that whatever had touched the window was not alone.

And that's when she saw something she would never forget, three somethings, actually, one no more incredible than the next. The first was that the marsupial lion had engaged with the much-larger therapods in a full-on melee, right there between the store and the gas pumps-an entire row of which were wiped out as she watched with just the swish of a tail. The second was the enormous fireball that resulted, which all but flattened the station and rose curling upon itself like a mushroom cloud, hiding the animals from view (if indeed they survived at all). And the third was the President's black limo (Cadillac One, she knew it was called, or "The Beast") barreling toward them across the desert-its tinted windows glinting, its fender flags on fire, and driven, it seemed likely (considering most everyone else was dead), by the President himself."Well that's something you don't see every day," she said, and looked at Coup, who only shrugged."When you gotta go, you gotta go," he said. "He went."

The exciting all-new prequel to Flashback and Dinosaur Apocalypse ...She slowed, peering through the rain and water running down the glass, noticing something strange amongst the gas pumps-some kind of jib, poking between them like a knife. It was funny, because she hadn't noticed it earlier-like a black pennant pinned to space itself-its single light showing red, blinking, before lightning flashed and it turned-it, the animal, the thing in the rain-as others just like it turned also, skewing their heads like Egyptian dancers, seeming to focus on her."Aaahhh ... she blurted, backing away-it wasn't a scream and it wasn't quite speech-backing into Coup (who'd come to check on her), nearly knocking him over. "There's something out there- " She gripped his shoulders in icy desperation. "An entire pack of somethings. Like-like featherless emus, with fucking alligator heads. Just look,"He squeezed her shoulders and gently moved her aside, peering out the window, peering into the rain. "I don't see anything," he said, even as the others joined them, crowding around the glass. "Just a bunch of gas pumps ... and some vehicles." He stiffened suddenly. "Wait. There is something. Lights-""That's them That's their eyes," said Tess-as Ashley stepped forward to calm her. "They, like, glow or something. Like that borealis in the sky. They're right there, Coup ""No ..." he said, in a kind of drawl, "No, these are flashing. Some of them are headlights-I'm sure of it. There, behind the electrical pylons-coming closer. Look,"She looked, no longer seeing the-well, let's have out with it, she thought, the dinosaurs, and saw instead a line of what indeed appeared to be headlamps-preceded by flashing blue lights-winding along a road she hadn't even known was there, coming toward them through the rain."Might be the cavalry," said Elliott, sounding excited-a notion that was quickly dashed when the modest number of vehicles became clear: two police motorcycles followed by a black limousine and a sport-utility vehicle, also black-followed by one more cycle. "I'll be goddamned," said Rory. "But that's a motorcade. Like the kind you see in the local parade.""Regular Apocalypse Day Cavalcade," said Coup."Jesus, the President," blurted Carson. "He was golfing at Rancho Loreto-did you know that? It was all over the news today. I mean, just before-""No way," said the tank commander-Bo. "It's too small, for one." He wiped the glass, which was beginning to fog. "The Presidential motorcade numbers, I don't know, like, forty vehicles, at least, most of them specialty rigs. Look, there's not even a decoy.""Maybe it's been disappeared," said Ashley."Yeah, like those drivers on State Route 87," said Elliott.And then the vehicles were there, they were pulling up under the huge pump canopy, and the flags on the limo's fenders proceeded to droop-but not before it had become obvious what they were: the flag of the United States of America and the Presidential Seal-at which Rory could only shake his head, saying, "You've got to be fucking kidding me.""But there's more," said Tess, yanking away from Ashley, locking eyes with everyone who was close. "Because it looks like they're going to fuel up. And whether you believe me or not-I'm telling you: there's something out there. Several somethings, as I said.""Jesus, we've got to warn them," said Elliott, even as Coup shoved against the door-and found it to be jammed.

"There isn't going to be a door when that lava gets here ""There's going to be a door because that lava is going to cool-okay?" He leaned against the counter-his Presidential podium-as though he were exasperated. "I mean, that's what lava does-it cools. It cools and eventually stops. Halverson and I have already discussed it." He turned to address everyone, not just Tess. "Now I know some of you-Crazy Coup, I bet, for sure-have probably thought, 'Why don't we just make a run for it'" He raised his arms as if to repeat the sentiment: 'Why' "For the border, I mean. After all, it's right there, isn't it? It's right there. We're practically sitting on it. But I'm not going to do that. And, as your Commander in Chief, I'm not going to let you do it, either." He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, adjusted his tie. "For one, Americans don't run. That's just not what made us great. It sure as hell ain't what made us great again, that I can tell you. We may withdraw on occasion, as I directed us to in Syria, but we don't run, and we sure as hell don't crawl hat in hand to some shit-hole like Mexico-especially when they're no more capable of dealing with this than is the greatest nation on earth-I mean, am I right, folks?"And to Tess' utter astonishment, people began to clap-Carson, of course, but also Ashley and Abbie and Cameron's activist friends, not to mention the State Trooper and the two Secret Service agents."It's true. It's true. Let me hear it if you think I'm right "And they did, continuing to clap and to nod their heads, saying 'Right on' and slapping each other on the back, pumping their fists. During which time Tess met eyes with the good-looking dark-skinned kid-he couldn't have been more than 19-Johnny, from Tuscan, and knew, based on his expression (and the fact that he wasn't clapping), that he was the only sane person left.And then they were moving, both of them, toward each other and toward the door, making a beeline as everyone clapped and the volcanoes spewed molten rock; as several shadows flitted across the window, like kites, like pterodactyls, after which the soldiers on the roof promptly opened fire."Oh, and Miss," said Tucker, halting on a dime, turning to Tess and Johnny. "It's only fair to tell you that if you take one more step toward that door ... I'll have you shot."

He has decided, at last, that there is no death and thus nothing to fear. That there is only combustion and respiration. That all creation is alive and that what we think of as birth and death is only the universe itself breathing. And he has decided that, this being the case, his mother shall never truly die...nor he grow into an adult.For he is-and will remain-the X-Ray Rider. And now that school is out he is running-running like a little boy-for home; even as lightning flashes in the blue-black sky and splinters it into a thousand shards, until at last he sees the back of their house about a half-mile north-and, seeking a shortcut, swerves into someone's yard.There is a narrow concrete path along the side of this house, its surface soaking wet so that it reflects track lights embedded in the eaves. Its perimeter is guarded by an iron rail. He vaults over the rail-More than human More than divine X-Ray Rider X-Ray Runner -but there is no concrete, no reflection. He is falling, arms swinging....HE IS LYING AT THE BOTTOM of a stairwell. There is broken glass everywhere as if he has fallen through a window, which he has, or at least the glass portion of a basement door, which stands ajar, creaking. He vaguely recalls hearing sheets of paper swish-swishing down, scattering around him. He is bleeding from his palms, his head, his nose, his arms-one of which is numb, sleeping. He feels himself all over with his good hand, expecting brains to be oozing out, bones protruding. But nothing seems to be broken, although his left leg is splayed uncomfortably. Glass grates as he grips his ankle, pulling it toward him, dragging papers along, and folds it beneath him. He tries to stand but there is nothing to grip, only the door pane which is spiked with glass. His head swims dizzily. How could he be so stupid? Falling for such an obvious illusion-mistaking the shining wet stairwell and the light above its door for a reflection. The thought of it shames him.He hears something pattering against the wind- breaker-blood from his nose, blotting the powder-blue nylon with splotches of maroon.He looks at the top of the well, a concrete rectangle with the dimensions of a tomb, sees darkened eaves, hazily, and beyond them, storm clouds, drifting across the sky. He places his good hand against the wall and climbs to his knees, not wanting to remain in the stairwell another instant, wanting to run home as fast as he can, to his mother and bedroom and plastic model kits, to beige-colored carpets and warm air blowing from heat registers. The concrete wall of the well presses bitter cold against his palm.He crawls upon his knees through the broken glass, gathering up pages, smearing them with blood. When he gets them back into the folder he staggers out of the stairwell, one landing at a time, his injured leg resisting, but feels a wave of nausea as he reaches the top-and pivots, so that he is leaning against the rail, staring into the well, breathing heavily.The broken door below sways and creaks. The rain drones against the world.This is what it will actually be like, he thinks, when they lower her into the vault. As he and his brothers-pallbearers, if episodes of Night Gallery are any indication-stand brooding. As his father stands off to one side looking like the widows in movies, only minus the veil-glassy-eyed, untouchable, waltzing with ghosts. As the minister takes a handful of earth and shakes it onto the casket, saying, 'Ashes to ashes, dust to dust...' Until the caretakers come and begin shoveling dirt into her eyes. And she will begin sobbing because it is cold down there and she is so alone, abandoned by everyone. Because she was a good wife and a good mother and it all ends like this, with shovelfuls of earth in her eyes and hair.

"Look, you guys can do whatever you want," Kate interrupted, "but I'm not touching that thing." Her keys rattled as she removed them from her purse. "Besides, I've got a board meeting to attend." She moved toward the doors. "Apocalypse or no apocalypse.""Now wait a-" Rory began."Are you-" said Elliott."Is that really a good idea?" asked Coup, which at last caused her to turn around."I don't know, is it?" she said, and slung the purse over her shoulder. "Why don't you ask him?" She indicated Long. "He seems to know everything.""He's right," said Rory. "It's not a good idea.""It's the only idea," she snapped determinedly. She patted her purse warningly. "And don't even think about ..."But they were no longer looking at her- gazing instead at something which had swooped into view outside, something which seemed for an instant almost to hover-its muscles and ligaments twitching, making a thousand adjustments, its stretched membranes undulating, its talons outstretched-before it smashed against the glass like some great, dark kite (cracking it three different ways) and hit the ground violently, scrambling and flapping, leaping and taking wing again, disappearing from sight. All of which happened so fast that the woman in the red dress, having leapt away suddenly, didn't appear to have even seen it, much less identified it, and only said, finally, "What was that?" And then laughed. "Are we under attack by wild turkeys, for fuck's sake?"

"Well, now we are getting somewhere," says Sula, glancing him up and down, appearing victorious. "But she was not a witch like me, else she would not have done what she did. For that is exactly what happened, isn't it? Jadis became infected by M24 and slew her own son, and your son too. And then you spent the next year and a half wandering a world you no longer recognized, a world where the dead were stacked on every street corner and the bonfires burned day and night, until you stumbled into a beer hall one night because they were offering free bread and heard a powerful orator talking about male superiority and cleansing the world; and you listened, at first just because it felt good to have something in your stomach, but later because you were swayed, and that orator's name was Kill-sin, who would go on to found New Salem and rule it with an iron fist. Am I warm, Witch Doctor?"

The medical rocket is wasted-its consoles smashed, its stores emptied-to the extent that we have collapsed outside its open hatch in total exhaustion and despair. Worse, the air is filled with the roar of machinery-a roar with a band-saw edge-one we know all too well for it is the sound of Cap's Big Track coming closer every second.And then he has arrived, riding his tractor like a chariot, goading it forward into the clearing, motoring directly toward us until Taylor jumps up in a panic and sprints for the next bridge-his dark skin shining, his heels kicking up sod-as the Captain veers toward him suddenly and seems to gun the engine.And then I am running, shouting at him to stop, as Taylor vanishes beneath the blades and the Big Track jounces, once, twice, the Captain laughing and throwing back his head, the iron tracks seeming to catch-until blood begins spewing like grass clippings from the mulch-vents and all I can hear is my friend screaming-gargling-dying beneath the Cap's iron beast.

The exciting all-new prequel series to Flashback and Dinosaur Apocalypse ..."There's no footprints," said Tess, examining the ground. She looked up at him as though she felt suddenly ill. "Nothing leading away. Just ours and his walking to and from ..." She paused, her lower lip trembling. "How is that possible, Coup? And not just him but-where is everybody else? Where are the other cars? How in ..."And then she just broke suddenly and rushed into his arms, and they remained like that for several minutes, during which time he scanned the sky, and, to his deep relief, spied a passenger jet arching glimmeringly across the sky, its contrail just as white and reassuring as angel dust."Look, there, see," He released her abruptly and spun her around. "We're not in the Twilight Zone, after all. Hey, yo, Freedom Bird We're down here " He waved his arms back and forth. "Give us a lift Albuquerque or bust "Yet there was something odd about the plane's trajectory he hadn't initially noticed-or had he? For it truly was arching, which is to say it wasn't crossing the sky so much as it was ... falling from it. Yes, yes, he could see now that was true, as he disengaged from Tess and paced through the scrub, tracking the jet as it curved gracefully in the sun- to finally plummet straight into the far hills, where it vanished like a specter in a plume of fiery smoke.And then he was gripping the shotgun and trying to wrest it from its rack; but, finding it locked, had to search the car for a key: upon which, realizing there were none that would fit, he located a small button just beneath the seat and depressed it-freeing the weapon."I don't think that's a good idea," said Tess as she tailed him back to the Mustang, but he ignored her until they were again seated inside, after which he turned to her and said, briskly, "Maybe it is and maybe it isn't, but I'm doing it, okay?"And it was on the tip of her lips to respond when they heard the sound: a kind of muffled whimper-something between a chirp and a meow-coming from outside. Coming from beneath the car.